Arles in Winter: Where Van Gogh Meets Viennoiserie.
Arles. The jewel of Provence, where the Rhône gently kisses the Mediterranean, and where, on a particularly crisp winter morning, I found myself parked adjacent to two long and narrow river cruise boats, both were tied up north facing at the dock. I sat wondering if my car was closer to Van Gogh's bedroom or the nearest patisserie. In its infinite wisdom, the sun had decided to grace those of us up with the birds, casting a golden hue over the town that even the most skilled Instagram filter couldn't replicate.
The streets of Arles at this hour are a curious mix of the sleepy and the over-caffeinated. Artists, those brave souls, are already out with their sketch pads, capturing the light that once inspired Van Gogh to, well, let's say, get overly enthusiastic with his self-portraits. I strolled along the quay, my breath no longer visible in the air, a reminder that while the calendar insisted it was winter, the temperature, hovering in the high teens, seemed to have missed the memo.
In the heart of the town, the scent of freshly baked croissants waged a fierce battle with the aroma of strong coffee. The local boulangeries, those temples of butter and flour, were opening their doors, emitting a warmth that seemed to beckon every soul in Arles. I watched as people, clearly more accustomed to the early hours around here than I, made their pilgrimage for their morning sustenance. There's something almost religious about the first bite of a croissant in a French bakery; it's like a sacrament but flakier.
As I wandered, I stumbled upon the Roman-built coliseum, or as I like to call it, the 'Arena of the Absurdly Old'. It's remarkable to think that this structure has been standing since 90 AD, hosting everything from gladiator battles to, more recently, tourists with selfie sticks. It's a testament to Roman engineering and modern-day marketing. I half expected a centurion to pop out offering guided tours, but it was just a man in a slightly less impressive uniform selling postcards.
The boutiques in Arles are a delightful distraction. Each one is unique, like snowflakes, if snowflakes were made of lavender soap and hand-painted ceramics. I wandered into one, pretending for a moment that I was the kind of person who could nonchalantly buy a €200 scarf without blinking. Sensing my internal struggle, the shopkeeper smiled and said, "It's okay, I too dream of being outrageously wealthy."
Lunchtime in Arles is an experience in itself. The cafes and bistros come alive, their tables spilling onto the sidewalks. I chose a spot in the sun, the kind of place where you can sit with a glass of local wine and pretend to write a novel. The menu was a delightful parade of Provençal classics – ratatouille, bouillabaisse, and something involving snails that I wasn't brave enough to try. The food, much like the town itself, is unpretentious yet sophisticated, like a farmer in a tuxedo. All that to say, after that tooing and froing, I decided to have an espresso and wait to have lunch later in the day.
The streets took on a more leisurely pace as the late morning pressed on. The artists had packed up, their morning's work done, replaced by couples strolling hand in hand and so many dogs, each looking like it had just stepped out of a French film about existentialism and baguettes.
As the sun descended, casting long shadows across the ancient stones, I found myself back at the river. The cruise boats were being prepared for their next voyage by a small Army (more appropriately, Navy) of young men working very hard to make everything ship shape and Bristol fashion. As I drove from the dockyard parking lot along the Rhone to Avignon, I counted my lucky stars. You see, the last time I was here, it was pre-covid, and the river cruises were packed with relentlessly embarking throngs of tourists rolling down the gangways to invade the city as the Romans had thousands of years previous. In reality what I observed back in the summer of 2019, were hundreds of new-age Romans, or as my friend Jaquie puts it, the “salad dodgers”, stumble down the gang plank onto terra firma. As I got further & further out of town, I couldn’t stop thinking about the absurdity of trying to capture the essence of a place like Arles in a few hours or even a 3,000-word blog post.
In the end, Arles is a town that doesn't just sit in the landscape; it is the landscape. It's a place where history and modernity dance a slow waltz, every corner holds a story, and every pastry shop is a potential love affair. As I neared home, I mused that Van Gogh had it right all along – sometimes, the most ordinary places are the most extraordinary, especially when viewed through the lens of a winter morning sun.
