I THINK I’VE FOUND NARNIA.
Leica Cameras for Travel.
Embarking on a journey from the beautiful and tranquil region of Vaucluse, where the landscape seems to have been sculpted by the rough-skinned hands and loving heart of a Renaissance artist, to the charming provincal town of Uzès is akin to stepping on to a vividly painted Van Gogh canvass. A canvas where history doesn't just whisper; it pours you a glass of cold, crisp local Rose and sits beside you to spend some quality time.
As a retired wanderer and not the kind that regularly escapes from a care home but the kind that hails from the wild, wet west coast of Canada, the idea of walking through the ancient streets of Uzès in the soft embrace of the warm golden sun on an early spring morning, with nary a tourist in sight, makes me extremely happy. There's something utterly delightful in the thought of meandering alone through history, my steps the only sound apart from the distant chime of church bells and the occasional disgruntled French cat, disturbed from its sun-soaked slumber by my size 13 Birkenstocks.
Uzès, a town that seems to have been gently nestled into the French countryside by a benevolent giant, is rich with history that feels almost palpable as you walk its ancient streets and alleys. Founded in Roman times, the town is a feast for those hungry to glimpse the past. It’s as if each cobblestone is a breadcrumb leading back through time, and I, a Canadian and larger version of Hansel, am more than happy to follow, in the hope that they have fallen from a gigantic pain au chocolate & preferably without the subsequent witch issues.
At the heart of Uzès is the Place aux Herbes, a square serving as the town’s living room, bordered by arched pathways and lined with trees that have seen more history than we can fathom. The morning market here is a symphony of colors, smells, and sounds, a place where the local dialect is as thick as the daube they sell. To walk through it alone is to be a shadow, observing life in its most vibrant form without the need to partake.
The town's churches, such as the Cathedral Saint-Théodorit, with its Italian Renaissance-style bell tower, are monuments to faith and artistry. Venturing inside, the cool, hushed interior feels like a sanctuary from time itself. It’s easy to imagine the generations that have come here seeking solace or salvation, their whispers adding to the layers of history. As someone who has weathered the storms of the Pacific, standing in such a testament to endurance is both humbling and uplifting.
Accommodation in Uzès, particularly if one is looking for a touch of luxury, is like choosing which historical epoch you’d like to dream in. The 4- and 5-star options are as varied as they are splendid. One could opt for the Hotel Entraigues, located in the city center, where modern amenities blend seamlessly with ancient architecture, offering a rooftop view that competes only with the gastronomical delights served beneath it. It’s a place where one can feel like a king, albeit a king who thoroughly enjoys free Wi-Fi and espresso machines in his room.
Or perhaps the La Maison d'Uzès, a sumptuous boutique hotel that whispers tales of centuries past through its elegantly restored rooms. Waking up here is like being cradled in history, with the added benefit of an outstanding breakfast that could easily turn a morning person out of the most nocturnal creature.
Walking through Uzès alone, especially on a wonderous warm spring morning, allows one to appreciate the town’s beauty and serenity without the bustling crowds. The solitude amplifies the architecture's beauty, the heritage's majesty, and the gentle flow of daily life. It’s a reminder that sometimes, to connect with a place truly, we must experience it on its terms and in its quiet moments.
As a guy who has left behind the perpetual motion of the Western world for the serene cadence of retirement, Uzès offers not just a journey through space but also through time. It’s a place where one can stroll without purpose, lost in thought yet fully present. The lack of tourists is not just a boon but a blessing, allowing the soul of the town to shine through unobstructed.
In conclusion, as I, a humble Canadian with a newfound zest for life and a pension for adventure, wander through Uzès, I am reminded of the beauty of solitude and the rich tapestry of history surrounding us. This journey from Vaucluse to Uzès is not just a travelogue; it's a pilgrimage to the heart of tranquility, a lesson in the art of being alone without being lonely. And as for the humor that bubbles up like a spring in this ancient town, it's found in the realization that, after years of seeking company, the best conversations are often the ones we have with history, nature, and ourselves.
If you ever venture in this direction, I hope you don’t miss this place and have the same experience I now insist on having regularly. All the images in this post were captured with the new Leica SL3 and several new lenses (drop by my gear page if you are interested). Please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments box below the last image; I would love to hear from you if you have time.
Live well!
Mark
MY 11TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.
Leica Cameras for Travel
The Luberon Valley is a place so quaint and picturesque that even the local goats are Instafamous. It was from this very valley, this fine morning, that I embarked on a journey so filled with promise and potential liver damage that even Ernest Hemingway might have thought twice. My destination? The illustrious and immaculately tidy village of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a name that rolls off the tongue with the same complexity and satisfaction as a full-bodied glass of its namesake wine.
Now, for those unacquainted with the joys of navigating the French countryside, let me assure you, it's an experience akin to finding oneself in a real-life game of Mario Kart, minus the helpful floating question boxes (or so the kids used to tell me). The roads twist and turn with the kind of reckless abandon usually reserved for soap opera plotlines, ensuring that any journey is as much about survival as it is about sightseeing.
But let's not dwell on the near-death experiences and instead focus on the destination. Châteauneuf-du-Pape, or as I like to call it, "The Village That Wine Built." This place is so steeped in viticulture that even the feral cats seem to have a discerning palate for a good vintage. The village itself is a marvel of stone buildings that look as though they've been plucked straight from a medieval fairytale, complete with a castle that seems to frown down at the modern world from its lofty perch.
Ah, the castle. Or what's left of it, anyway. The Château de Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a name so nice they named it twice, sort of. This once-majestic fortress now serves as a reminder that even in the world of wine, not everything ages gracefully. Its history is as rich and complex as a well-aged Grenache, having played host to several popes during that curious period when Avignon fancied itself the center of the Christian world. It's said that the popes, in their infinite wisdom, decided that what the papacy really needed was a good vineyard because nothing says divine authority like a robust wine list.
And so, Châteauneuf-du-Pape became the go-to destination for holy men with a penchant for the grape. The village's reputation grew, much like its vines, until it became synonymous with some of the finest wines known to humanity. Or at least, make it known to those humans who can afford it. The irony, of course, is that the popes were probably too busy being pious to enjoy the fruits of their labour truly, but that's the Catholic Church for you – always thinking of the future.
Surrounding the village is the Côtes du Rhône wine-growing area, a region so fertile and productive that you half expect the vines to start planting themselves. Here, wine is more than just a beverage; it's a way of life. The locals speak of terroir with the same reverence that others might reserve for holy scripture, and to be fair, after a few glasses, you too might start seeing the divine in a well-crafted Syrah.
Wine experts and enthusiasts from around the globe wax lyrical about Châteauneuf-du-Pape, using terms like "bouquet" and "finish" with the kind of casual expertise that makes mere mortals feel hopelessly uncultured. These wines are the celebrities of the oenophile world, complete with their own entourages of adoring fans and eye-watering price tags. It's a place where the phrase "let's have just one more glass" can lead to life decisions that seem much less wise in the cold, sober light of day.
In the midst of this vinous Valhalla, a particularly clever wine cave owner, spotting the wide-eyed wonder with which I beheld his domain, beckoned me closer with the promise of capturing this oenological oasis through my camera lens. "For memories," he said, with a twinkle in his eye that should have warned me of the impending danger to my wallet.
This, dear reader, was no mere merchant of grape-based beverages; this was a maestro of persuasion, a virtuoso of the vineyard, who could probably sell ice to Eskimos or, more aptly, water to fish. His cave was several levels above Aladdin's and a cave of vinicultural treasures, each bottle more seductively labeled than the last, whispering promises of unparalleled delight.
With the skill of a seasoned conductor, he guided me through the symphony of his cellar, my camera clicking away, each shot capturing the amber glow of bottles that seemed to contain not just wine, but liquid history. It was only when he began to describe the wines, with a passion that bordered on the religious, that I realized I was no longer just a photographer, but a pilgrim at the altar of Bacchus.
Fifteen minutes had passed – or so he claimed, though I suspect time moves differently within the hallowed confines of a wine cave – when he presented me with a bottle. "This," he proclaimed, "is not just wine. This is an experience." The price, he assured me, was merely a numerical reflection of the celestial joy contained within.
And so, dear reader, with a sense of inevitability that would have made Greek tragedians nod in solemn agreement, I left the cave lighter of wallet but heavier of heart, clutching the most expensive bottle I have ever purchased. It was a transaction that defied logic, propelled by a blend of skilled salesmanship and the intoxicating atmosphere of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
As I emerged into the sunlight, I couldn't help but marvel at the cleverness of the cave owner, who had transformed a simple invitation to take photos into a masterclass in the art of the upsell. I had come in search of memories and left with a tangible, if pricey, token of my visit. In the end, I suppose, that's the true magic of Châteauneuf-du-Pape: the ability to turn even the most guarded of travellers into willing devotees at the church of the grape.
But what truly sets Châteauneuf-du-Pape apart, aside from its ability to make your bank account weep, is the sheer beauty of the place. It's as if the village itself has been marinated in fine wine, with every stone and cobble exuding a sense of timeless charm. The locals move with the kind of unhurried grace that suggests they've all reached some higher state of contentment, or perhaps they're just perpetually tipsy.
In conclusion, my journey from the Luberon Valley to Châteauneuf-du-Pape was more than just a test of my driving skills and liver's endurance. It was a pilgrimage to the heart of wine country, a place where history, culture, and viticulture come together as seamlessly as a well-balanced blend. So, if you ever find yourself in this corner of France, do yourself a favour and raise a glass to the popes who, in their infinite wisdom, decided that what the world really needed was a little more wine. Cheers, or as the locals might say, santé!
Live Well!
M.
p.s.
**No driving under the influence of intoxicants took place in the research for this post**
All of the images were captured with the Leica Q3. Thank you, Marc and Vinnie, at the Leica Boutique in Marseille. Any post-processing was done in Lightroom.
Please leave me your thoughts or comments in the box below the last image if you have a moment. I do love to hear from you.
Arles in Winter: Where Van Gogh Meets Viennoiserie.
Leica Cameras for Travel.
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.
BATTA BING, BATTA BOOM!
Leica Cameras for travel.
Palermo. Where the traffic flows like molasses in a Siberian winter, and the cacophony of car horns serves as the city's unofficial anthem. I arrived at Falcone Borsellino Airport with the usual mix of trepidation and misplaced optimism that accompanies most of my travel adventures. The optimism, as usual, was the first casualty.
Stepping outside, I was greeted not by a welcoming committee but by an assault on the senses. The air was thick, not with anticipation, but with the unmistakable aroma of exhaust fumes, creatively seasoned with a hint of garbage. It seemed the refuse collectors of Palermo were either on strike or had taken a collective vow of non-interference. On the bright side, our driver for the journey to the AirBnB was a lovely man named Dario. He drove an older Volvo wagon that he referred to as a Swedish limousine.
The traffic in Palermo is not so much a system of transportation as it is a kind of vehicular ballet - a ballet where everyone has decided to freestyle simultaneously. Cars, scooters, and the occasional daredevil pedestrian weave and dodge with a kind of reckless abandon that would leave a health and safety officer weeping. I watched in awe as a Vespa, laden with a family of four and what appeared to be the weekly shopping, navigated a roundabout in a move that defied several laws of physics.
Then there’s the graffiti. In some cities, graffiti is a scourge, a blight on the urban landscape. In Palermo, it's more of a municipal art project with an open invitation. Every available surface is covered in a tapestry of spray paint, a vibrant, chaotic narrative that tells a thousand stories, none of which I could decipher.
Amidst this chaos, the Sicilians. Ah, the Sicilians. They move through their city with a kind of spastic grace, unfazed by the bedlam around them. They argue with a passion that suggests life-or-death stakes, though I suspect the topics are more along the lines of football and the proper way to prepare pasta. The volume of these public debates is something to behold. It seems that in Palermo, whoever is loudest is right, a rule of thumb that explains quite a lot about the local politics.
The street markets of Palermo are an experience unto themselves. They are less markets and more frontline combat zones where one battles for fresh produce and octopus. The air is rich with the smell of fish, spices, and the sharp tang of Sicilian cheese. Stall owners hawk their wares with the kind of aggressive enthusiasm that would make a Wall Street trader blink. I bought two arancini and a massive cannoli that I'm pretty sure involved signing away a minor portion of my soul.
But, oh, the architecture. Palermo hides its beauty like a secret, tucked away behind the veneer of urban chaos. The buildings are a hodgepodge of styles, each more grandiose than the last as if they were trying to outdo each other in a beauty pageant. Baroque churches sit comfortably next to Arab-Norman palaces, a testament to Sicily's layered history. It's a place where you can walk from one era into another in a few steps, provided you don't get run over by a scooter in the process.
And then there's the fashion. Sicilians dress with an effortless style that I could never hope to emulate. Men in impeccably tailored suits ride battered scooters, their elegance undiminished by the helmet under their arm. Women glide through the streets in outfits that seem to defy Vancouver and Toronto's “fashion” trends, looking as if they've just stepped off a Milanese catwalk rather than a crowded Palermo bus.
As I navigated the streets, dodging cars and scooters, inhaling the intoxicating mix of exhaust and arancini, I couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration. Palermo is not a city for the faint-hearted. It's a city with a vibrant, messy, chaotic pulse. It's a city that lives loudly and unapologetically. It's a place of contradictions, where beauty and chaos live side by side, and where every day is a dance with the unpredictable or Luigi and Fat Tony if you haven’t paid your protection money for the month.
In Palermo, I found a city that wears its heart on its sleeve, graffiti-tagged and garbage-strewn though that sleeve may be. It's a city that challenges you, shouts in your face and then winks at you, daring you not to fall in love with its maddening charm. As I left, weaving my way back through the ballet of traffic to the airport with Dario, I realized that I had indeed fallen for this chaotic, beautiful, maddening place. Palermo, you're a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, and I can't wait to return.
I hope you enjoy the images of Palermo below. Please leave a comment or thought in the comment box at the bottom of the page. I appreciate reading what you think.
Live well,
M.
All images were captured with a Leica M10-R and various lenses.
IT’S TIME FOR REFLECTION WITH THE LEICA SL2-S
Leica Cameras for Travel.
As I sit here, poised to retire for the second time – a feat so unforeseeable I might just invent an award for it – I can't help but reflect on the peculiar charm of stepping away from the familiar. It's a bit like leaving a party while still having a good time, only to realize you've forgotten how to use the front door and end up wandering into a surprise adventure, possibly involving wine, cheese, and the Renault of my dreams. That's retirement for you, or at least the version I'm embarking on.
You see, knowing when to move on is a bit like understanding the British weather – it's unpredictable, occasionally dampening, but always a good excuse for a cup of tea and some quiet reflection. Retirement, in this sense, is not an ending but a hearty nudge towards new, mind-expanding endeavors. For me, these endeavors involve venturing into lands where the language sounds like an exotic dish I'd be too scared to order, and customs that seem as baffling as completing “WORDLE” in Swahili.
Why, you might ask, would one willingly step away from the comfort of the known into the labyrinth of the unfamiliar? Well, for the same reason, you might choose to wear mismatched socks – for the sheer thrill of it. In my case, the thrill is supplemented by my trusty cameras, my silent companions in this journey of discovery. Wandering with them is more than a hobby; it's a sort of medicine, a remedy for the mundane, a way to see the world not just in colors and shapes but in stories and whispers.
These cameras have seen more than most eyes do – they've captured smiles in hidden alleyways, sunsets that argue with the horizon, and cats with questionable intentions. They're not just lenses and shutters; they're my passport to the unexplored, my ticket to a show where every act is a surprise.
And let's not forget the potent medicine of change and reflection. Change, after all, is the universe's way of nudging us out of complacency. It's like a friend who insists you try escargot for the first time, and before you know it, you're wondering how you ever lived without it. Reflection, on the other hand, is the quiet conversation you have with yourself afterward, possibly over a glass of something peaty, pondering the peculiar yet delightful path you've stumbled upon.
So, as I embark on this new chapter, camera in hand, ready to misunderstand foreign languages and misinterpret local customs, I do so with a heart full of anticipation. I may not know what adventures await, but I'm certain of one thing – they'll make for one heck of a story, possibly involving a lost map and a serendipitous encounter with a wise, yet slightly intoxicated, local sage.
In conclusion, retirement, or rather re-adventurement, as I prefer to call it, is not just about leaving something behind. It's about embracing the unfamiliar, finding joy in the perplexing, and capturing it all through the lens of experience – both literal and metaphorical. And if that isn't a recipe for a life well-lived, I don't know what is.
As usual, your thoughts and comments are always welcome.
Live Well!
M.
P.S. All images were captured with a Leica SL2-S and a 41-year-old adapted Nikon vintage zoom lens.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. AIR CANADA STYLE.
Leica Cameras for Travel.
Vancouver Island. The name itself conjures images of rugged, rainforested landscapes and coastline so dramatically beautiful that it stops your very breath. It's the sort of place where one expects the unexpected, where nature still holds a firm grip on the sensibilities of the people. However, nestled in our cozy little home, with the relentless patter of rain providing a background symphony, I was grappling with a wilderness of a different kind: the impenetrable thicket of customer service at Air Canada.
Now, dear reader, you must understand something. It is the run up to the Christmas season, a time renowned for miracles happening in the most unexpected places. Yet, it appeared that the Air Canada Aeroplan ticketing office was immune to any form of holiday magic or, indeed, basic telecommunications efficiency.
It’s time once again for us to retreat to our Provencal hilltop. The task was simple, or so it seemed. Book a flight from Vancouver to Paris. A routine activity that “Chantel the ticket agent”, & the first voice of promise on the other end of the line after a 90-minute serenade of hold music that could only be described as the least successful tracks from the 1980s, managed to complicate beyond reason.
"Oh, the flights are very busy at this time of year," Chantel imparted, in a tone suggesting I had just asked to be transported to the moon in a pedal-powered spacecraft piloted by Neil Armstrong and Tom “Maverick” Cruise. I pictured her there, in a cubicle decorated with motivational posters about reaching for the stars, utterly oblivious to the fact that her lack of helpfulness was rapidly ensuring I wouldn't even leave the ground.
Just as we seemed to be getting somewhere, somewhere being a relative term when one has repeated their Aeroplan number sixteen times, the line went dead. Not just dead, but 'ceased to be, joined the choir of the invisible' dead. I stared at the phone, the silent betrayer in my hand, contemplating the cosmic unfairness of it all.
I embarked on the Sisyphean task of redialing, navigating the automated menu with diminishing patience and rising dread. This time, it was Marie Veronique (her name may have been) who answered, her voice carrying the unmistakable tone of someone who had been steeped too long in customer complaints and cheap office coffee monitored closely by “Terry Tate” the office linebacker”. If you wish to take a quick peak into what that environment looks like, please click the link below for some real life examples!
Now, you might imagine that being a high-tier frequent flyer with Air Canada would afford some cushioning from the abrasive indifference of understaffed customer service during the run up to the holiday season. You would be wrong. So profoundly, achingly wrong. Marie Veronique, with the casual disinterest of a cat watching the wrong documentary, informed me that not only were there no convenient flights, but she also seemed to imply this shortage was somehow my fault.
The hours waned, my mobile phone threatening to overheat, and my ear was developing a distinct cramp that I was certain hadn't been there earlier that morning. The rain seemed to be letting up outside, but the stormy frustration indoors was reaching its peak.
It's humbling, isn't it? Here you are, a seasoned traveler with more air miles than Santa Claus, being subtly patronized over the phone by two individuals who hold the fragile thread of your holiday plans between their fingers, ready to snap it with no more than a bored sigh.
By the time I had rebooked – on a flight with more stopovers than a presidential campaign trail and at the approximate cost of a small diamond – I realized something profound. Chantel and Marie Veronique (not their real names), in all their infuriating un-helpfulness, had done more than just ruin my afternoon. They'd provided a stark reminder: no matter how grand one's status, we are all but mere mortals in the face of customer service's capricious gods.
And so, dear reader, as you embark on your holiday travels, remember this: pack patience, for it will be tested, long before you need to decide on which toothbrush to take. This process had taken way too long and my will to live. I felt drowsy and was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I sensed I was nodding off.
The journey continued, as most do, with a misguided sense of optimism that perhaps the worst was behind us. How quaint that notion was. We arrived at the airport, bags laden with the kind of necessary items one needs to survive a trip that included layovers long enough to ponder the meaning of life. There, at the departure gate, we were to be greeted by Francis – though "greeted" is perhaps an overstatement.
Francis, you see, had the distinct air of a man who had wanted to be anywhere else on the planet other than dealing with the likes of travel-weary, question-armed passengers. He didn’t so much check our boarding passes as he did begrudgingly acknowledge their existence, offering the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes, or frankly, any part of his face.
But the real treat, the pièce de résistance, was yet to come. The Maple Leaf lounges, oh, the sanctuaries for the weary and privileged traveler, enclaves of comfort and care. Or so one would think. At Vancouver, and later in Montreal, it became abundantly clear that "sanctuary" had been redefined to mean a place where apathy reigns supreme, and the snacks have seen fresher days.
The staff, evidently following what must be a comprehensive training program in nonchalance, barely registered our presence, much less our status. It's a talent, really, to be so consistently disinterested, and they were virtuosos. One might wonder, in moments like this, where the hefty fees and taxes one pays go. Surely not into the staffing budget, or indeed into any aspect of the customer experience.
No, one could muse, those funds are perhaps funneled directly into the essential aviation fuel that keeps this great airline aloft – or possibly into federal tax dollars providing luxurious accommodations for the likes of Prime minister Trudeau on his whimsical jaunts to visit the Aga Khan. Or perhaps a massive west coast beach house used as a retreat for windy walks and skipping stones across the tidal pools of Tofino’s beaches with Melanie Joly (too soon)? One of life’s great mysteries, indeed.
And yet, as our journey finally, mercifully, continued towards its Parisian conclusion, a revelation dawned, casting a warm, if slightly resigned glow over the entire experience. A soliloquy of sorts bubbled to the surface, a ponderous voiceover to the slapstick comedy of errors this adventure had been.
Oh, Air Canada, with your indefatigable ability to deflate the buoyant spirits of even your most loyal passengers, how do you stay afloat? It's simple, really. Your secret weapon: the existence of competition so remarkably below par that next to them, you appear a shining beacon of adequacy. Yes, WestJet, we glance in your direction with a knowing nod.
For it matters not how you are treated in the warm, indifferent embrace of Air Canada. The alternative could indeed be worse. And so, we continue, gluttons for punishment, or perhaps just hostages to geography, loyal in our disgruntled way. Because no matter how high one's status, in the grand game of Canadian airlines, we're all just playing in the minor leagues, hoping for a call to the show that, we suspect, will never come.
But here's the rub, the twist in the tale, the unexpected morsel of hope in our traveler's buffet of despair: from the time we arrived at the airport it had all been a dream. A concoction of the sleeping brain, a mirage of misadventures that hadn't actually transpired — just yet. My eyes flickered open, phone still nestled against my ear, hold music quietly serenading me, as reality dawned with the softness of a feather yet the shock of cold water. There I was, still anchored firmly, if not somewhat deflatedly, in my living room, not a single bag packed, not a single apathetic employee endured.
The ordeal with Chantel and Marie Veronique had indeed happened and was a certified reality, a dance with bureaucratic absurdity that no amount of wishful thinking could erase. Still, the future, oh that sweet unwritten symphony, remained a slate upon which no nightmare had etched its signature. What lay ahead could still be the smooth sail we hope for in the deepest reservoirs of our travel-addled hearts. Yet, I feel that everything that I dreamed was simply just time reliving itself based on the hundreds of similar negative interactions I have endured over years of travel around the world with A.C..
The beauty of this revelation, dear reader, is the succulent suspense it brings. Here we stand, at the precipice of possibilities, the brink of adventures untold. What Paris holds, what Provence promises, remains shrouded in the mists of Tomorrow. Could it be that the universe, in its infinite jest, has tucked away an upturn in our fortunes, a serendipitous twist waiting to erupt from the ashes of our airline-induced despair?
So, I invite you, no, I implore you, to join me on this journey of hopeful redemption. Stay tuned, for the road winds ever on, and in its curves, we might just uncover vistas of joy to dwarf the valleys of tribulations we've trudged through. Let us stride forth, hand in weary hand, towards that shimmering possibility that the path from Paris to Provence, sprinkled with the gold dust of French allure, can soothe the sting of any customer service scuffle, can heal the wounds inflicted by the talons of travel's trials.
Because, in that hopeful, perhaps naive heart of the traveler, lies the eternal optimism that the journey — unpredictable, tempestuous, and beguiling — will, in its final turn, make everything splendidly, breathtakingly better. After all, isn't that what keeps us exploring, even when the world seems bent on sending us in circles? Ah, to travel is to live, live through the chaos, and emerge, perhaps slightly ruffled, but undeniably alive in the tale that awaits its telling.
I hope you have enjoyed this post, different as it may be. Please leave a comment, as feedback is the best opportunity to learn from mistakes and make positive change. Said Air Canada customer service never!
Live Well!
Mark
Wandering Nice with my Leica Q2: Stories in Every Frame
Leica Cameras for travel.
When people think of France, Paris often steals the spotlight. But for those in the know, Nice, nestled on the stunning French Riviera, is a gem waiting to be discovered. And what better companion to have on this adventure than my trusty little travel camera (Leica Q2)?
Before diving into the wonders of Nice, I must mention my trusty travel companion. The Leica Q2. This camera is akin to a magic wand, encompassing immense power in a sleek design. Its intuitive nature made capturing moments on the go feel seamless. The Q2 was a silent observer, capturing the essence of Nice without intruding upon its natural rhythm. I have several other camera choices, but when I want to move about without drawing attention to myself with a camera that has the capability to capture images from 28mm to 75mm in a small package, the Q2 is the obvious choice.
Nice: A Palette of Pastel Dreams. The city itself seemed to be painted with a dreamy brush, often awash in pastel colours. Pastel-pink façades juxtaposed against soft lavender skies and streets lined with sun-bleached yellow buildings felt like walking through an artist's masterpiece. The sun setting over Nice transformed the city, with coral oranges and muted purples reflecting off windows and the serene waters. Every nook and cranny whispered stories, and the Leica Q2 ensured each tale was told in its full pastel glory.
A Dive into Gatorade Blue. Beyond the shores, the Mediterranean beckoned with its alluring shade of blue – reminiscent of a fresh bottle of Gatorade. This vibrant blue seemed unreal, almost like the sea had absorbed the very essence of the sky. Diving in, I felt enveloped by this refreshing hue, and above, the sun created a dappled dance of light on the water's surface. It wasn't just about swimming; it was about immersing oneself in a liquid canvas, and the Leica was there to chronicle every splash, every ripple.
Faces of Nice: Meeting a Legionnaire. Nice is teeming with life and characters. People who have seen seasons change, who have tales hidden behind every smile, every wrinkle. And sometimes, as a photographer, you chance upon someone who makes you stop and wonder. I came across a gentleman one morning on the Promenade des Anglais, a striking figure in a sea of tourists. Dressed impeccably, his demeanour hinted at a past full of discipline and pride. The sharpness of his attire contrasted with the weathered lines on his face, and I couldn’t resist capturing him in a frame. Later, curiosity got the better of me, and I returned the following morning, hoping he would be there. I felt compelled to introduce myself and hopefully learn a little about the man who stood out from the crowd. As we spoke, I learned a little bit about his military service. Though he was guarded about the specifics, his posture and pride hinted at a possible association with the French Foreign Legion. The Legion! A group shrouded in mystery and romanticism. I couldn't help but consider his evident battle scars with the tales of valour and romance that have surrounded the Legion for years. Perhaps I have come closest to meeting a real-life Beau Geste.
Nice through the Lens of my Leica Q2. In Nice, the interplay of light, people, and architecture creates a canvas that changes with the moments, and my Q2 was there to ensure I didn’t miss a single image. Its ability to render colours, from the azure blues seas to the pastel shades of Nice’s streets, was consistently astounding. And if you're like me, wanting to immortalize those moments, there's no better tool for the job than a camera like the Leica Q2. For in the end, travel is as much about the stories we bring back as it is about the places we visit.
Nice is the definition of a beautiful and opulent colour palette. My hope is that these qualities will someday attract you to visit the French Riviera. I am personally most happy when I wander from place to place with my favourite travel camera. Nice is one of those very few destinations that ensures that my Leica Q2 will never be called upon to capture a monochrome image.
Thanks for dropping by Walkacrossitall! I am always grateful for you sharing your precious time.
Live Well!
Mark
OTHER PEOPLE’S SHIT!
Leica Cameras for travel.
Ah, France! The land of love, fine wine, and pastries to kill a diet at twenty paces. But more than that, France is also the land of Brocantes - glorious gatherings of what I like to call "other people's SHIT." My wife calls it treasure hunting. I call it a relentless pursuit of tetanus.
The Brocante adventure begins bright and early with "Le Bargain Hunter" emerging from their habitat, armed with a coffee-stained checklist and an overpowering aroma of desperation and Gauloises cigarettes. These fine folks, whose fashion sense could best be described as "Walmart chic," have truly mastered the art of chain smoking in confined spaces and giving zero F#cks.
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for a bargain, but my wife's love for Brocantes is something else entirely. It's a passionate, feverish love, like a French romance novel but with more dust and rust. I've seen her bargain with carpet sellers and pottery market traders with the intensity of a French general storming the beaches (ah, the subtleties of French military history, n'est-ce pas?), and all for what? A slightly chipped vase that probably once contained the ashes of someone's Uncle Henri.
Oh, the people! Let's talk about them. They're the true spectacle. One must admire the dedication of those who arrive even before the rusty gates swing open, like seagulls on the scent of yesterday's rock-hard baguettes. They peer through cracks, sizing up the loot, their faces twisted into masks of greed and anticipation. Bargain hunting or horror movie audition? You decide.
The Brocante sellers are a breed apart. They know the regulars; they've seen it all. Their smiles are as genuine as the "antique" Rolex watches they sell. If you're a newbie, be warned, these people can smell your innocence, and they'll charge you double for the privilege of taking home a slightly off-kilter chair that's been through the French Revolution (and not in a museum).
And then there's the stuff. Ah, the stuff. Tables groaning under the weight of mismatched tea sets, creepy porcelain dolls that seem to follow you with their eyes, and paintings of cats playing poker. My wife calls it character. I call it a reason to get therapy.
You see, I love my wife, and I have the mismatched furniture to prove it. Our second-floor living room is now a shrine to the Brocante gods, each piece with its unique quirk and questionable history. Our house is like a museum; only instead of "please don't touch" signs, there are price tags I'd rather forget.
And as for situational awareness? Forget it! It's a battlefield out there. People jostling, pushing, pulling, with no regard for personal space or social niceties. The French are known for their sophistication, but at the Brocante, it's every madame and monsieur for themselves. The only rule is that there are no rules, except perhaps the unspoken one: if you sneeze, you've bought it.
In the end, you'll leave the Brocante with a car full of someone else's memories, a wallet significantly lighter, and the satisfied smile of someone who knows they've bested you. Your wife will be on cloud nine, planning the next adventure into the world of tarnished treasures, and you'll be wondering if it's too early for a glass of Rosé.
So, dear reader, if you ever find yourself in France, by all means, visit the Eiffel Tower, take a cruise down the Seine, but don't miss the true French experience, the Brocante. Embrace the chaos, the dust, and the dubious bargains. If you're lucky, you might even find a treasure or two. Or, like me, you'll simply learn to smile, nod, and appreciate the eccentric beauty in the things – and people – that no one else wants.
This is simply life in France when you are trying to furnish a very old home. C’est la vie. I trust you have enjoyed this midweek check-in.
All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q2.
I hope you have a moment to comment below!
Live well.
M.
ADJUSTMENT THROUGH ART.
Leica Cameras For Travel
As promised, today is Wednesday, and I am keeping my word to cobble together some thoughts and observations twice a week while I travel again this summer. Slipping into the rhythm of Provence is akin to mastering the art of watercolour painting - it's elusive, delicate, and if you're too hasty, you might just blur the lines. My initial days here in the valley were a whirlwind of trying to capture every hue and every shade, a futile attempt to encapsulate the essence of Provence into a single summer's canvas. But Provence, with its timeless wisdom and laid-back allure, gently guided our brush strokes. The thing is that I know better. I have to keep the notion that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I actually live here for a good portion of the year now. I need to adjust to “mellow” faster. A work in progress. I blame my haste over the last week on wanting to host my brother to the best of my ability. It is his first time in this region, and I felt as though we needed to “walkacrossitall” as soon as we arrived in Marseille from Barcelona.
Provence doesn't merely suggest tranquillity and enjoyment; it insists on it, like a seasoned artist insisting on the perfect blend of colours. It has taken me a full week to finally understand the language of the cicadas, the whisper of the Mistral, and the rhythm of the sun-dappled vineyards. We have just recently learned to breathe deeply, to let the scent of lavender fill our lungs and the taste of rosé linger on our tongues. We have learned to let go, to let Provence seep into our canvas and our souls until we are no longer otherwise consumed but a part of the vibrant tapestry itself.
The Luberon Valley, with its warm hues and vibrant landscapes, is a masterpiece unto itself. It doesn't need comparisons or benchmarks; it simply is. Our local boulangerie, with its golden baguettes and flaky croissants, was a revelation in itself. Thank you for opening your doors every morning at 6:30. Thank you for your perfect espresso and pain au chocolat. Both of these indulgences are my mood altering drugs.
As you may have read in earlier posts, I am a sucker for art. And even more so when I can get out of the heat to enjoy it. The transition from the languid lifestyle of Provence to the vibrant world of Dutch art was as seamless as a Van Gogh brushstroke. The underground gallery in Carrières de Lumières, nestled in the heart of Les Baux-de-Provence, was our gateway into this mesmerizing world once again. I think I have been to this venue at least half a dozen times now. The cool, dimly lit caverns were a stark contrast to the sun-drenched landscapes outside, but they held treasures of their own. I apologise now for writing about this wonderous place on more than one ocasion.
The Dutch masters, from the portrait artists of the Golden Age to the impressionists like Van Gogh, came alive on the rough-hewn walls of the quarry. Their works, projected in larger-than-life dimensions, enveloped us in a world of vibrant colours and evocative imagery. We found ourselves lost in the intricate details of Rembrandt's portraits, the play of light and shadow in Vermeer's interiors, and the swirling skies of Van Gogh's landscapes.
The gallery was a time machine, transporting us back through 400 years of art history. We walked through the streets of 17th-century Amsterdam, stood in the middle of a sunflower field under the Provencal sun, and gazed at the starry night over the Rhone - all within the span of a couple of hours. It was a sensory overload but in the best possible way.
As we emerged from the gallery, blinking in the bright sunlight, we carried with us a newfound appreciation for the Dutch masters and their contribution to the world of art. And as we sipped our Heineken (Dutch beer with Dutch art, why not?) at the gallery café, we couldn't help but marvel at the magic of Provence - a place that seamlessly blends the tranquillity of nature with the vibrancy of culture.
The scent of lavender and Provencal herbs permeated the air, a fragrant reminder of the region's rich agricultural heritage. The fields of lavender, stretching as far as the eye can see, are a sight to behold. The remnants of the recently harvested vibrant purple blooms swayed gently in the breeze, creating a mesmerizing tableau that was as soothing to the eyes as the scent was to the senses.
The local market in Saint Remy was alive with vendors of Provencal herbs - thyme, rosemary, basil, and of course, lavender. Each stall was a delight, the air around it heavy with the scent of fresh herbs. We spent hours exploring, picking up bundles of herbs, fresh produce, and the occasional bottle of local rosé. I think these next two locals should be giving a masterclass on how to enjoy every second on this planet!
Just bring your camera, and perhaps, a sketchbook.
Please leave a comment if you have a moment.
All images were captured with a Leica SL2-S and a 24-90mm lens.
Live Well!
M.
Images from the exhibit follow.
CLIMBING BACK ON THE CHEVAL.
Leica Cameras For Travel
Embracing the charm of Provence was as easy as slipping back into my old linen shirt; this region practically serenades us with its azure skies, warm sunshine, and a chorus of cicadas that sounds suspiciously like Edith Piaf singing "La Vie en Rose" as she wanders through the vines.
These loonie-sized (Canadianism) tree insects are the ones who serenade the valleys of Provence, their melody echoing through the olive groves and lavender fields, a soundtrack to our escape from the monotonous humdrum of the daily grind. With a healthy appetite for the joie de vivre that the South of France promised, we settled in on an epicurean adventure in the wonderous Luberon Valley, our refuge from the seemingly dystopian reality of Trudeau’s folly.
Nestled in the ample lap of the Luberon mountains, this (thankfully) overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make us forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the copious amounts of local rosé.
As we journey through the region, every winding turn of the rustic country roads teases our senses with a new spectacle - a tableau vivant of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant vineyards to the rocky cliffs, everything bathed in the golden Provencal sun. We half expected Julia Child to pop out from behind a vine to hitch a ride in our Renault. Once settled in the back seat, she could begin narrating our journey into the culinary wilderness.
On this latest visit, our first spectacle of the Luberon Valley was a quaint local produce market with such an array of colors and scents that even a seasoned gourmand (aka Fat Bastard) like me could explore with childlike wonder. We walked past stalls of ripe tomatoes and fragrant herbs, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of market vendors, providing the perfect soundtrack to our gastronomic documentary.
History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Romans once tread here, proudly leaving their mark on the pristine landscape. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered ruins and ancient vineyards, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.
Our 30th wedding anniversary dinner was at a charming little restaurant known as L’Arome, tucked away in a cobblestone alley of our little village. The chef, a jovial man with a mustache that would make Hercule Poirot green with envy, served us a meal that was nothing short of a symphony on a plate. The local wine flowed like the nearby Sorgue River, and the laughter and conversation echoed around the terrace like a well-rehearsed orchestra.
Now, don’t let Provence’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of Paris, but that’s akin to comparing a fine Bordeaux with a rather introspective Coors Light or “NASCAR nectar”. And here's a thought, could it be that Provence intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep the hordes of tourists at bay? Maybe, maybe not. But one thing's for sure, the triumphant crème brûlée at the local dingy dive bar is even top-class. You would be a fool not to travel with the Michelin Guide, but as always, trust in your own senses and follow your nose!
As I bid you farewell once again from this pocket of tranquillity, our hearts and minds continue to fill with warm and vivid memories. A trip to Provence might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapters in our lives. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Provence being Provence. It's a place that offers a symphony of nature, a pinch of history, a dash of culture, and a good chunk of serenity. Just bring your camera. My intention going forward is to post on Sundays and Wednesdays. I hope you enjoy and continue to be ever so slightly entertained.
Please leave a comment if you have a moment.
Live Well!
Mark
p.s. All images were captured with the Leica SL2-S / 24-90mm lens and the Leica Q2.
Todd Inlet, Vancouver Island.
Leica Cameras For Travel
Ditching the hustle and bustle of Victoria was easy; the city practically begged us to leave with a vibrant display of blue skies, sunshine, and the cast of zombies from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller Video” waving to us in our rear view mirrors.
These are they who wander Victoria’s streets in an attempt to adversely effect & disrupt both young and old. With a healthy disdain for the current situation downtown, we embarked on an odyssey to the illustrious Todd Inlet to escape our seemingly dystopian post-apocalyptic city.
Hiding under the ample bosom of the Gowlland Tod Provincial Park, this overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make you forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the patchy cell reception.
As we journeyed north, every winding turn of the bucolic treed roads teased our senses with a new spectacle - an extravaganza of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant forests to the rocky cliffs, everything was drenched in morning sun. We half expected David Attenborough to pop out from behind a tree and begin narrating our journey into the wilderness.
The first spectacle of Todd Inlet was a gentle trail with such well-thought accessibility that even a wheezing porker like me could explore with ease. We walked past meadows and wetlands, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of unseen birds and insects, providing the perfect soundtrack to our nature-infused documentary.
History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Vancouver Portland Cement Company once stood here, proudly spewing smoke and industry into the pristine air. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered buildings and rusty machinery, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.
Soon after arrival, early morning, said goodbye to golden hour, and as sure as the earth is flat (kidding!), the rising sun graced Todd Inlet with a postcard-worthy spectacle. The Inlet was awash in a melange of hues that could make any half-decent landscape photographer weep with joy or weep for forgetting their tripod and long telephoto lens at home (for the 5th time in a row). Meanwhile, Butchart Gardens, nearby, erupted in a cacophony of diesel tour bus engines. These climate crisis deniers, packed with witless drones from the cruise ships, echoed around the inlet like an over-enthusiastic drum solo.
Now, don’t let Todd Inlet’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of the big city, but that’s akin to comparing apples with a relatively quiet, introspective pear. And here's a thought, could it be that Todd Inlet intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep M.J.’s MTV video dance troop away? Maybe, maybe not. Breakfast at the nearby Cafe Zanzibar was excellent, and thank you, Trip Advisor, for the gold medal tip.
As we bade farewell to this pocket of tranquillity and began the trek back to Victoria, our hearts filled with memories and our SD cards filled with photos (well, those of us who remembered their tripods and long lenses, anyway). A trip to Todd Inlet might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapter. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Todd being Todd. It's a place that offers a symphony of nature, a pinch of history, a dash of culture, and a good chunk of serenity. Just bring your camera.
Please leave a comment if you have moment.
All images captured with a Leica SL2-S and a 24-90mm lens.
Live Well!
M.
Strolling through Pamplona with Hemingway's Ghost"
Hola, Amigos and photo enthusiasts. This week, we're taking a leisurely saunter through Pamplona, Spain - a city so steeped in history, charm, and adrenaline that even Ernest Hemingway couldn't resist its call. If you have followed along on these journeys for some time you will recall my fascination for E.H. So much so that I made Harry’s Bar in Venice more important to visit than Venice itself. So, now grab your red bandana, channel your inner matador, and let's follow in Papa's footsteps as we explore this captivating city.
Pamplona is famous for its annual Running of the Bulls, the San Fermín Festival. But, let's put a twist on it: what if we walked the route instead? With spring's delicate touch in the air, We found ourselves meandering along the narrow, cobblestone streets, retracing the path typically thundered upon by hooves and pounding hearts. As the crisp morning air brushed our cheeks, We couldn't help but wonder if Hemingway, too, had once walked this path, his pen itching to immortalize the wild energy of this ancient tradition.
As we strolled along, we could almost hear the echoes of Hemingway's typewriter clacking away, his tales of Pamplona inspiring readers for generations. "The Sun Also Rises," the novel that etched the city into literary history, painted a vivid picture of bullfights and drama, with the Plaza del Castillo as its pulsing heart. A visit to this bustling square and its quaint cafes is a must for any Hemingway fan, providing a glimpse into the world that enchanted the author so.
While Pamplona may be synonymous with bull runs and Hemingway's prose, this city is so much more. The enchanting Old Quarter, with its medieval walls and stunning Gothic cathedral, is a testament to the passage of time. We leisurely wandered through these streets, letting our imaginations conjure images of days gone by - knights on horseback, merchants hawking their wares, and of course, Hemingway nursing a drink, contemplating his next adventure.
So, as we wrap up our casual jaunt through the streets of Pamplona, we raise a glass to this remarkable city - where the spirit of Hemingway and the thrill of the bulls collide, leaving a lasting impression on all who visit. And as we toast, remember this: sometimes, the most profound experiences are born not from the rush of adrenaline, but from the quiet moments when we truly connect with the essence of a place.
Salud and Live well!
M.
All photos captured with the Leica Sl2-S and the Leica Q2.
PINTXOS, NOT TAPAS...
I am delighted to share that we are here and enjoying the Basque Country of Northwest Spain. After leaving Andorra's small but beautiful Principality a few days ago, we made our way closer to the Atlantic coast. We decided to settle just a few kilometres from San Sebastien.
Today we spend a little time on traditional food. And, what goes better with local, traditional food than conventional, local beer and wine. So, this post is all about describing & discussing the beloved local tradition of Pintxos - a Basque version of tapas that are as delicious as they are unique.
The origins of Pintxos can be traced back to the Basque Country, where they have been a staple of the local cuisine for generations. "pintxo" means "spike" in Basque and refers to the toothpick that holds the ingredients together. These small bites are often served on a slice of bread and come in various flavours and combinations, such as grilled octopus & prawns, cured meats, olives, anchovies or cheese.
What makes Pintxos so unique is the way they are served. You can find them displayed on the counters of local bars, and diners are encouraged to help themselves to their favourites. The toothpicks are used to track how many Pintxos you've eaten, and you pay at the end of the meal based on how many toothpicks you've accumulated. It's a fun and interactive way to enjoy a meal with friends, and the local Basque ingredients make it even more special.
While tapas can be found throughout Spain, Pintxos is a unique and essential part of the Basque culinary experience. The flavours and ingredients reflect the regional culture, and the tradition of sharing food and conversation with friends is deeply ingrained in the local way of life. So if you find yourself exploring the Basque Country, be sure to indulge in the local tradition of Pintxos. Your taste buds will thank you, and you'll gain a new appreciation for the joy of small bites and big flavours. Cheers to good food and great adventures! I would be remiss if I didn't go on now to describe the local libations, as they are just as important to the culinary experience.
The Basque Country is famous for its Txakoli wine, a slightly sparkling white wine produced exclusively in the region. It's crisp and refreshing, with a light acidity that pairs perfectly with Pintxos. In recent years, the local winemakers have also started producing red wines and rosés, but Txakoli remains the most popular and iconic Basque wine.
If you're not a wine fan, fear not - the Basque Country also has a thriving craft beer scene. The local brews are often made with regional ingredients, such as hops from the nearby Pyrenees mountains. The most popular beer in the region is called Keler, a refreshing lager that pairs well with the bold flavours of Pintxos. But if you're feeling adventurous, try a local specialty like Basqueland Brewing or Laugar Brewery.
What makes Basque wine and beer so special is how they reflect the local culture and traditions. The Txakoli grapes are grown on terraced vineyards that have been used for hundreds of years, and the local breweries use traditional methods to create unique and flavorful beers. Drinking and dining in the Basque Country are not just about the taste - it's a way to connect with the local community and experience the region's rich history and culture. So raise a glass of Txakoli or Keler and toast to the joy of sharing good food and great company.
Thanks for stopping by, and I hope to read your comments if you have enjoyed the food on show.
Live well & Salud!
M
p.s. The following curated images were captured with both the Leica SL2-S and Q2.
MY 10TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.
Discovering the Timeless Charm of Saignon: this Quaint Provençal Village is definitely a must if you ever decide to visit the Luberon Valley. Nestled in the heart of the region, Saignon is a picturesque village that seems untouched by the hands of time. Steeped in history, this charming place has been gracing the Provençal landscape since the Roman era. It has seen the rise and fall of empires, the comings and goings of royalty, and the evolution of France itself. Fast forward to the present day, Saignon continues to be a delightful destination, offering an authentic Provençal experience for those seeking a serene and idyllic getaway.
Getting to Saignon is a breeze, as this enchanting village is just a short drive away from the larger town of Apt. From Apt, hop on the D943 and follow the signs to Saignon. As you wind through the scenic countryside, you'll be captivated by the sight of centuries-old stone houses, lush vineyards, and verdant fields of lavender. Upon arriving in Saignon, prepare to be enchanted by the village's narrow cobblestone streets, charming squares, and friendly locals.
Saignon's close-knit community consists mainly of around 1,000 residents, who are known for their warm hospitality and dedication to preserving the village's rich heritage. Many locals are engaged in traditional occupations such as agriculture, with a focus on wine and olive production, as well as artisan crafts and small family-run businesses. The village's homes are emblematic of Provençal architecture, featuring time-honored stone buildings with colorful shutters and terracotta-tiled roofs, creating an enchanting atmosphere that perfectly complements the village's historic charm.
Once you've settled in, take the time to explore the village's rich culinary scene. For a mouthwatering Provençal meal, head into any of the local cafes or restaurants you walk by. In any one of them you'll enjoy delicious dishes crafted from fresh, local ingredients with friendly warm and attentive service. After a satisfying meal, set out to discover Saignon's historical gems. Be sure to visit the 12th-century Church of Notre-Dame-de-Pitié and the picturesque Rocher de Bellevue, where you can take in panoramic views of the Luberon valley. Wander the quaint streets and don't miss the beautifully preserved stone fountains that add to the village's magical ambiance. From ancient Roman ruins to the heartwarming charm of its residents, Saignon truly has something for everyone. I do look forward to reading about your thoughts in the comments section below.
Live Well!
M.
p.s. All of these images were captured with the Leica SL2-S and both the 21mm and 90mm F2 APO lenses.
BUT MOM, WHAT IF I WANNA BE A DIGITAL NOMAD?
As an admirer of all things art, the Chateau La Coste, situated just a little to the north of Aix-en-Provence, is truly a feast for the senses. The estate is a fusion of contemporary architecture and art, all surrounded by the stunning vineyards of Provence. Every corner you turn is a new discovery, with sculptures from artists such as Louise Bourgeois and Alexander Calder dotting the landscape. The buildings themselves are also works of art, designed by some of the most renowned architects in the world, such as Jean Nouvel and Tadao Ando. The grounds are a living canvas, and exploring them feels like a journey into a dream world.
But the Chateau La Coste is not just about art. The estate is also home to a world-class winery and several outstanding restaurants. The wine produced here is a reflection of the land and the people who make it, with each bottle a testament to the unique terroir of Provence. The vineyards are tended with care and attention, and the resulting wines are a celebration of the region's rich history and culture. Whether you are a connoisseur or simply someone who enjoys a good glass of wine, the Chateau La Coste has something for everyone.
The restaurant we chose today is named after the above mentioned architect Tadao Ando. It is a stunningly modern location born out of sculpture. We were greeted by a slender staff member who was clad in black from turtleneck to Hermès loafer. He asked for our reservation details and then requested we follow him. You would think by now that I would remember to take a seat in the chair that most obscures my gaze from the surrounding diners. My recurring problem is that I still cannot switch off in public and as such incessantly watch and listen to everyone and everything around me. It is a curse of a past career and something I need to rectify ASAP if I am to enjoy my time left on this planet.
Just my luck, today we had table neighbours who were not going to help my situation at all. A party of three. Two overly coddled “Gen Z global citizens", and their seemingly estranged and uninterested Italian mother. For what seemed like well over the first half an hour, we were witness to unrelenting whining and snivelling about how hard it is to maintain bank accounts in the US, UK, and Italy all at one time. Additionally, they needed help retaining a shady immigration lawyer to help them get a recent application accepted for the relatively new phenomenon of certain countries in the world who offer a GOLDEN visa.
The estranged mother, with the weathered face of a thousand sandstorms and a million Benson & Hedges, kept quiet and smoked more cigarettes to dull the pain. I should actually explain that mom did a valiant job at enduring the selfishness and conversation hijacking. There did come the point, though, where everything changed. At that moment, the 20-something girl announced that her mother would have to pay for this lovely lunch and dig a little deeper. There was a pregnant pause. I could sense it coming. And then, just like the British soldiers in the movie A Bridge too Far,. She, too, went a bridge too far. “Mom, I need more money. What if I wanna be a digital nomad?” Things changed at that point. Mom got up and walked out of our sight. The coddled remained to guess which one of their international bank accounts had enough money to pay the hefty bill. Mom never returned. The spoiled little fekkers could still be there as I write this, working in the vines or washing kitchen pots. Either would suffice. 1 - 0 storm-face!
Once again, I thank you for dropping by. And an absolutely huge thank you to our new friend Anna for suggesting we visit the Chateau. Magical moments indeed. We are in Anna’s debt! Today's images were captured with the Leica Q2.
Live Well!
M.
GET A LOOK AT THESE KNOCKERS.
#24
I want to apologise immediately if you clicked on this post assuming you were going to see something completely different. You probably assumed that this post would be directed more towards those starved for news of this season’s Mediterranean swimwear fashion trends. Perhaps some images captured beachside while wandering along the Promenade des Anglais. Nope, not this time. No-one more than I loves a couple of dozen pictures of well cared for and proudly displayed knockers. To some, these bits of old brass are nothing more than inanimate objects. I see the patina of several bygone eras, and try to imagine the conversations that took place at each of these doors over so many years. Why not try embracing my passion for some of the prettiest knockers in Provence!
The history of old French brass door knockers traces its roots back to the medieval period when castles and large manor houses started using these ornamental yet functional devices. Crafted with intricate designs, these door knockers often reflected the architectural styles prevalent during various periods such as Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque. French artisans used their skill and creativity to forge unique designs, often inspired by mythology, heraldry, and nature. These exquisite brass door knockers not only served as a way to announce a visitor's arrival but also became a symbol of wealth, prestige, and artistic prowess.
The use of old French brass door knockers transcended their primary function, evolving into a form of art that embellished the entrance of a home. Given the high-quality craftsmanship and the durable nature of brass, many of these door knockers have withstood the test of time. Today, they are highly sought-after by collectors and enthusiasts of vintage decorative objects. The old French brass door knockers, with their undeniable charm and intricate detailing, continue to captivate the imaginations of both historians and artists alike, ensuring their lasting legacy as a testament to the mastery of the artisans who created them.
For those who are interested, and I know that is very few, the following images were captured with a Leica Q2 Ghost. I trust you will enjoy staring at these knockers, I know I do!
Live Well!
M.
p.s. What knocker is your favourite? Leave the number below with your thoughts in the comments section below.
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THE STREETS OF EUROPE.
Where would I be without a camera and the streets? Most often, my travels are a mix of city and village life. I suspect this tried and tested formula has evolved over many years as the most effective way to enjoy my time on the road. The energy required for pounding city streets is substantial; however, the energy necessary to sip Rose' at a cafe in a provencal village might be less of a commitment (or so I've heard).
I am happy to travel or live in any such setting. London, Paris, Rome, and Barcelona are just a few of my favourite things. It always takes a little while for me to feel like a local in any of them, but sooner than later they become home away from home. As a traveller, you will undoubtedly enjoy your stay in any major European city for a few days, weeks, or even longer. The energy of these cities, their people and day-to-day life is intoxicating. Step out of your door regardless of rain or shine, because a day on the continent will rarely disappoint. The aromas of local eateries, bakeries and cheese mongers waft through the air with purpose. If you want peace and tranquillity, get up with the birds. If electricity and mojo is your thing, then go wandering after dark.
Communal spaces in Europe are great places for aspiring photographers: parks, museums, and markets ooze charm and provide the visitor an insight to the lifestyles of locals. Photographically, I always arrive with some compositions in mind. However, I have learned to keep the camera away from my eye until I have studied my surroundings and observed long enough to feel the local vibe.
People are often the subjects of my photography. I love to capture moments between strangers, friends and families. Moments that may have never happened before or may never happen again. Style and presence isn't everything, but it certainly catches my attention. If I am quick enough, the person with both is my camera's order of the day.
Sometimes a cafe can be the best starting place for a photo walk. Also, a glass or two of wine can lower the inhibitions that can hold me back from getting in tight with a subject or composition. However, to be clear, two glasses of wine does not turn me into a paparazzi capable of skulking through people's garbage or hiding in the bushes for the right time to snap the money shot. That's weird, and I suspect "but can't say for sure" the telltale signs of an apprentice sociopath.
Back to Europe and my fondness for its photographic locations and people. This blog is dedicated to my travels and my cameras. Two things that make me content and centered. So many places and things don't, but this has become and will always remain what puts the jam in my donut.
Live well!
Mark.
Please leave a comment if you have time. I love to hear from you!
ESCAPING THE HEAT OF PROVENCE IN THE DOLOMITES.
I should never complain about Provençal summer weather, given that springtime on Vancouver Island was akin to a time when Noah was shipbuilding, and the animals were lining up in twos to get a deck chair on his Ark
Yet, after enduring weeks of temperatures in the high 30s to mid 40s, I was gasping for just a little bit of cooling respite. The first place that popped to mind to find that relief was the Dolomites. Sure, you can get the same relief in the French Alps or Switzerland, but northern Italy and its Dolomites seemed to me like just what the doctor would order.
We loaded up the third consecutive rental car of the summer and set a course for a little town north of Vicenza called Bassano del Grappa. BDG is a beautiful place in the foothills of the Dolomites. The town’s wooden covered bridge which spans the Brenta river is a lovely and petite version of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence and the focal point of BDG.
We wandered about in the evening, both before and after dinner and again in the early morning before the locals began their day. This place is a gem. I would say that the majority of folks out walking were from the area, and everyone was happy to see and talk to Hamish.
Hamish is a well-adjusted K9 traveller at this stage, and as the trip went on, his experiences went from fantastic to surreal (wait for Venice). When we left BDL, we plotted a course to Bolzano with a mind to driving the Great Dolomite Road to Cortina. Cortina was a host of the winter Olympics in the late 50s and is proudly retaking the honour once again in 2026.
One of Europe's most scenic driving routes is the Grande Strada Delle Dolomiti, also known as the Great Dolomite Road. It is a breathtaking scenic drive that crosses three alpine passes (Falzarego, Pordoi and Karerpass, at the renowned Rosengarten), connecting the Bozen and Bolzano regions.
I won't embarrass myself trying to wordsmith a description of the mountain passes we drove over and through. Suffice to say there were 60 switchback hairpin turns, most often at a snail's pace. Alternatively, I hope that some of my images will take the place of a thousand (boring) words!
The Great Dolomite Road allowed us to set out a different plan. The question of the day was where to go next and how do we get there. I must admit, and I am sure if you have kept up with me over the months and years you know, Venice is always high on my list. Cortina is so close to the Veneto region that the question quickly transitioned from where next to why not.
Had Hamish ever been aboard a Vapatetto? Had Hamish ever travelled from Marco Polo airport to the Island of Murano on a private water taxi? Had Hamish ever eaten spaghetti pomodoro from a bowl tableside at an Osteria?
The answer to all of those questions was not yet and we will soon see. We were on our way to Parking Garage #1 at Marco Polo with that decision made. Our room was booked on the Island of Murano (as usual). In what seemed like the blink of an eye we were aboard Gino's water taxi. This leg of the journey happened solely because all dogs of any breed or size must be muzzled on a Vaporetto and oddly enough we don't own a muzzle. Hamish was happy, Deanna was delighted, I was poorer, and Gino was ecstatic because he was fleecing us 80 Euros for a 15-minute trip across the lagoon.
You can't dwell on the odd down when there are so many more ups. Soon after arriving, we checked into the hotel and then took a short nap before heading out for an evening walk to find a wonderful meal. As we enjoyed each bite, we discussed the plan of attack for the next morning. I volunteered to find a muzzle for Hamish. I thought if I got over to Venice early, I could wander before the crowds arrived. I packed my camera bag and did a little research on how to find a few places that had escaped me on several prior visits.
I'm sure I have mentioned more than once in the past that I am pretty taken with the works of Ernest Hemingway. So much so I have come to fixate on his many visits to Harry's Bar on the dockside of San Marco Square. I have tried several times in the past, but I could never satisfy the dress code. With those disappointments still fresh in my mind I resolved to be more prepared than Lord Baden Powell for my next attempt.
Six in the morning came quickly, and just a few minutes after waking, I was leaving the hotel. The dock is just a few steps away and I was soon aboard the Vaporetto and nearing "the big island." As we tied up alongside the hospital dock, I bolted for the back streets. The Rialto bridge was my first real stop, and after a few minutes on the top of the span, I moved on to the fish market. What an environment. What an electric feeling. I observed, photographed, and then moved back to the streets off the square. I could have stopped for a coffee, but I wanted to save all consumption of food and drink for Harry's.
An hour later, I was in and sitting at the bar discussing the genesis of the Bellini with the bartender over a fantastic Americano. I finally made it. I can get run over by a speeding gondola tomorrow and die a thoroughly happy man.
Well, that's it for now. I hope you enjoy the photographs and maybe think about including a few of these places on your next trip.
Please feel free to leave a comment if you have a moment.
Live Well!
Mark
The photographs taken on this trip were captured with the Leica M10-R and Q2.
TO ABSENT FRIENDS!
Today started out like most in the Luberon. Up too early, a double espresso, and then the big decision. Do we wander down to the Boules Court? Do we really want to hang our TRX trainer and resistance bands on the iron vine trellis for an old folks workout? Or do we scrap that nonsense, jump on the bikes, and peddle to Lacoste? When we arrive there, we can have a light breakfast or “petit déjeuner” consisting of baguette, salted butter, lavender honey and local preserves. That simple start to the day always arrives alongside a Spanish orange juice from our Valencian brothers, a second espresso, and a wonderful smile.
The location for this regular excursion is Cafe France. Their terrace clings to the granite cliffside 40 meters above the street below and provides a vista of the valley that’s second to none. Our server has become quite familiar with this ritual and always makes us feel very welcome when we arrive sweaty and a little short of breath. Sometimes minutes can turn into hours sitting there gazing towards the rising sun.
I have been separated from photography for most of this trip. Usually, it's my happy place and serves as the best tool to take me out of myself. Moments of clarity & peace manifest themselves when I focus, compose and consider nothing but what stands before me.
The camera’s viewfinder provides a very affective therapy that can't be replicated, and today was a great reminder to include it in my day more often.
Lacoste is a place for a total immersion in the arts. Art students, artists in residence and locals with flair and creativity. As you wander the cobbles, you can glance in studio windows, stroll through sculpture, and lose yourself in a world that I've always fancied but never had the opportunity to embrace. Life gets in the way, and it never strikes you when you are young that you can earn a living being creative.
I envy the Savanah College of Art and Design students who learn, develop and create here during their "year abroad." It appears from the outside to be a fantastic way to be educated. The importance of recognizing a well rounded education is more than just growing as an academic and an artist. The value of being a traveler completes the trifecta and could be the cornerstone of a life well lived.
It was eerily quiet here this morning. What curiously permeated today's visit was the feeling of oneness. The feeling that today, those inside these castle walls are living a solitary existence. Today was an alone day. I stopped to consider this under the shade of a large and well situated olive tree for a while. Olive trees are a godsend when temperatures push past 36 degrees in the morning.
Sometimes no matter where you are. No matter how beautiful your surroundings. No matter how satisfied you are with your lot in life, it can be still hard to live it alone. So whether it's an old man occupying one chair of three, a cat with a sill all to himself, or a sculpture standing or even flying in solitude, sometimes it can be better to have the company of a friend.
I consider myself very lucky, as I live this privileged life with my best friend of 31 years. For that I am truly grateful. Yet, I raise a glass to those who are alone as well as those they miss. I hope that just like my last photo of this series, a friend is never too far away when you really need a hug.
To absent friends!
Live well!
Mark
If you have some time please leave a comment . I love to hear from you.
P.S. There are over seven billion people on this planet. I only like 13 of them. Maybe that’s ok too? :)
All of these images were captured with a Leica M10-R
YES, I'VE BECOME A BIKE WANKER.
Photo Credit to Liam.
It has been a long time since I have had the inclination to get my thoughts down on "paper." Unfortunately, in the spring, I had a setback healthwise; as such, all my efforts have gone to resolving these niggles. Drop weight and exercise more were the orders of the day. The first significant change had to be made to my schedule at work. Last year I was graciously offered a job that took me back to shift work after being away from it for many years. It seems the shift pattern contributes to my health issues in a negative way. I didn't envision returning to work in retirement, but it has been really fun and an awesome opportunity. The best part is I have rekindled some old friendships and forged some wonderful new ones as well.
As a result of the health concerns, I took a sabbatical, and I am working diligently on getting to a place where everyone concerned will see long-term and hopefully permanent positive changes when I return in the fall. Before these issues arose, we had planned on spending our summer holidays back in the Luberon at our village home. My poor health meant that we left Canada a little earlier than expected and have been here for three weeks now. The heat has been a massive shock to the system. Great for vignerons and those harvesting the lavender, but for us mere mortals, it's akin to wearing a sauna suit under a fur coat from about 5 a.m. onwards. You sweat just planning to take your first step in the morning.
In week one of this trip I was joined by a great friend from home who was keen to see the villages he had not yet visited and to enjoy a more relaxed Provencal getaway. His stay was short but really fun nonetheless. We saw some great local places just before the tourists arrived and coupled those visits with wonderful meals to end each day. I was truly sad to see him go.
Deanna & I decided earlier in the year to bring our bikes to France and leave them here. We seem to cycle more here than at home, and with my health and lifestyle goals, it seemed the right thing to do. However, it was not the easiest thing to accomplish. With electric bikes, there are numerous hurdles to jump over to satisfy airlines and shipping companies the batteries are safe to fly. Once you have cleared them all, you have to satisfy customs in France that you are not importing them for sale and therefore profit. If you fail to do so, you are on the hook for import duties and maybe so time in a dark & dank Marseille prison cell.
KLM was our freight airline. With help from my friend Mark, we packaged the bikes and delivered them to the airport. As I waved goodbye to them, I wasn't quite sure if I was watching many thousands of dollars worth of peddles and spokes depart for pastures unknown. If your suitcases can end up in Nigeria when your flight is to Halifax, I assumed the chances were excellent that a couple of Uber Eats delivery riders would be using them for work in Katmandu within the week.
Seven long days later, I received an email saying they had arrived in Marseille. The details of when and how to collect them were clear as mud, so what could go wrong? There was no possible chance of fitting them in our rental Renault Clio. So we drove our rental car to a commercial rental van office in Avignon. It didn't take long to get the lowdown on how to drive a six-speed hightop diesel freight van that was clearly overkill. Sometimes you just have to settle for what’s available.
I was to pilot this behemoth from Avignon to Marseilles on the A7, where the speed limit is 130 KMH, and the crosswinds are angry. I felt like Kermit driving the muppet bus from the get go. But along came Deanna (playing Fozzy) and Hamish, our black lab, which I failed to mention earlier is now also a world traveller (playing himself).
Three of us in the front cab could not even reach an escargot’s pace on the motorway. However, ninety minutes later, we arrived at the holding facility at the airport. An hour after that, I had expended all my French skills and calories trying to convince customs I wasn't a guy trying his best to sneak e-bikes into the country to flip them for profit. Once the bikes were loaded, we began the journey back to the village and then back to Avignon to drop the van and collect the Clio. At one point, I was convinced I could open the door and run beside the truck as we climbed up toward Aix-en-Provence from Marseille. But, again, lots of effort and help from Deanna and Mark back in Victoria, and we were back home wrenching these things back into one piece from their packing boxes. As we were finishing up, one of our French neighbours approached to have a look. He asked about the bikes and where they were built. I replied that my bike was an American brand, and Deanna's was made in Germany. He paused for thought and then told Deanna that she could now easily invade Poland. And so it appears "woke" or P.C. has not yet reached the hilltop villages of Provence!
In the two weeks following, we have enjoyed the company of one of our four sons. Liam is the last of our boys to visit France and has seemed to enjoy every minute of his time here. We have seen numerous local villages, the cities of Avignon, Marseille, St. Tropez, and Nimes. Liam has a good knowledge of wines and has thoroughly enjoyed stopping in at local vineyards to taste and buy his favourites.
He has decided to start his local wine collection and keep his bottles in our cave to be enjoyed and further curated during future visits. We are happy to oblige. Liam and I are heading for Paris in the morning. We will spend my birthday getting our steps in walking around the city of light until he returns to Canada. So tomorrow we are taking the high-speed train from Avignon to Garé de Lyon. I have not been to Paris since March, and for me, it is always an overwhelmingly inspirational place.
You are now up to speed. Again, I apologize for the lack of detail in this one; I promise to up my game in future posts. Just remember, as a newly committed cyclist, I am now one of those guys that hate motor vehicle operators:
I look down on those who don't cycle.
I feel morally superior to all of you who don't avail yourself of human propulsion for transport.
I am yet to adorn myself in head-to-toe lycra, but I am still stylishly outfitted for urban and rural bike travel. Don’t think sock-head hipster on a fixie.
And most importantly, I hold this hugely hypocritic stance only when it pleases me and never when I am behind the wheel of my own rental Renault Clio.
In these circumstances, Deanna and Hamish can attest that I often exhibit the nastiest outbursts of tourette’s. I routinely have to scream "BIKE WANKERS" out of the car window as these Lycra clad TDF wannabes ride two abreast just to slow our roll along these beautiful narrow provencâl back roads.
Please keep in touch by leaving a comment, I love to hear from you.
Live well!
Mark
p.s. Most included photos were taken with the Leica Q2.
Photo Credit Liam
