NARBONNE, THEY TOLD US TO BEWARE THE HORRORS OF A FRENCH PROTEST.

At some point early this week, a renewed desire to explore took hold of us, and we decided to revisit Narbonne. This, an otherwise lovely medieval town previously tainted by the winter of our discontent. My last visit here was in January 2020, one month before Covid set in. In addition to the fear of catching the plague, the weather was atrocious and certainly not what you would expect from this Mediterranean jewel , no matter what time of year. No more snow, no icy winds - this time, Narbonne greeted us with open arms and a welcoming glow from a glorious sun. The call of the South of France was hard to resist, particularly given the promise of the ancient city's history and famed gastronomic delights.

Like a shy maiden hidden behind the veil of our experience, Narbonne revealed herself under the bright summer sun. As we navigated the streets and canals, we quickly realized parking was as rare as finding a family size bag of ketchup chips and a 2L bottle of cream soda. However, with dogged determination we managed to land a little spot not too far from our lodging, a quaint, unassuming hotel that we stumbled upon on hotels.com. We were greeted with a generous glass of Rosé and an exquisite charcuterie board - both unplanned but warmly welcomed refreshments - atop the hotel’s sun-drenched rooftop. The radiant heat, the tantalizing flavors, and the soul-soothing breeze all worked their magic to banish our travel fatigue.

Once our spirits were rejuvenated, we wandered to the town's pulsating heart, ready to uncover Narbonne's myriad of treasures. We strolled through the picturesque streets as the architecture whispered tales of a time long past. Narbonne, you see, has a rich history dating back to the Romans, who used it as a crucial trading port. Vestiges of this period can be seen on the Via Domitia, the oldest Roman road in France, uncovered right in the city's center.

For the history buffs out there, Narbonne's Archaeological Museum is a must-visit. It is bursting with artifacts and exhibits that speak volumes about Narbonne’s history from prehistoric times to the Middle Ages. Here, your senses are taken on a journey through time. The cathedral, a marvel of Gothic architecture, another gem, seems to stand as a testament to the city's former ecclesiastical glory.

Narbonne is not just for history lovers. The Halles de Narbonne, an indoor market, is a culinary paradise where local produce, meats, cheeses, and wines from the region reign supreme. Each vendor is an expert in their craft, offering tips on the perfect cheese for your palate or the ideal wine to accompany your baguette.

In the evening, the city becomes even more magical. Its streets, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, are lined with lively cafés and restaurants, each offering its slice of the famed French cuisine. The aroma of freshly prepared meals wafts through the air, the sound of clinking glasses echoes around, and the sight of people enjoying their repast makes for a very enticing scene.

In hindsight, it feels like Narbonne was waiting for this second chance, and it has indeed won us over with its charm and energy. Yes, there's plenty of history, but there's also vibrancy, a lively food scene, and a welcoming atmosphere. Here's a toast to giving places a second chance and to the enduring allure of Narbonne!

Oh, and how can I forget? Amidst all the charm and history, Narbonne decided to spice up our visit with a dash of contemporary French political theatre - a good old-fashioned protest against retirement reform. You've got to hand it to the French; they do know how to throw a protest! Even in this serene, historically rich town, the winds of dissent were blowing.

Just as we were enjoying a lovely cold glass or two of Monaco and an Aperol Spritz in a picturesque cafe by the canal, a sea of placards, banners, and passionate locals filled the streets, marching, singing, and waving baguettes (a nice touch of French resistance, wouldn't you say?). The retirees were out in full force, shaking their walking sticks and chanting slogans. I half expected a chorus line of seniors to start a can-can routine in the middle of the square. And you know what? Despite the disruption, the restaurant continued to serve, and the wine flowed - because it's France!

There was a brilliant moment where one particularly feisty grandmother, armed with nothing but a fiercely worded sign and a fiery spirit, managed to bring the march to a halt just to adjust her beret. Let me tell you; if there's anything more French than protesting your government while sipping a glass of red, it's making sure your beret is perfectly angled while doing so. This city, ladies and gentlemen, has a sense of style, history, cuisine, and a flair for the dramatic. Narbonne - the city that never fails to impress!

I hope these few words and photographs inspired just a little bit of interest in visiting this area. Please leave a comment if you have some time; I really enjoy hearing from you.

Live well!

M.

A LUBERON LUNCH.

I have been back in the south of France for nearly a week now. Uncharacteristically, at no time since I arrived have I even thought about taking a camera out from my bag. This trip has been different. This trip has been more about regular meetings with our interior designer and driving from nearby village to nearby village to tour and consider some of her most recent commissions. 

A wonderful byproduct of these little adventures has been the opportunity to sample some of the most wonderful local lunchtime cuisine. Each meal has been clearly prepared by a highly skilled and experienced gastronomic professional.  As with every Provençal restaurant, the experience begins when you are greeted at the door by the front of house staff. Their smiles, courteousness and impecable manners are exactly what you hope for every time you dine out, no matter where or when.  It’s always best to choose your meal by what is suggested by table staff. It seems only a fool (and I have been a fool many times in the past) would fail to accept a suggestion that ensures only the freshest and most in season choices find their way to your table. I hope to find time for my camera later in the week, but for now I leave you with the memories of a late lunch or two. 

Going forward, we have a couple of lovely day trips planned. Then on Thursday we take our leave from Bonnieux and travel north from Avignon by train for 36 hours of jam packed fun in Paris. Until then, I wish for your week to be as full and enjoyable as ours hopes to be.
Please leave a short comment if you get a chance. I am very happy to hear from people far and wide!

Live well!

Mark.

BACK IN BLACK AND WHITE (BONNIEUX)

This has not been easy. We planned a family Christmas here in France several months ago. We watched for flights and made sure to create itineraries that worked for all six of us. There was no such thing as Omicron when we were all booked and the arrangements were made. Life was as normal as it could be in November. Even though the two year long Covid nightmare was still haunting us, there was no reason to cancel what we imagined to be a perfect way to meet and enjoy the trappings of an understated provencal Noël.

And then the latest and greatest variant was thrust among us. We were left in limbo to see how things would evolve and what that was going to mean for those of us in Canada with plans to travel to France. Each of our sons had different work and school commitments, and with those came pressures around being covid free upon return to Canada. All of these issues needed to be addressed, but I also felt the importance of getting over here to check on the house and make sure all was well. I know that seems frivolous to some, and I could have probably assumed, given the place is well over 250 years old, it was probably going to be just fine. I had not been back to France since the end of September, so the distance and the change in seasons kept me worrying that something with the house could have gone wrong. I have not slept well for the last couple of weeks, tossing and turning & thinking that putting off this visit was tantamount to throwing away our retirement investment.

So off I went. I stood in line at YVR to get my must-have antigen test. Next, I spent a few hours in the Air Canada lounge. Then, I boarded my Lufthansa flight to Munich where I ate, drank & slept like a baby for the entire duration. My connector to Marseille was not for six hours after I arrived in Germany, so I wandered duty-free and then took up residence in the Lufthansa business lounge. There, I ate and drank a little bit more of every German food and wine on offer. It was lovely and I am now a huge fan of Spätzle.

My flight to Marseille was late leaving Munich but with a good tailwind over the Alps we arrived almost on time. I ran to passport control (they never asked for my covid passport or negative antigen test) and then I hustled to Avis to pick up my Renault Megane. For those of you that followed my adventures on this blog last summer, rest assured that I am going to need to see about my psychiatric condition ASAP. It was just 15 minutes until Christmas day became official, and three smiling Avis employees were waiting for me to pick up my keys before they closed. They all yelled Joyeux Noël Mr. Catto as I ran in the door, and that was an awesome greeting after such a long trip.

I loaded the car and set off with the Sat Nav screaming at me in French. I had a couple of small redirects along the way, but overall it was a fantastic festive and pretty drive through several small villages on my way to Bonnieux. To be the only car on the very narrow mountain roads was a new experience for me. The summer is drastically different around here. But it was one in the morning on Christmas day, and I was nearly home.

https://youtu.be/EvDxSW8mzvU (Journey’s soundtrack)

As I arrived in our village, I was treated to lovely silver decorations strung across the village lanes from the rooftops. There was no mistaking the season and what it clearly means to the locals.

The house was freezing when I got the shutters and front door open. I made my way through every room, turning on the new electric heaters we had installed in the new year but never had the reason to turn them on last summer. It has taken nearly two full days to warm this old stone village house, but now I am toasty and enjoying the place to the fullest. Yesterday was slim pickings for any kind of food. Thank god for France's most civilized of laws ensuring that every french citizen can not be deprived of their baguettes etc on any day of the year. I confirmed that the local Boulangerie was open for 3 hours on Christmas morning. A massive carb coma ensued, and it has taken me well over 24 hours and a ton of exercise to ward off the effects of pain au chocolat.

I slept well on Christmas night, and this morning, I was woken by the phone. After a workout, and a quick shower I jumped in the car to find out if the Sunday farmers market in nearby Coustellet was still going on, given the holiday. The sun was shining, and the diesel fumes from the Renault were vaguely familiar and marginally intoxicating. Fifteen minutes later, I was pleasantly surprised to find several farmers selling their produce in the local market parking lot. I hit the goat cheese stand like a Mac truck and left with quite a selection. As I wandered to the next stall for some Mediterranean treats, I failed to see that the lady's stall awning was about 5'11", and as I am 6'2', the ensuing head gash stopped bleeding around 15 minutes later.

I shook off the concussion as best as I could and then moved on to the nearby Super U grocery store for some bits for dinner. I am now safely home, and the fridge is no longer empty. I went out with my camera for a few hours this morning and and then again later this evening and as a result put on a few thousand steps. The weather was fantastic, and the coffee at Cafe Bonalis was even better. I made a reservation there for tomorrow night at 7:30. The menu outside convinced me that truffle and duck ravioli followed by tiramisu could be the OMAD of the week. I wish Deanna, Mac, Angus, Liam and Allistair were here. Unfortunately, FaceTime will just have to do over the remainder of these holidays.

Provencal life is still good!

Live well and leave a comment if you have a moment.

Mark

AUREL & SIMIANE-LA-ROTANDE IN SHADES OF GREY.

No words, just moods. A different perspective on Provence.

Please leave a comment if you have a moment.

All images captured by the Leica Q2

Live well!

Mark

Taken by me on 2021-09-14

Taken by Henri Cartier-Bresson in 1969

TODAY’S LUNCH IN GOULT.

I used to ask myself why it is easier to find rocking horse poo than fast food in France. More on that later. Yesterday in a moment of madness I wrongly assumed that I could saunter in to a well reviewed local restaurant and get a seat. Not a chance.

However, being persistent in combination with a fleeting moment of brilliance, I made a reservation to return today. I arrived at 11:45 and just before the rush at La Terrasse in Goult.

Today’s formule consisted of two choices for each course. For the entree, I decided on the Salmon Tartare. My plat du jour was Chicken Roti and for afters a dark chocolate concoction that nearly caused me to tear up. I rarely eat a meal where every ingredient is distinguishable. From refreshing tartare in lime juice to rich and hearty jus with perfectly prepared chicken and roast vegetables.

This is a bold statement, but this was one of the most memorable meals of my life. I am seriously more interested in finding rocking horse poo now, no matter how long I have for lunch. Truly outstanding. I will be back on Saturday.

Please leave a comment if you have time. 

Live well!

Mark

All images captured with an Iphone XR (Old School)!

I finally did it! A two hour lunch. I am officially Provencal…

MY 7TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.

Ansouis was built in the 10th century! Many of you weren't even born then. Does Ansouis suck? The answer is a resounding no! No, it doesn't suck. I can guarantee that when I am 1100 years old, I won't look or smell this good, and neither will you! This village of just over a thousand people (not in the winter) is a gem in the Southern Luberon. On the approach to Ansouis, you predict the future. You predict the kind of morning you are going to have. You predict what you’ll see as you wander the streets and alleys of one of France's “Beau Villages”.  

Sure, Ansouis is old, but regardless of age it looks in better condition than 99% of the pink stucco castles built in the 1990s in Richmond, Surrey or Gordon Head. Sorry for assuming most readers live in British Columbia. What do they say about assumptions? A quick check of Squarespace's analytics tool tells me that readers visit this site from all corners of the globe. Lately, readers in places such as the Seychelles, Uganda, Singapore, Switzerland and New Zealand to name but a few have stopped by to have a look. I do appreciate all of your precious time!

Once parked and geared up, I left the most recent rental (A silver Renault Captur, no psychiatrist's note required) all locked up and began my walk to the castle and later the abbey. Once again, I was taken by the feeling inside the castle’s chapel. The colours were incredibly warm. I remained alone while wandering the nave. To be fair, I was alone most of the morning. The tourists are all gone. School is back, and local villages are turning like the leaves. Cafe's, bars and restaurants are shortening their hours. However, skeleton crews remain to continue providing outstanding food and drink for the locals. There are no worries that you will be overlooked or forgotten. I thoroughly enjoyed my double espresso at the Anouis "Sports Bar" while resting my feet. I can't say that I understand how they came to name it the Sports Bar? All of my fellow patrons looked far from participating in any sport other than the chain-smoking 15 meter dash.

I like the colours here. I like the warm stone hues. I like the quiet. I like Ansouis. It doesn't suck!!!

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Cheers,

Mark

The following photographs were taken with my Leica M10-R and Leica Q2.

I HAD A SNEAKY FEELING I WOULD END UP IN AN ASYLUM ONE DAY.

Rather than self-medicate, because we all know that's not ok! I decided to go and see what life in an asylum was all about. Most of you are now thinking to yourself; it's long overdue. Well, hold on a minute, in my former life, I had to visit these facilities somewhat often to speak to those who may have done something naughty to someone else. But my adventure today is not one of those asylums for “mischievous” folk. This one is in Saint-Remy-de-Provence, and it was home to Vincent van Gogh for quite some time. Vincent suffered with his mental health (thus the missing ear), mainly due to the underlying problems that were exacerbated by a shit ton of Absinthe consumption.

Absinthe was, to most, a very slippery slope. But, from what I gather, it affected those who took part in a wee dram (or 10) in ways that mimic today's street drugs. Vincent seemed to be a big fan, and as such, he stumbled from time to time. Vincent's brother Theo was very close to him and decided the best way he could help was to fund Vincent's hopeful recovery at Saint Remy.

Treatment was not cheap, but the facilities were thought of as well run and successful for the time. For fear of sounding like a broken record, I left home at 8 a.m. My journey was supposed to take 46 minutes, and it wasn't far off that. If not for a few tractors pulling trailers full of cantaloupes in front of me, I would have been spot on.

I had never been to Saint-Remy-de-Provence before, and even though I had done a quick search for the historic bits around the town, I was not prepared. The city is stunning. Another gem that, if not for van Gogh, I would have probably never visited. I arrived about 20 minutes before the market day officially kicked off. There were so many stalls with such a variance of goods I was taken back. There are some massive market days near us, but this one in Saint Remy takes the cake.

I wanted to be in time to wander the grounds outside the walls. Still, with enough time to be in line for my ticket as the doors opened at 9:30. You can park in the shade of the plane trees adjacent to the 20 foot stone walls surrounding the facility. The asylum is still operating as such, and the noises I heard while wandering in the olive grove indicated business as usual. Currently, the wing that once was home to Vincent has been annexed off as a museum of sorts, and the remainder is still staffed and operating like any other mental health hospital.

I was all alone as the gates opened to the museum. I was confused as to why given the gravity of the place and beauty that surrounds it. I supposed a hundred years ago that you would have rarely born witness to a lineup to get into an asylum.

The ticket cost six euros, and after showing my pass Sanitaire to prove vaccination, I was in and walking towards the imposing building at the end of a beautiful tree-lined lane. You are treated to many reproductions of Vincent's paintings hanging on the garden walls as you meander along. They are hung perfectly in amongst a veritable cornucopia of local flowering plants. Many of these plants are seen in the paintings on show.

Some intermixed sculptures provide juxtaposition. After taking it all in, you come to the chapel. It is of considerable age but in beautiful condition. The origins of this place come from the Catholic church, as this was a monastery for many years. I try to stop and appreciate the architecture in every case such as this. Once inside the chapel, even a devout atheist may be moved. I spent some time inside until my little voice said, you better move on into the asylum to take in Vicent's room, the view from that room and the remaining facilities before more tourists arrive.

A young man working in the building gave me directions, and I climbed up the stairs to the second floor. There, on the left, was the tortured master's quarters. The room is laid out as it was in his day. The view from his window is supposed to play a small role in "A Starry Night " and many others.

I was there alone, and alone I stayed for just over 20 minutes. I sat in the room, trying to absorb the enormity of the opportunity and the experience. I suppose the right word is surreal. When I eventually heard voices on the floor below, I stood up and wandered across the hall to look at the other facilities. You will recognize in the photograph below that if you were not acting appropriately at bath time, you may be placed in the tub and then have the board resembling medieval stocks set over you. In addition, several burly staff may have to take a seat on that board until you had finished your required ablutions.

I'm unsure if my 18'" neck would have allowed my head to rest above the board. Nightmares are absolutely coming my way. Still no sign of other visitors, so I slowed my roll and read every bit of information I could on the walls. Eventually, it was time to go out into the walled (prison-like) garden to see the grounds and more of the places Vincent used for inspiration.

It never got old, and I had no reason to leave. If the prices were right perhaps, I could check-in. Maybe Blue Cross would assist with the bill payments. All things to ponder while I sat in van Gogh's garden. Eventually, one or two visitors appeared. I took that as a sign not to be greedy and make my way back to the gates like an escaping lunatic.

The unhinged screams from next door at the real deal continued as I walked across the road to the tiny Citroen I currently drive. What a wonderful morning. For me, of course, not so much for the tormented next door. Maybe a move to the asylum isn't what it is all cracked up to be. Not as I imagined while sitting alone in Vincent's room. It's for people that need some help to keep both their ears attached. Perhaps not for me. I know what you're saying under your breath! Bye for now.

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

p.s. All the images below were captured with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q2.

MY FIFTH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES, IT’S NICE TO HAVE NICE NEIGHBOURS!

Thank you for stopping by. If this isn't your first visit, thank you very much for returning to the Luberon. But, if this is your first time, then what you will find here is a snapshot (pardon the pun) of where I go and what I see as I settle into life here in the south of France.

I write in a chair on the top floor of our home in front of a large open window. The view is an expansive one that takes in the entirety of the north side of the Luberon valley. It is much later tonight than I would usually be up. So, from time to time I stop typing and peer out to the North, gaze at both the stars and the village lights of Gordes and Roussillon in the distance.

In this episode, I have focused on one of our neighbouring villages to the Southwest. Menerbes was named in honour of Minerva, Roman goddess, daughter of Jupiter. Menerbes, like many other villages in the area, traces its roots back to Romans times. But, like many other local villages, it seemed to really establish itself in the middle ages due to the crusades and the resulting influx of Carmelites. They built many of the priories and abbeys in the surrounding area.

History states that Ménerbes and its citadel was the site of a significant battle between Huguenots and Catholics called the siege de Ménerbes, which lasted from 1573 to 1578. This period was known as the French war of Religions. Protestants intentionally aggravated Pope Pius the 5th by settling 150 soldiers in Ménerbes, led by Scipione de Valvoire, Gaspard Pape de Saint-Auban.

As time marched on, Menerbes has become better known for the finer things in life. Many artists and poets have called this place home for years. In the latter half of the last century, Picasso's girlfriend (Dora Maar) would take long sabbaticals from Antibes and came here to rest in Menerbes to use her camera as inspiration for her painting. The British novelist Peter Mayle was the latest celebrated author in the area, but sadly he is no longer with us. If you have never had the opportunity to read Peter's books about his life in France but more specifically, his life in and around Menerbes and Bonnieux, please give "A year in Provence" or "A good year" a thorough read.

Couple his words to the following images, and I'm sure you will soon be transported to the sights, smells and tastes of this region. For those who have had the privilege to read his books, you will be keenly aware that his work reflects life in this valley and how he and his wife renovated their home, learned the language and wove themselves into the fabric of the valley. I am a massive fan of all his collection. Mr. Mayle was singularly responsible for igniting a tourist frenzy here, much to many people's chagrin; however, it goes to show the power of his storytelling.

The Brown Foundation Fellows Program based at Dora Maar's former home in Menerbes provides residencies of one to three months for mid-career professionals in the arts and humanities to develop and grow their craft.

I like Menerbes. It is unique in this valley. The home prices in the real estate agent's windows reflect that. The people here are happy, and it seems impossible to feel unwelcome. You are really spoiled for choice in Menerbes. If you feel like a Michelin star meal or just a coffee, simply follow your nose. This village must have one of the highest ratios of restaurants and cafes with spectacular views from a terrace in France. I am yet to visit in the evening, so I can't begin to imagine which restaurant to recommend. Still, I have had coffee on several stunning patios that have all been unbelievably smooth and exceptional in quality. Yesterday morning I happened to notice a well-healed gentleman enjoying a pastis while overlooking the valley to the east at around 8 o'clock. I am not judging; it was obviously 5 o'clock somewhere.

Please leave a comment; I love to read them!

Live well,

Mark

p.s. All my images below were captured with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q-2.

MY THIRD EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. IF YOU DON’T LIKE DUCK, YOU’RE RATHER STUCK

Yesterday was jammed packed with opportunities to just follow our nose with no set plan. My initial thoughts on the village diaries was to keep each post specific to one place and cover it well enough that readers would get a relatively detailed look at a place with enough information to make a decision as whether to include it or not on their next visit to the South of France. Yesterday was so busy and varied that this post will be more of a roundup of three separate places so as to give each just a smattering of exploration.

Today we drove into Apt, which is our hub town. We filled our cooler bag with groceries for the next couple of days and filled the car with petrol. As we drove Eastbound of the Leclerc grocery store we were actually heading into uncharted waters as neither of us have spent any time towards the area known as the Alps-de-Haute-Provence. As the name suggests the terrain changes from undulating hills to deeper valleys and a more mountainous vibe just 15 minutes or so East of Apt. Our first stop was actually the furthest east we drove on the day. We had decided a little earlier that if we saw somewhere along the route we would commit to visiting on our return.

Upon arrival in Manosque we found a very well preserved medieval walled town with four distinct gates enabling entry to what lay inside. In my opinion if you are happy to be a window shopper then Sunday is the day to visit here. We were left alone to our own devices. This place would have been packed with tourists any other day but thankfully nothing is open on Sunday save a few cafe’s.

The streets, as you expect are narrow and all of them will eventually deliver you to a square with a small fountain and a shady place to sit and contemplate life under a plane tree or two. We took these opportunities as they presented themselves because it was so quiet and peaceful. We visited the local church and wandered from place to place recognising all the way how well preserved this place is.

The following are a few images of Manosque taken as we wandered the streets aimlessly. This is a working town but with a feel that says local people are proud and keep their homes in nice condition and with a certain flair.

We left Manosque the better for visiting and with lots to discuss in the car as we backtracked to our next stop in Reillane. Not by design but good luck did we arrive as market day was well under way. This was our first market day in a different region and as such I felt a little different vibe about the vendors, villagers and visitors. Prices were noticeably cheaper for very high quality products. I observed my first gaggle of dreadlocked and scullet wearing shoeless modern hippies and minstrels. The kind you would have encountered on the streets of Victoria several years ago from Quebec. The ones who were in the business of selling the “HERB” and other pharmaceuticals without a pharmaceutical licence (before Trudeau made that ok)!

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t find this off-putting. I found it to be just a tad refreshing given that the market goers in our village and those surrounding it have different challenges. Challenges such as not knowing where to park their customarily brand new black monster SUV’s with Belgian, Dutch and German licence plates. Reillane was a market town clearly just a bridge too far for your average well healed owner of a beautiful stone summer home with pool occupied for 27.5 days a year.

From Reillane we headed to Saint-Martin-de-Castillon just back across the border in Vaucluse. This is a village that we looked at with a lot of interest when we first started the process of buying over here. Sadly we didn’t have much experience of it and most of our “deep diving” was done on the French version of Realtor.ca. Today’s visit was a great way to truly acquaint ourselves with St. Martin and in my case a time to regret making hasty decisions. Don’t get me wrong, I love where we live but this place is like our village with a third of the residents and 1/4 of the pace. This is a medieval hilltop village with everything you need and nothing you don’t. You can eat off the ground. This village is pristine. I love it here!

That brings yesterday to a close. Three villages, three wonderful visits. Each village with its own charms and its own nuances that go a long way to promote the Mediterranean / Provencal lifestyle. Before I leave you I just want to include a small amount of bonus content regarding our lunchtime visit to the village of Cucuron and our foray into the world of Canard! As one is best advised to do here, we sat down lakeside and asked our waiter if we could each have the Plat du Jour. We were rewarded with roast duck breast and frites and a lovely Aioli plate with muscles, salt cod and various seasonal vegetables.

Neither of us were disappointed and in fact absolutely loved both dishes. I will be writing a Village Diary post about Cucuron later in the summer but for today I hope you enjoy a couple of food centric images until we return.

It was so good that last night I tried it at home. Scored duck breast, added some olive oil, scattered herb de Provence and then let marinate in a ziplock bag with a healthy pour of Merlot. The accompanying frites later cooked in duck fat. Not Michelin Star worthy but not too bad.

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

Images taken using the Leica M10-R and Leica Q2

MARSEILLE… GREAT DAY…

It’s getting harder and harder to get out of bed at sunrise. I am really starting to get comfortable here. The house is nearly done and feeling homely. Yesterday was a rest and recovery day coupled with a little DIY. We did drive into Coustellet in the morning for a few things for lunch but that was as far afield as we got.

Last night we decided on heading back into Marseille this morning to have a good look around. We wanted to explore the old city and walk the corniche that stretches for miles and miles along the coastline of the Southside. I thought (wrongly as it turns out) that setting off around 7:30 this morning would keep us clear of heavy traffic and provide for a relaxing trip into the big smoke. Marseille has a population of 1,613,797.

Having scraped the surface there before several times it seemed plausible that the A7 highway should be fine until we reached the city limits. I shouldn’t ever gamble! I know my limit and I stay within it 99% of the time. From the second we drove down the hill from Bonnieux to join the main road, things got mental. It started with a lady who was clearly late for work, trying to manage her social media feed and having a hard time putting down her VAPE. She decided to drive loosely attached to our trunk for several KM’s until I decided to go around the roundabout twice so that she could get ahead of me and right in behind her next victim.

Our next foe was the less than optimal operator of the local school bus specifically designed for kids with physical disabilities. Im not making this up. The van was covered in stickers advertising its purpose. The driver was determined to pass every car that came into his way (oncoming big rigs and farm machinery where no match). It was like watching the Monaco Grand Prix except the race car was a Ford Transit van filled with kids in wheel chairs. The look on their faces as the van passed us on a blind corner was a combination of fear and familiarity. Ive never seen anything like it in my life. It didn’t get much better than that all the way into Marseilles but once we arrived we threw off the shackles of motoring fear and started our day by wandering in earnest.

The last three images were taken on the grounds of the Aix-Marseille University. Its a beautiful campus that has used these beautiful historical buildings to establish its self as a venue not only for higher learning but for sightseeing as well. The parkland around the campus is very well manicured and the flowers are stunning.

From there we made our way down to the beach and the corniche that took us for miles along the coast. I have several images from that part of our day and I will attach them next so that you can get a feel for the place and the people.

As we wound our way around the corniche we caught a glimpse of the wonderful war memorial on the coast just ahead. As we arrived we were entertained by a 30 something American couple who had decided to use the memorial for some “Insta Bangers” for their “gram”. They spent a good 15 minutes swapping the prized iPhone back and forward to each other while the “model” took a position near the script recording the war dead and their sacrifice to France and then repeatedly performed star jumps until the photographer could catch the “model” off the ground. This therefore providied their millions of followers some wicked shots and hopefully a shit ton of “likes”. I could write several posts on social conciseness and spacial awareness and I probably will, but it may not be too PC. I need to think about it first. I’m trying so hard to like humans but I will confide in you its not going too well.

We wandered on from the memorial along the coast but stopped regularly for the coves. Every 500 meters or so locals can moor their boats and the businesses around seem to cater to repairs. I can’t tear down a marine motor but I would love to sit around with the men that do and shoot the shit while soaking up the Mediterranean sunshine.

After many a kilometre walked, we decided that if the parishioners of Cathedral Notre Dame on the highest point in the city could climb to the top for service on a regular basis then who are we to not suffer once in a while. So off we went. Hard left from the corniche and there we began the trek “Everest” to the top of the hill and the waiting beacon of a Cathedral. I would be happy to describe it as a gradual climb up from the beach but that would be a fib of epic proportion. About half an hour into it I was regretting my missed confessions and lamenting leaving Catholicism classes before confirmation. This was going to be payback on biblical terms (for real).

Up we kept going and up went my heart rate with every step. At one point I considered a breach of commandment by pickpocketing some rosary beads from a passing pilgrim. With those I could get to praying big style. Perhaps God would take mercy on my soul & prevent my cardiac arrest on the side of that French mountain. I’m not sure how but I lived. At one point I would have rather chucked in the holy towel (available at the gift shop on the way out) than take one more step.

When you do finally reach the top, you are provided not only with access to the Cathedral but also the best panoramic views of Marseille. Its a big city and this is a place where you can grasp that in full.
Now that I'm back on the confession train, I swear if nobody was watching inside the cathedral I would have chugged the holy water, and let Covid be damned. Dehydration makes a man consider really poor choices.

First things first Why did I think I was required to suffer like some sort of latter day disciple. Why did I walk the entire way when as you will notice 95% percent of the visitors drove their Renault Magane’s up to the parking lot right in front of the cathedral. Or worse, they climbed aboard one of those grotty little train buses. Self respect means nothing these days, especially for those who wish to conserve energy for their soon to be obligatory McDonalds stop for a Royale with Cheese or two! All kidding aside, the time and effort put in to get up here was definitely worth it. This is a must see when visiting Marseille.

After a spectacular visit, then it was time for what goes up, must come down. And so we did. We walked down, down, down and further down. My ears popped so often, that at one point I felt I was in a bathysphere.

Eventually we arrived back on terra firma. We headed for last weeks lunch spot named Pastis & Olives. We devoured our lunches and Negroni’s and let our feet rest for a bit. Bill paid and back on the hoof towards the inner harbour and marina. We soaked up a little more sun and a much more touristy vibe before pushing back to the car and our drive home. Tomorrow will see us in Cucuron for morning coffee and a “Village Diary” entry. Sleep is now on the cards and I hope to have the energy remaining to not wake up dead. Oak Bay Fire Dept is off the hook for this AED call.

Please leave a comment or suggestion like “please stop writing this drivel”. Much appreciated.

Bon Soir!

Live well…

p.s. All photos taken with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q2.

MY SECOND EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.

Yesterday saw us vanquish the DIY list and begin to really enjoy our new old house and the village we call home. We were fortunate to grab an early coffee at home before wandering approximately 50 meters down the lane to the wonderful annual antique fair. Place Gambetta played host to 40 plus vendors and all of their wares. Everything from French Army officers swords in scabbards to wonderful children’s toys and everything in between. Our big purchase was a hanging mirror for the basement bathroom. I would describe it as having a nautical bent. It was the right size and shape and we aren’t too far to the Med as the crow flies if anyone questions our taste. We really enjoyed wandering from stall to stall. Its common place to see everyone still wearing facemarks at these events in France. No-one questions it and to be truthful it makes me feel just a little safer.

Today has been wonderful. Given our lack of chores at home we decided to grab an early espresso from Frederic at Cafe St. Antione and while enjoying the view from our table we hatched a plan to make this an adventure. This morning we will drive about 15 minutes across the valley to the Northeast and visit St. Saturnin Les Apt. This village began its life in the 11th century with the construction of the castle above the now dammed lake you see above. The castle provided the safety and peace of mind that people of that period required to go about their day. Things stayed like that for several hundred years before the confines of the ramparts could no longer accommodate the expanding population and locals began to build their new homes further down the hill where present day S.S.L.A currently sits in all its glory. As in prior posts I will now show you some images of the village with hopes that you can sense the vibe and soak up the morning sun from wherever in the world you are.

Those readers who don’t mind a bit of the old Tour de France on TV will immediately recognise the four most important race jerseys adorned on the local windmill.. No doubt helicopters covering the race would have captured this effort by villagers to showcase St. Saturnin Les Apt as the race was in full swing a couple of weeks ago. The village itself wants for nothing and in fact punches well above its weight with the local amenities it has, including a small hospital as well as municipal sports facilities combining a beautiful pool with courts for all sports. Each staple business the French require in a village is also to be found here. Sometimes these shops can even be found in duplicate. This windfall brings with it both choice and healthy competition to the game. Butchers, bakers, and restaurants are thick on the ground and that is fantastic for all who live here as well as those visiting from near or far.

Not unlike our last village stop in Goult, the locals here in St. Saturnin Les Apt are also house proud and it shows as you wander the narrow streets. Whether it be the ornate front doors or the color schemes chosen to make their house just a little different to the neighbours, it is all done with taste and considerable thought.

Our walk through the narrow streets and back lanes of St. Saturnin Les Apt was worth every step and it has become quite special to me over the last few hours.

When we eventually grew tired and our feet needed a rest we took at seat a local hotel and ordered a coffee to get us through the remainder of the morning. The young man that served us was very well presented and multi lingual as most young people seem to be here.

My biggest regret is not applying myself when I had the opportunity to master a second language at school. That being said, I am enjoying learning online. Then comes putting it into practice at shops or with neighbours on a daily basis.

Since the travel bug bit hard 20 years ago I have constantly tried to improve my language skills. I never assume that English is spoken everywhere I travel.

I have made a point to never wittingly act like a clown while abroad. Now this spectacle comes to town and could change all that for good. All I want to do is run away with it and be the biggest clown I can possibly be.

It’s either clown or mime. Mime’s are cool too, no? Mimes aren’t annoying and weird are they? It’s a tough decision. Both are French institutions.

Sadly, in reality neither can happen. The first rule in getting a long stay resident visa in France is to declare in front of a notary that you promise never to take up employment here. Yes, those are the tears of a frustrated and unfulfilled clown you hear falling on the keyboard of my laptop.

I hope you have enjoyed this small glimpse of another one of our neighbouring villages. It was our pleasure to wander around it this morning and I hope you enjoy the images that hopefully go some distance to show you what could be on offer when you visit. Please leave a comment if you have any suggestions or would like to see and read more of the same from different venues throughout the Luberon Valley.

Live well!

Mark

p.s. all images taken with the Leica Q2 and Leica M10-R.

MY FIRST EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES, AND DOES PURCHASING A RENAULT MEGANE REQUIRE A PSYCHIATRIST’S NOTE?

The Village of Goult.

Time flies when you are overwhelmed by the challenges of turning a 250 year old house into a home. There are things on top of more things to do in order to recapture its former youth and glory. Here are just a few things that are either currently on or recently struck from the list of must do’s. Pipes, electrics, Provencal tile floors, paint, kitchen cupboards, gardening, locating and finding the right furniture and art for every room to name just few. Everything you read about the availability of tradesmen in the south of France is true. They are reasonably priced, they work hard when on site and if you are very lucky when an emergency happens they arrive in the nick of time. Unfortunately they are on vacation for some of July and all of August (just like everyone else in France). We would love to get started on some major projects around here like Kitchen and bathrooms but we will try again in the early fall. Our plumber, mason, and electrician should be well rested in September. It is in early fall when they are looking to replenish their wallets. Drinking copious glasses of Pastis and smoking many packs of cigarettes by the Med doesn’t come cheap. In the mean time we continue to do what we can to make this little place our own.

Now, I am done with the excuses as to why I am posting far less frequently than promised. This week I am starting what I hope to be the way forward. Living in Bonnieux provides for every day to be a new day. We are surrounded by literally hundreds of picturesque villages that each have their own charms. This week I have chosen Goult as the subject of my diary. Goult is just across the valley from us on the North slope of the Luberon. It is a small extremely tasteful village that screams few can afford to live here (so get lost). We have chosen several villages to return to regularly for their location, architecture, weekly market and ambience. On this occasion it was in fact market day. It is really important to arrive early to all of our local markets. You are going to get the freshest of food, the happiest of vendors and very little tourist activity. Parking is also a breeze if you arrive around 7:45 a.m…

At that time in the morning you wander from stall to stall and let your eyes find the freshest options for lunch, dinner and snacks in between. To that end, our fridge at home could fit in a PVC Adidas bag from the early 80’s. If you buy fresh everyday why would you need more? I am literally in awe of the local vegetables and fruits on offer. Couple that with roast chicken and potatoes or paella and you are on top of the world. The following will be a series of photographs taken at the above mentioned stalls. Later on I will get in to more about Goult itself and some photos to illustrate its wonderful condition.

Hopefully the images from the market go some way to provide you an insight as to the type of things on offer every day. We now move on to Goult proper and what it feels like to wander the narrow streets brought to life by the bold colours of the homes and the accompanying aromas from their window boxes and ornamental gardens. I feel very calm in Goult early in the morning. Few locals have left their homes other than to walk a dog or water their flowers. Goult is a place where you can stand still and imagine. No noise, close your eyes and take time to reflect on what has happened in the past and what could happen in the future. This place has tranquility in spades. Bonnieux has a full time population of 1200. Goult would be half that I imagine. The village church sits proudly in the centre and as you steadily climb you pass two wonderful cafes, a boulangerie and a post office. There is one small grocery shop and fromangerie. Keep wandering up the gentle slope where it gets even quieter and more solemn. Eventually you reach the top of the village and a beautifully restored windmill. Goult is surrounded by vineyards and lavender fields not unlike our village and countless more. It’s simply a tonic. A place to take stock and say thanks to whichever supreme being gave you this opportunity! Here are a few images of Goult. I will rejoin you later with some thoughts on the Renault Megane driver.

I have many more images of Goult to share but I’m sure you’ve had enough for a while. Speaking of having had enough, I have had enough of the perilous devil’s spawn that are every driver of the Renault Megane. Unfortunately in my former life I had the occasion to sit across from several individuals that were diagnosed with enough points on the psychopathy or sociopathy scale to be considered harmful to others. It was my job to provide them with opportunities to tell me (of their own free will that is) about the nasty things that they had done to unsuspecting everyday folks. Given my experiences over the years on French roads, I am now wholly convinced that if you were to be a fly on the wall of a Renault dealership, you would find that those wishing to purchase a Magane may have to prove to the salesman they have exactly the same “challenging issues and point score”. I have never been witness to such reckless and dangerous driving in any part of the world in which I’ve travelled. If you are driving on narrow country roads or eight lane tole highways, it doesn’t matter. If you are being forced off the road on to the soft shoulder, or narrowly missed at an intersection, or followed extremely closely on the highway, it is guaranteed that the car in question is a Megane, and the driver is close enough to be sitting in your back seat reading a Stephen King novel. I swear to god I can make out their dark eyes and matching souls at any distance. I have no idea if the French Gendarmes keep track of the types of vehicles operated by those responsible for fatal road accidents. I can however save them the hassle of hiring an expensive statistician. Its simple, it’s the driver of the Renault Megane of course! The Megane driver would never feel remorse for causing death and or destruction. Let’s say on the very off chance they did decide to flee the scene. It would only be because it was Steak Frites night at the canteen. The Gendarmes just have to drive directly to nearest psychiatric hospital and search the lot in out-patient parking. It will take some time to rummage through all the other patient’s Meganes to find the right one, but when they do it will have saved them days of searching elsewhere.!

Live well!

Cheers,

Mark

p.s. Please leave a comment.

All photos taken with the Leica M10-R