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.

CHATEAU LA COSTE IN MONOCHROME, A PHOTO ESSAY.

Other than these words, An absolutely huge thank you to our new friend Anna for suggesting we visit the château. We are in Anna’s debt! There are no more words.

The Splendor of the Mundane: A Modern-Day Philosopher's Musings.

As I sit here, sipping my morning coffee, nibbling my pain au chocolat and gazing through the window, I ponder the nature of life's little wonders. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the delicate dance of leaves rustling in the wind, the melodic chatter of birds engaged in their morning rituals – these seemingly trivial moments have the potential to evoke profound gratitude and a sense of connectedness to the world around us.

In our fast-paced, technology-driven society, it is all too easy to become consumed by our own ambitions and the ceaseless pursuit of progress. We strive for grand achievements and seek to etch our names in the annals of history, often overlooking the beauty that lies hidden in the mundane. But there is something to be said for slowing down and taking the time to truly observe and appreciate the subtleties of existence.

It is no coincidence that the most revered philosophers in history have often emphasized the importance of gratitude and appreciation for the small, everyday wonders of life. Stoicism, for example, teaches us to cultivate inner peace by being present in the moment and accepting life's natural ebb and flow. Similarly, the ancient Chinese philosophy of Taoism encourages us to align ourselves with the natural rhythms of the world and to find harmony in life's simplest pleasures.

So, how can we, as modern-day philosophers, cultivate an attitude

I know, for those who know me, you are thinking this is rich. A man who likes and or enjoys the company of less people on this planet than that of a full rugby team roster. But since I now have lots of time to sit in the Provençal sun, I tend to muse over the future and how to best wander through that time and space. I recently downloaded an app that has predicted my life span. It seems that I have “approximately” 21 years, 101 days, 4 hours, 40 minutes and 50 seconds to go. Since brevity is of the essence I have decided through hours of deep reflection to attempt the following.

Cultivate mindfulness: Being present in the moment is essential to noticing and appreciating life's subtle gifts. By practicing mindfulness, we can develop the ability to focus on our immediate experiences, rather than being preoccupied with our anxieties, ambitions, or regrets. Engaging in meditation or simply taking a few moments throughout the day to focus on our breath can help us develop a deeper connection with the present moment and the world around us.

Embrace simplicity: In a world where consumerism and excess often reign supreme, it is important to remind ourselves of the value of simplicity. By deliberately choosing to live with less, we can create space in our lives for the things that truly matter. This may involve decluttering our physical spaces, minimizing our digital distractions, or reevaluating our commitments to ensure that we are dedicating our time and energy to pursuits that align with our values and bring us genuine fulfillment.

Cultivate maximum and undeterred curiosity: Approaching the world with a sense of curiosity and wonder can open our eyes to the beauty that lies hidden in the seemingly ordinary. Make a conscious effort to ask questions, explore new ideas, and challenge your own assumptions about the world. This spirit of inquiry can help us develop a greater appreciation for the interconnectedness of all things and the myriad ways in which the world continually surprises.

I must go. The church bells are ringing and it seems it is already 10 a.m.. In life as it is in Provence, our focus should be on the little things!

Live Well.

M.

Please leave your thoughts or comments below. I love to hear from you.

All of the images in this blog were taken with the Leica Q2 Ghost.

WALKING DOWN MEMORY LANE.

I must apologize now to those expecting this post to be splashed with the colours of Provence or some other fabulous picturesque destination. This time my journey has taken me back to where I started my career 30 long years ago. This post is a photo essay in retrospect.

The location for this collection of images is Carberry, Manitoba. Carberry is located about a two-hour drive east from Winnipeg, almost slap-bang in the middle of Canada. That may sound like an easy journey by car, but it becomes a little more of a chore when you begin the trip on Vancouver Island, some 2230 kilometres away.

In 1992 I arrived here in Carberry full of enthusiasm and naivety. I had recently sworn an oath to Queen and Country. My first “posting” (job) was to protect and serve the townsfolk and surrounding areas as best as possible. I was well trained and proud of my place in life.

Six months prior, I had never in my wildest dreams thought I would end up here or even that a place like this existed. Halfway through my training, I was told by a superior that I could expect to be working in British Columbia's Okanagan Valley after graduation. I would live the high life in a place known for vast lakes, fantastic skiing and beautiful vineyards.

Surprise, change of plan and Carberry it was. With all the best intentions, my time here started unpredictably. A small town with little going on was my initial impression.

I suppose for you British comedy film buffs out there, my time here started as it did for Sgt. Nicolas Angel in the movie Hot Fuzz. Slow and easy with smatterings of good humour. But, by 2 a.m. the following morning, I was pinned down in a snow bank, taking rifle fire from a farmhouse a short distance North from where I lay.

I won't bore you with the details but suffice to say, it was a long freezing cold night at a tumultuous incident. The outcome has stayed with me vividly all these years.

In fact, thirty years later this work has done its very best to desensitize me in every way imaginable. The challenges and responsibilities build with time and experience. So with many moves & transfers behind me, I thought it may have been the appropriate time to return to where it all began.

I wanted to capture some images of what it has become. But, as you will see as you scroll down, not much has changed, and it seems my memories have been preserved in a time capsule, never buried.

This is a typical prairie town with ordinary prairie townsfolk going about their lives. Some farm. Some work at the potato processing plant. Most drive half-ton trucks and smile at you when you cross paths.

My time was different here. It was a good idea to return. It has helped me to process a few things. It's not the only place I ever worked where the events of better left untold horrors effected me, but it was the first, so it left a mark.

As I wandered from place to place, it struck me that I might not be the only one that may live with life-changing memories related to this town. No more significant was this realisation than when I approached the stone chiseled list of war dead on the cenotaph. A place erected to honour the local men lost in a far-off land. So many from such a small town. Families were impacted forever by their loss. Prairie towns suffered hugely throughout both world wars. Young, strong men lost, never to return to their families again. In fact it is less than 10 minutes by car from here that 30,000 Commonwealth soldiers were trained for trench warfare throughout WWI. Camp Hughes was at one time the 2nd biggest place by population in this province behind the city of Winnipeg. Still today, trenches can be seen dotted on the horizons of ranch land west of town.

My journey has ended literally with a cathartic walk down memory lane. But, I am better for it and thankful for the opportunity. This place laid the foundations for an unbelievably fulfilling and exciting career. I have worked all over this country with some exceptional people. I came here thinking Carberry stole my innocence and it owed me something as a result. Now I realize, I owe Carberry.

Live well!

Mark.

Images captured with the Leica M10-R.

As always, please leave a comment if you have time. I enjoy hearing from you!

ONLY MAD DOGS & ENGLISHMEN.

I am writing todays blog while hunkered down inside a fully shuttered Provençal village house. Outside, the wind is gusting at a swift measure of knots. This is my first really nasty “Mistral”. Rudyard Kipling was the man responsible for today’s title. It is the passage from his book “Kim” written in 1901 which refers to devils, madness and Englishmen that proved timeless. Kipling’s words later prompted Noël Coward to use them along with going out in the noon day sun as lyrics for his 1931 musical cabaret number. What is left to explain now is why I have stolen it for this tale of misadventure. The simple answer is, yesterday, this Englishman (by birth) felt like a wee bit of a physical challenge. So, just before noon, I put on my bright red wind breaker (more on that later) and left the house on foot bound for the village across the valley. There are several tracks that one can take to get from Bonnieux to Lacoste. Given yesterdays weather, I thought staying off the trails and sticking to the road might be best to keep out of ankle deep mud. Along with wearing the bright red jacket, staying out of the trees was the second life saving decision I made without even realizing it.

I may have mentioned in earlier blogs that it is wild boar hunting season in the Luberon. Unlike back home where the vast majority of hunting goes on far from any population or paved roads, here in France safety does not come first. First comes having enough wine for the after party. Second comes having enough diesel in the white Renault Kangoo mini-van for the hunter, his weapons and a first class lunch. Third and most importantly is having enough mad dogs to scent, chase, and run down these not so elusive Sanglier (wild boar). Now, when I say mad dogs, I don’t mean rabid or distempered, I mean really fucking angry. These dogs have seen how aggressive and offensive these boars can get and what kind of damage their tusks can do when the chips are down.

I was not even 100 meters along the road from Bonnieux when I was nearly run down by a speeding Kangoo. It was not more than 200 meters further when I was deafened by the packs of hunting dogs. I never quite laid eyes on them but they seemed to be moving in the same direction I was. Every 30 seconds or so their incessant barking became quite high pitched. Those changes were typically followed by one or more rifle shots and then moments of silence. The French hunters all wear bright orange. The wild boars are the colour of the bush and scrub. I was thankfully dressed like a shitty dollar store Santa in bright red. Next time I make fun of Donald T. I will have to remember his genius & consider using the orange spray tan myself. It certainly has prevented him from being shot in any wayward hunting accidents.

My return journey was near enough 17 kilometres. For all of it, save my time wandering in a very quiet and coffee free Lacoste, the dogs bayed and gun shots rang out through the valley. I do love Lacoste. The art college and its student galleries. The former home of both the Marquis de Sade and Pierre Cardin is a very cool place. Sadly, both cafes in Lacoste were closed for refurb and I was forced to turn back to Bonnieux through bandit country. This unfortunate decision had to be made much too soon and without even the whiff of a double espresso.

Just over an hour later I was home and stretching. I popped into Apt for a few groceries an hour or so later and returned to use the air fryer to prepare a dinner fit for a survivor. It’s not easy making it across miles of open country under fire. It is these kind of harrowing stories that fill the pages of dozens of books by former SAS commandos. The stuff of Chris Ryan or Andy McNab. I’ve always fancied the life of Ernest Hemmigway. I realize running with the bulls in Pamplona is not even close to briskly walking aside mad dogs in the Luberon, but you have to start somewhere. My last stolen quote from Kipling is as follows, “This is a brief life, but in its brevity it offers us some splendid moments, some meaningful adventures.”.

Please leave a comment if you have a moment.

Live well!

Mark

Here is a link to a recent article regarding hunting in France! https://www.rfi.fr/en/france/20211204-tribute-to-victims-of-hunting-accidents-as-french-senate-begins-inquiry

p.s. all images except the last two taken with the Leica Q2

BONNIEUX, FROM THE ROAD TO LACOSTE

THE TOP CHURCH THROUGH THE TREES.

THE BAT CAVE HAS NEVER LOOKED SO SCRUFFY.

IMAGE BORROWED FROM GOOGLE.

IMAGE BORROWED FROM GOOGLE

THIS IS RUSTREL. WAYFARERS ON!

I would love to wax lyrical about my morning in Rustrel, but I can’t be asked (to coin a British phrase). I am simply going to wish you well and gloat that it was 20 degrees C at lunch time today. Here are a few snaps taken while wandering the streets of this pretty little village on the edge of the Colorado mountains in the North Luberon Valley.

Cheers!

Mark

Cat seemed happy to sit and have his “environmental portrait” taken.

MY 9TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. BEAUTIFUL MAUBEC AND HAVE YOU READ THE NEWS TODAY?

MAUBEC VILLAGE

I got up early this morning because the forecast predicted clear skies and a cloud inversion down in the valley. I grabbed the camera and tripod and climbed to the top of the village with high hopes. Unfortunately, hopes dashed quite quickly upon arrival at the Haute Eglise. The fog was thick, and it looked like hours before it would clear. By that time, I would have sadly missed the spectacular light of sunrise.

I quickly decided what needed to be done was to minimize my to-do list before the New Year arrived. As of this morning, my top two on the list were to pay my municipal taxes and my home insurance. Taxes are collected at the government office in Apt, and my Allianz insurance broker is in a small town 20 minutes away in the opposite direction. So I tried the taxes first and arrived early enough to be first in line when the miserable-looking middle-aged lady unlocked the door and grunted, what do you want (en Francais)?

Less than 60 seconds later, I was ushered from the office because I did not have the one document that miserable Marie required to make this transaction possible today. So I skipped back to the psycho mobile AKA the "RENAULT MEGANE" and began the short journey home to Bonnieux to see if the notaire that looked after the sale of our place had the form La Miserable grunted for.

Job done & a big thanks to Quenton's legal secretary. It seemed like the best thing to do then was not return from where I just left, but instead to pay Nathalie a visit at Allianz. Fifteen minutes later, my TD Visa was racking up a few more Aeroplan points. So now what? Maubec is on the way home. I should drop by and wander the village, stop for an espresso and read La Provence. La Provence is the primary newspaper for the region and is published and printed in Marseille. Marseille is the second biggest city in France, so I was expecting the worst as I thumbed through today’s crime section.

As expected it was terrible. Way worse than I had predicted. We who spend most of our time in the southwest corner of British Columbia are used to reading about gangland murders, junkies robbing everything that moves or stands still. Thefts from unsuspecting homes & yards of everyday tax paying homeowners. Pensioners are being thrown to the ground for their purses. But in Provence, it gets way worse. I won't even try to paraphrase the article I read this morning over coffee, but sufficed to say it's not pretty. Take a deep breath. If you are squeamish, perhaps today is not the day to continue this blog.

Words do fail me. I hope Logotto recovers from the trauma of this most horrific experience. I also hope that those who can stomach today's crime blotter will later enjoy the photos of Maubec. She's a peach!

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

All photos were captured with the Leica Q2.

If you were able to get though that. Here are some photos of this morning’s coffee spot!

HE ASKED WHY I WAS PHOTOGRAPHING HIS HEDGE.

LA CANTANTE!

JUST A SINGLE FAMILY HOME.

THE VILLAGE GREEN.

MY DOOR FETISH.

COME JULY THIS FIELD WILL BE VIVID PURPLE.

ONE DAY I WILL OWN ONE OF THOSE!

A SEA OF GREEN.

READY FOR VINES….

YOU SHALL NOT PASS!

LUNCH AT LA PETITE HISTOIRE.

Gargas brings the location, and the two-man band in front and back of the house provides the experience. Today's visit was my second to La Petite Histoire. The first occasion was a couple of years ago with Dale on the heels of our Turkey and Isreal trip. That was for dinner, and I was presented with a tomahawk steak bigger than my arm. Dale had a similarly sized octopus tentacle.

Today was for lunch, as the title indicates, and there were several option combinations that you can see on the menu in the photograph above. My meal was tremendous, and I am already looking forward to my next visit as a result. You will notice a chocolate number at the end. I had to. My face was so sore from yesterday. I had a cheeky beer and an incredible espresso to round out the 2 hours I spent with the happy, professional staff who double as co-owners. I would recommend a visit without any hesitation.

Live well!

Mark

p.s. All the images below were captured with the Leica Q2.

Ravioli

Beef with chorizo risotto and red wine demi glaze.

Chocolate Tarte

NEVER SELECT PAY AS YOU GO!

Everyone is treated like a third-class citizen once or twice in a lifetime. Have you ever been made to feel like you just climbed out of a sewer because you needed a "Pay as you go" mobile phone top-up? If you haven’t but you are still intrigued, I suggest that you stroll into a French mobile phone shop sometime. I am in a pickle today. I have home wifi, but it is nice to have service in unfamiliar locations from time to time. What if you need a Tripadvisor suggestion for lunch or a route to a vineyard from Google Maps?

My data ran out this morning, so I thought it best to get into the nearest sizable town and darken the doors of the Orange boutique. Orange, along with SFR, are France's biggest mobile phone providers. Neither are great, but SFR would have to be on fire for me even to consider saving the staff from certain death. As a result of my first & only visit to SFR, I now know what it must be like to be a Hare Krishna or a Gypsy selling the lucky heather. Do you want to feel inadequate or in 2021 speak, marginalized? Then go to SFR. Only one of the four staff even lifted their heads from their own phones long enough to fuck me off when the shop was otherwise completely empty.

Orange was slightly less toxic, so they got my business for mobile phone service and home wifi. So there I was this morning at opening time waiting in line for help. I was not first and oddly not last as one of those octogenarians I was referring to in the last blog was behind me waiting to return his wifi router. We had a short conversation in French (I am getting better), and from that, I learned he lived in Lacoste and that his box was a piece of Merde.

My time had come, and the security guard waved me in during a break from playing a game on his phone. They have a Covid limit of 7 people in the boutique at one time. Security first I always say. I took a seat in line and waited for the woman in front of me to ask the "customer service rep" to explain each one of the three hundred phones on display's features before declaring she was not looking to upgrade her phone at this time. So is this all she had to do with her morning? A pox on her and her grapevines!

It was my turn. I stopped to shave before reaching the counter as it felt like an eternity had passed since I arrived. I never expect anyone to speak English in foreign climes. This is France, and I live here, so I should understand what is said to me and what is going on. It was just 90 seconds before the “customer service rep” was signing me up for a 20 Euro upgrade to my home WIFI account so that I may have my phone included with 5 GB of monthly mobile data. When the new contract arrived, I tried again to explain I did not want an "upgrade." I am pay as you go, and I am not in France year-round, so it makes no sense to increase my monthly tariff for home wifi etc.

We went around the mulberry / Orange bush (pardon the pun) for quite a while before she understood that I was just a poor old pay-as-you-go muppet and that she had just spent all that time trying to get a failed commission. So I am back to being sewer scum, and I need a top-up for a week. Sort of like Oliver Twist asking Fagin for more soup.

With a frown and a sigh, I was provided with my "Mobi Cartè" top-up. I was 25 Euros lighter and happy to get my statutory release from the Orange workhouse. I wandered the town, bought a Baguette for my Jambon Beurre and returned to Bonnieux for a picnic in Place Gambetta. Upon arrival at my favourite bench overlooking the valley to the north, my life was once again provencal.

Please leave a comment if you have time!

Live well.

Mark

All images captured with the Leica Q2

Never complain about having to drive a Charger! These made in Romania Dacia Dusters are 1/3rd as big and powered by Gypsy dust!

MY 8TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. OUR CLOSEST NEIGHBOURS TO THE SOUTH.

Even though I have driven through both of these villages countless times since I arrived in Provence, I had yet to stop, park, and wander. Both towns are on a route clearly marked as a road that will provide access to some of the most outstanding Castles and medieval architecture in the south of France.

The first on the list today is the village of Lourmarin. There is a spectacular chateau that dominates the skyline no matter which direction you approach from. This chateau is in fantastic condition and lived in by local nobility. Not only can you wander around outside its walls, but if you arrive at the correct times, you can tour the inside as well.

For several years now, the chateau has been used as a venue for classical concerts all the way to modern-day music festivals and most everything in between. This clearly indicates a place that appeals to an extensive age range. From a Chopin recital with a chilled flute of champagne in the garden to an electronic trance concert with ecstasy tabs in a field (I would assume).

The history of this village dates back at least a thousand years and was probably a Neolithic campsite before that. A fortress was first built at the current site in the 12th century. It was rebuilt by Foulques d'Agoult in the 15th century on the foundations of the earlier castle. It was restored in 1920. In 1545 the town was burned down because its population was predominantly Protestant. I did my research before arrival. That homework certainly provided a different scope of understanding as I wandered about trying to put into perspective the where's and whys from both a visitor's and neighbour's perspective.

Lourmarin has a luxury vibe about it. Not unlike Menerbes, which I visited several weeks ago now. My senses were placed on overload as I took an opportunity to drop in to dozens of artisan galleries and boutiques. The sights, sounds and smells were fabulous. Each seemed to compliment the other so that as if by magic, I felt relaxed, content and generally in my happy place.

The village is easy to wander because it is one of the very few I have visited this year that was built on flat ground and well below the ramparts and fortifications of the chateau. I arrived just after sunrise, I expected to enjoy a physical challenge before the temperature made it uncomfortable. The terrain guaranteed I could have stayed in bed for a couple more hours and still not felt any effects of the heat.

Before leaving Lourmarin, I stopped for a beautiful espresso, and people watched for a while. As time pushed on, it seemed as though I was witnessing a 1960's straw fedora convention. One in six men (tourists not locals) that crossed my bow seemed to fancy themselves as Rat Pack impersonators. Before you think I am confusing these hats with their Panama cousins, I am not! I take issue with this. It's clearly a bugbear of mine. Those hats are to be accompanied by 60's style well tailored suits and pencil-thin ties. They are not, repeat, not to be worn with sandals, board shorts and muscle shirts no matter how good or bad shape you are in. Don't, just don't! You look ridiculous. Buy a ball cap for christ's sake. Buy a stetson, buy a bucket hat. Switch on man, switch on!

More narrative below!

Cucuron is the next village along from Lourmarin as you travel southeast. I must admit that we have had a couple of lovely meals here at L’etang in the past, but the remainder of Cucuron needed to be explored as well. Arriving at noon precludes the opportunity to visit any shops or museums as it is lunchtime. Most everyone knows time stands still in France at lunch. The only places open will be serving food. No matter if your appetite says just a nibble or the local's preferred combination of the "formule" (entrèe, plat du jour and dessert or frommage).

You will sit and enjoy whatever your choice may be, and you will sit for at least an hour and a half to ensure digestion and satiety. You will most likely begin with a glass of Pastis, followed by a Monaco and then a good bottle of local plonk with your meat, poultry, or fish choice. No one leaves the table until the obligatory espresso is finished and restful smiles are on faces.

This lifestyle seems to contribute to the life span of locals because the percentage of octogenarians or older is very high. Sitting on benches, walking their dogs, chatting with neighbours, all the while chain-smoking yellow-papered cigarettes. I am actually getting used to the smell and don't nearly despise it as much as I once did. Perhaps these local darts are in fact an ingredient in their elixir of life??

I don't plan on starting this very expensive habit, but it seems to compliment the Mediterranean diet and remaining active. I am almost 100% sure that none of these local seniors needed to go to the gym before work in their day and similarly would never even think to utter the word yoga. If you go into business in Provence, don't choose to be a funeral director. A distinct lack of work and the inability to charge more for XXL caskets will keep you from a comfortable retirement.

I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to Cucuron. The quiet cafe culture is dotted all over the village. It provides even more opportunity to lower my blood pressure and centre my chi (I looked it up and now know what it means). I hope this episode finds you in your happy place?

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

All the images in this blog were captured with the Leica M10-R.

MY SIXTH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. BUOUX AND SAIGNON ARE SMALL BUT MIGHTY.

The phrase “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing'” has been used with purpose since the 18th century. It is attributed to Alexander Pope where it was found in his An Essay on Criticism,

Buoux is not too far from Bonnieux. Google maps say 9KM and should take around 16 minutes in the car. I love morning light, so I set off just after 7 a.m. so I could guarantee to be on the ground well in advance of sunrise . Even though as the crow flies, it's not too far from the relatively shallow and wide valley that I wake up to every morning. Buoux and, moreover, Fort du Buoux sit in a tight space sandwiched between very tall, imposing & sheer rock formations.

I thought the best plan of attack was to drive through Buoux to the Fort and get the hike out of the way before it got hot.. I knew that I would have enough time to stop in Buoux on my way back to wander around the village. The parking lot for visitors at the Fort was empty. However very well signed with a ton of great historical information to take in before setting out on the trail.

There are tall and quite ornate iron gates at the trailhead. Unfortunately, only the right gate was open, which for some unknown reason, caused a weird sensation as I walked under the arch & through. I got about 75 meters along the trail, and then I heard a very odd series of sounds. I am aware that there are not many wild animals in Provence except for the infamous boar. Having worked for Parks Canada during university, I have hiked many trails with signs of bear activity. Unfortunately, I do not have any experience of recognising the signs of wild boar.

I stopped for a moment to listen intently. The wind whistled through the trees, but the grunting subsided. I continued on quietly . The path was quickly beginning to climb and, with that becoming more and more challenging. Ten minutes later, I came to a unique site comprising massive granite overhangs and a sizeable rock garden that sat in its shadow. It was eery to be there alone (or maybe with a stalking a wild boar).

I moved on up the trail as the sun appeared and began to warm the valley floor. Several minutes later, I reached a point on the track where the direction changed, and the ruins of the Fort's turrets came into view. Sadly, It was at that point that my hike was over. The trail was boarded up, and barriers were in place to stop anyone from continuing up to the ruins. I tried to get an image from a distance, but it just wasn't what I was hoping for. I returned down the trail slowly, looking for details in the rock formations and how the light was casting shadows. I had a little success, but it was cathartic to have these woods to myself.

As I reached the trailhead back at the car park, I was startled again by the similar sounds that took me by surprise on the way up. I stopped in my tracks again and looked around with the intent to find the source. After about a minute, the next thing I heard from behind me was "Bonjour." I quickly turned to see an older disheveled looking man who was sitting on his haunches in the trees. I replied Bonjour. He didn't move, and I had no reason to continue a conversation. I made it to the car and headed back to Buoux. Not a typical morning in Provence (for me at least). I think that I have either met my first French hermit, or my first deserter from the French Foreign Legion. Bears, boars and summers in Canada’s alpine parks. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing! Today I would go as far as to say not so much dangerous as completely useless in Provence.

SAIGNON.

My stop in Saignon was all too brief. This village is quite small and that is very much part of it’s charm. Today, most uncharacteristically, Saignon was overrun by tourists. I have visited here countless times over the years and normally I have have wandered the streets alone. All of the places I wanted to photograph were busy, so to get what I wanted was going to be near to impossible on the day. It seems that Covid has been nothing but good for local business development in the village as several new cafes and restaurants have opened since the last time I was here. This is fantastic for those who have gambled and succeeded. I will return on another morning in September when things have returned to normal. Here are a few shots but I hope to create a gallery from Saignon when the time is right.

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

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