In my past life, when years were young on my face and my hair was as long as my spine, I lived for some time in Marseille on the south coast of France. I drank cafè allongé on sun-trapped balconies, read bell hooks and raged about masculinity, bronzed my Scottish skin on the Mediterranean coastline and danced at queer bars until the early hours when conversations didn’t make much sense anymore (not that they made much sense the rest of the time). I learned basic French by stumbling around the city and fumbling for the right sounds to come out my mouth; the Marseillaise speak in a way that could be compared to the Weegies, so it was a constant battle of being lost in translation with an inability to express myself deeply in this foreign tongue.

I would take long weekends, leaving the city in a rusty Citroën campervan that was named Jumpy, driving to Verdon, a beautiful lake and canyon region named after its magical turquoise colour. I wrote most of my album here, when the words really needed to be told. My most memorable times were early mornings, particularly the month just after winter had lifted, when night-time brought frost. But, as the morning glow hit the flora, the world began to thaw and so did I. I wrote ‘Common Thread’ in this place; the song just fell out as if its words yearned to be heard. Escaping to be alone is my favourite holiday; to remember the sometimes-forgotten self.

Pippa Blundell’s debut album Common Thread is out now on Bridge The Gap; album launch gig at Òran Mór, Glasgow, Wednesday 24 September.