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
IT’S BEEN 7000 YEARS!
Leica Cameras for travel.
The humble olive! A fruit (yes, my friend, it's a fruit, not a vegetable) as mysterious and complicated as your recently divorced friend’s relationship status on Zuckerberg’s evil Facething. The olive's history is so entwined with human civilization it's practically writing its own book of never-ending history.
First off, the olive tree's origin: a tale as convoluted as an overcooked French ratatouille. Some say olives first graced the earth in the Eastern Mediterranean (Greece) around 7,000 years ago. Others argue its ancestors were gallivanting around Asia Minor. What's certain is that the olive tree has seen more history than the kitchen walls of my favorite falafel shop in the Muslim quarter of old Jerusalem.
Let's travel to ancient Greece, shall we? They used olive oil like it was going out of style (or, more accurately, coming into style). A hot bath with olive oil? Check. A dollop of oil in their food? Of course! Anointing themselves to look all shiny and godlike? You bet! Even their athletes were slathered in it, making them glisten like greased lightning.
Oh, but we're not done! Let's not overlook the brilliant Italians who used the olive as an opportunity to create something to serve with bread. The audacity! Who would've thought that pressing the life out of an olive could result in a culinary masterpiece? "Extra Virgin" and nothing else.
We can’t ignore the Spanish, who took one look at olives and thought, "Let's put this in everything!" They've cultivated an art form out of olive growing and turned their countryside into an olive oasis. A landscape dotted with olive trees as far as the eye can see.
Now, if you thought the olive's talents were restricted to food and skincare, brace yourself for its foray into home décor. Yes, that rustic-looking charcuterie board you just bought for an obscene amount of money? “Probably” made from olive wood. Those kitchen utensils that have a certain je ne sais quoi? Olive wood again! That fancy pipe you're using to smoke whatever with? We Canadians have a government that now encourages our “best and brightest” stoners to get in on a piece of their very own olive wood action. Yep, olive wood; it's as if these trees are begging us to use every part of them.
Think of an olive as a compact little universe of flavor. Each one is like a plot twist in your favorite TV show. Will it be bitter? Will it be sweet? Will it be stuffed with something inexplicable, like blue cheese or garlic? The suspense is real!
But alas, dear olive, what's the use of all this fame and fortune if you end up pitted and jammed into a jar, only to be retrieved during cocktail hour? The irony is palpable. A fruit with such a rich history reduced to a mere hors d'oeuvre. It's like finding the Mona Lisa on a postage stamp.
But wait, there’s more (Shamwow reference time) I've neglected the pièce de résistance of our olive odyssey: the Provençal olive market vendors! Oh, these marvelous men, masters of the olive, orchestrators of oil, tantalizers of tapenades. Dressed in their rustic ensembles (or jeans and t-shirts), they lure you into their stalls with smiles as oily as their wares and charm that could melt a pat of French butter on a freezing winter’s day.
In the bustling markets of Provence, you'll find an extravaganza of olive delights. Want an olive mix that combines the best of both worlds (or, in this case, the best of all worlds)? They've got you covered. From the sweet Picholine to the robust Tanche, each blend plays with your senses. The tapenades? Oh, don't get me started! These are not mere spreads; these are symphonies in a bowl. Whether it's a mixture of olives with capers, anchovies, and herbs or a delightful concoction of sundried tomatoes, garlic, and perhaps a whisper of truffle oil, each taste is an escape to the sunny hills of Southern France. It's a love affair between your taste buds and a Mediterranean breeze, prepared for your trip home in a “safety-first” plastic container guaranteed to prevent spillage 83% of the time.
So, the next time you visit your local supermarket, spare a thought for the olives in aisle three. Behind those glass jars lies a world of intrigue, passion, and culinary excellence. Embrace the contradictions, the unexpected surprises, and the unmistakable taste of the olive. After all, isn't that what life's all about?
Raise a glass to olives, dear readers. Or better yet, raise a martini adorned with one. It's the least we can do for a fruit that's been with us through thick and thin, through salads and sandwiches, through victories and defeats.
(Note: All images were captured with the self-confidence of someone who “thinks” he knows something about olives and his Leica Q2.)
Feel free to comment below if you, like me, find yourself inexplicably drawn to the world of olives. Or if you just like martinis. Either way, your thoughts are welcome and very much appreciated!
Live well!
Cheers…
M.
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.
NOT FOR THE LACTOSE INTOLLERANT.
Leica Cameras For Travel
Behold, dear friends, the captivating chronicles of an audacious cheese voyager, not interested in products from the land of the free and home of the Whopper, but from places where cheese is considered indulgent rather than a questionable product from a laboratory. Picture it: a realm where cheese originates from pampered bovine creatures and organically mountain-raised goats, not from dubious aerosol cans.
Provence, a sun-kissed paradise nestled in the south of France, is the ultimate sanctuary for those who appreciate the artistry of milk alchemy. Our adventure commences in the village of Bonnieux, an understated hilltop village, where the intoxicating aroma of cheese dances through the air in competition only with the fields of surrounding lavender. The strong odours draw you into its irresistible, savoury embrace like bits of baguette into a super gooey fondue. Undaunted, when I arrive back after some time in exile on Canada’s left coast, I always choose a local signature cheese, Banon, an oddity that might seem extraterrestrial to the less experienced in this region.
As the shopkeeper passes over this fascinatingly wrapped orb of dairy delight, she does so with an unmistakable Gallic smirk, a non-verbal "You're not a disciple of the church of Cheez Whiz, are you?" My reassuring smile speaks volumes: "Rest assured, madame, I am not a sinner from the parish of Velveeta."
As if the unique Banon experience isn’t enough, next comes the quintessentially Provencal tradition of market day, a sensory extravaganza where one can truly explore the incredible variety of local cheese. Amidst the clatter and chatter of locals, stalls overflow with artisanal cheeses, each lovingly crafted and beckoning you to try.
Navigating the bustling marketplace, you're like a kid in a fromagerie, with every cheese more enticing than the last. There's the robust Pélardon, the subtle Crottin de Chavignol, the full-bodied Cabécou, the tangy Tomme de Chèvre, and the delicate Pouligny-Saint-Pierre – that’s just the goat cheese. Then, there's the marvel of sheep cheese – the sweet and nutty Ossau-Iraty, the earthy Roquefort, and the beautifully complex Brocciu from nearby Corsica. Lastly, for the bovine enthusiasts, there's the soft and creamy Boursin and the ever-sophisticated Brie de Meaux. It’s a veritable United Nations of cheese, all nestled within the vibrant French tapestry of a Provencal market day.
Brimming with new purchases, we retreat to our little home just 30 meters down the street, a haven just far enough from the guided tours and the (why so angry?) Belgians. Here, amidst the tranquillity, I indulge in my first wedge of Banon. Its taste is a symphony of flavours, delightfully creamy with a tart undertone, powerful enough to reduce even the staunchest Kraft cheddar die-hard to tears.
Over the years, I have ventured through an odyssey of cheeses. There's the titan Roquefort, an intimidating heavyweight capable of sending your taste buds into a tailspin. Then there's the ethereal Camembert, softer than a whisper yet carrying a cornucopia of flavours, and don’t forget Comtè. What about the various goat cheeses, so fresh they practically gambol on your tongue?
During this never-ending journey, my thoughts often wander to those innocent souls who’ve yet to look beyond the confines of processed cheese slices or perhaps even the Costco mega block of Cracker Barrel. Those unsuspecting masses, wandering from place to place with stops at the souvenir shops (obligatory t-shirt purchase), blissfully unaware of the culinary delights they're missing. It's a moment of creamy reflection, akin to the realization that some people believe reality TV is, well, reality.
At the termination of every local market day, my whicker shopping bag bursts at the seams, and I realize I am undergoing a further existential gastronomic evolution. I am no longer a mere self-declared cheese buyer with imposter syndrome but a true connoisseur of the curd. Will friends grasp the profound depth of my assuredly slow but considered metamorphosis? Or will they just stop and ask, "Mark, FFS, why are you carrying around so much cheese in that bag? Are you mental?”
So, to you, dear friends, I say: embrace your inner adventurer and set your course for Provence. Try the most formidable, nose-twitching cheese you can find. Perhaps, invite those unaccustomed friends, the ones who have experienced "culture" through a shore excursion or a trailer park in Arizona. Watch as they inevitably succumb to the irresistible allure of French cheese. And when that day dawns, with a well-aged wine and a knowing smile, say, “I told you so.” Because you, mon ami, are the cheese whisperer. You’ve influenced hearts and minds. Shoulders back, stand tall. Go out there, head held high, and smash it! Maybe one day you’ll trade in that desk for a market stall laden with fromage…
A big thank you for dropping by Walkacrossitall. Please leave a comment if you have a spare moment.
All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q2 and SL2-S with the 24-90mm lens.
Live Well!
Mark
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.
The Magic of Casa Julian in Tolosa.
As you wander through the cobbled streets of Tolosa, a charming Basque town nestled in the verdant Oria Valley, you'll find an unassuming gem that has been serving gastronomic delights for over six decades: Casa Julian. Established in 1954 by Julian Arrieta, this family-run steakhouse has become legendary among steak connoisseurs and food enthusiasts alike.
Tolosa lies about 30 minutes south of the foody capital & coastal city of San Sebastián, easily reachable by train or bus. But it's not just the ease of access that draws you to this enchanted town; it's the magnetic allure of the famed Casa Julian. Stepping into the restaurant feels like entering a time capsule, with its rustic stone walls, smoky aroma, and the heartwarming sight of the family tending to the grill. The menu may be simple, but it has been perfected over generations. The pièce de résistance, of course, is the Txuleta, a succulent, bone-in ribeye steak cooked to perfection on an open wood-fired grill. The dining experience is rounded out with traditional sides, such as roasted piquillo peppers, fresh salad, and crusty bread, all paired impeccably with local Basque wines.
As you savour each bite of the heavenly steak, soaking in the convivial atmosphere and animated conversations, you'll be struck by the genuine warmth and passion of the family who keeps Casa Julian's culinary legacy alive. Matías Gorrotxategi, Julian's son, now helms the grill, while his sister, Pilar, tends to guests with a heartening smile. The unpretentious ambiance, punctuated by the sound of sizzling steaks and the clinking of wine glasses, is nothing short of intoxicating.
Once you've basked in the glow of Casa Julian's culinary wonders, it's time to explore Tolosa and let the sumptuous meal settle. The town's picturesque streets and plazas provide the perfect backdrop for a leisurely post-meal stroll. As you amble along the Oria River, make your way to the 13th-century Church of Santa Maria, a stunning example of Basque Gothic architecture. Continue to the colourful Plaza de Euskal Herria, where weekly markets and vibrant cultural events breathe life into the heart of the town.
Your enchanting walking tour of Tolosa would not be complete without indulging in the town's famous sweets. Pop into a local pastelería to sample the delectable Xaxus, almond-based pastries that are the pride of the town. As you relish these sweet treats, you'll find yourself reflecting on the delightful marriage of tradition and culinary prowess that defines both Casa Julian and the charming town of Tolosa. The magic of this Basque haven will leave an indelible mark on your heart, beckoning you to return to its enchanting streets & alleyways time and time again.
And now to walk it off!
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.
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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FOR THOSE “WHO IDENTIFY” AS GEN X AND THIRSTY!
As I have said many times in the past, London is one of my favourite cities in the world. I am of the opinion that travelling to the real deal better satisfies not just appetite and thirst, but also the mind and soul. Far be it from me to go on about galleries, museums, stunning architecture and local history. That’s not for everyone. Some may prefer to visit old London bridge in a place called Lake Havasu City. Depending on who you ask, places like this apparently stand as “accurate reflections” of the actual location’s they represent.
Moving on, it must be beer o’clock somewhere? If like us, you are looking to experience the best of London's watering holes while also getting in a few thousand steps? Well, its go time my thirsty friends, because a pub crawl (not literally) along the South bank of the Thames might just be the perfect way to satisfy both of those desires. Not only will you be able to sample some of the city's finest ales, but you'll also get to take in some stunning views of the of the skyline along the way.
Because we normally stay in the square mile or the east end, I have set a course that starts closer to Westminster and ends nearer to our bohemian neighborhood. If you prefer to stay closer to Mayfair or the alike, try this route in reverse.
Here are 10 pubs along the South Bank of the Thames that will put you in the right mood, in order from west to east:
The Tattershall Castle: (actually this pub is now moored on the North bank adjacent to New Scotland Yard). This unique pub is located on a boat, moored on the riverbank. The Tattershall Castle offers stunning views of the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament, and has a large outdoor seating area perfect for a sunny day.
The White Hart: This charming pub is located in the heart of the historic neighborhood of Southwark. It has a cozy interior with exposed brick walls, and serves up a great selection of real ales.
The Anchor Bankside: This iconic pub has been a fixture on the South Bank for over 800 years. It's said that William Shakespeare used to drink here, and the pub's outdoor seating area is a great spot to take in views of the Globe Theatre and the river.
The Doggett's Coat and Badge: Located next to Blackfriars Bridge, this traditional pub is named after the oldest rowing race in the world. The cozy interior is decorated with rowing memorabilia, and the pub serves up a great selection of beer and pub grub.
The Blackfriars: This historic pub is housed in a beautiful Art Nouveau building, and has a large outdoor terrace overlooking the river. The pub serves up a great selection of craft beers and cocktails.
The Founders Arms: This popular pub has a large outdoor seating area with stunning views of St. Paul's Cathedral. It's a great spot to grab a pint after a walk across the Millennium Bridge.
The Old Thameside Inn: Located just a stone's throw from the iconic Shard building, this traditional pub has a large outdoor seating area on the riverbank. The pub serves up a great selection of real ales and pub classics.
The Horniman at Hays: This historic pub is housed in a former tea warehouse, and has a large outdoor terrace with views of Tower Bridge. The pub serves up a great selection of craft beers and artisanal pizzas.
The Captain Kidd: This nautically-themed pub is named after the infamous pirate who was hanged at Execution Dock, just a short walk away. The pub has a large outdoor seating area and serves up a great selection of seafood.
The Prospect of Whitby: This historic pub dates back to the 16th century, and has a large outdoor seating area with views of the river and Canary Wharf. The pub is said to have been a favorite haunt of Charles Dickens, and serves up a great selection of real ales and pub class.
Its important to keep in mind that the following list is not exhaustive and the taste and flavor profiles can vary depending on the batch and brewer. When you stop to rest your weary feet at these public houses, I suggest you try some of both the following mainstream beers as well as some of the most sought after micro brews:
Fuller's London Pride
Kernel Brewery London Sour
Sambrook's Brewery Wandle
Meantime Brewing Co.
Camden Town Brewery Hells Lager
Fourpure Brewing Co. - Pils Lager
The Kernel Brewery - London Sour
Camden Town Brewery - Hells Lager
Siren Craft Brew - Soundwave IPA
Brixton Brewery - Electric IPA
Partizan Brewing - Saison Lemongrass
Redemption Brewing Co. - Big Chief IPA
Pressure Drop Brewing - Pale Fire Pale Ale
Gipsy Hill Brewing Company - Hepcat Session IPA
As you walk along the South Bank from west to east, you'll see some of London's most iconic and historic landmarks on both sides of the river. Here are a few standouts and a few interesting facts about each:
The Palace of Westminster: Located directly across the river from the Tattershall Castle, the Palace of Westminster, also known as the Houses of Parliament, is one of the most recognizable landmarks in London. It has been the home of British politics since the 11th century, and the current neo-gothic building was constructed in the 19th century after a fire destroyed the previous building.
The London Eye: Standing at 135 meters tall, the London Eye is a cantilevered observation wheel that offers stunning views of the city. It was originally built as a temporary structure to celebrate the Millennium in 2000, but it proved so popular that it became a permanent fixture on the London skyline.
The Tate Modern: Housed in a former power station, the Tate Modern is one of the world's most famous contemporary art galleries. It's known for its striking architecture, which combines the industrial feel of the power station with sleek, modern design.
The Globe Theatre: Located next to the Anchor Bankside pub, the Globe Theatre is a faithful reconstruction of the original Elizabethan theatre that was home to many of Shakespeare's plays. The theatre hosts regular performances of Shakespeare's plays, and offers tours and exhibitions about the history of the theatre.
Tower Bridge: Just a short walk from the Horniman at Hays pub, Tower Bridge is one of London's most iconic landmarks. Built in the late 19th century, it's a suspension bridge that spans the River Thames, and is famous for its twin towers and ornate Victorian design.
The Tower of London: Located just next to Tower Bridge, the Tower of London is a historic castle that has served as a royal palace, a prison, and a treasury over the centuries. It's famous for its iconic White Tower, and for housing the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom.
To sum up, if you're a beer lover and find yourself in London, you're in for a treat! With a wide variety of local microbreweries and delicious flagship beers, you're sure to find something to suit your taste.
So, whether you're a seasoned beer drinker or just curious to try something new, London's local breweries are not to be missed. Cheers to your next adventure along the banks of the Thames!
Before I leave you, I just remembered to check my iPhone activity app. To my surprise it seems this route took 17970 steps to complete. Give this trek a try one day. It’s not just good for quenching a thirst, it’s good for the soul as well!
All photos taken with the Leica Q2 Ghost.
Please leave a comment if you have a moment. I really enjoy hearing from you!
Live Well!
Mark
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.
GET UP! GET OUT OF BED! THERE’S GONNA BE A CLOUD INVERSION!
This morning I invoked a recently learned life hack I heard on a podcast. Mel Robbins (NO, NOT TONY ROBBINS) said if you are having a hard time motivating yourself to do something, then you should use the 5 second rule. Simply put, just count down from 5. 5-4-3-2-1 and away you go. Your mind commits you at that point to what you want or need to accomplish. Whether you feel lazy or apprehensive, 5-4-3-2-1 tells your brain you have committed. Now this could be psycho-babble but I swear to god it works for me.
This morning at 7:30 it was pitch black outside but I had studied the weather for daybreak and noticed that there may be a decent chance of a cloud inversion in the valley. Sunrise was at 8:10 so I 5-4-3-2-1’d and got to my feet, cleaned up my act and grabbed the camera and tripod. After what happened a few days ago when the fog was thick and I ended up in Maubec, this morning was gonna be a different kettle of fish.
I got as high I could and watched the end of the blue hour give way to golden. I have committed to never let a day pass while I’m here without getting in my 10,000 or more steps. What better way to kick that off this morning than to climb 400 or so stone steps up to the highest point in the village. That slog got me up to the top church, and with that a bird’s eye view of the Luberon Valley. The inversion didn’t last for long but it gave way beautifully to the morning sun trying its hardest to warm stone walls and terracotta roof tiles. The church bells rang on cue for the top of the hour and all I needed was a light sweater given the ambient temperature.
When I came back down into the village below I walked home through the Friday market. Much smaller than during the summer months, but everything you could need was on hand in the way of fresh vegetables, meat, fish and cheese. Even my favourite carpet and pillow cover salesman was set up for business. He spotted me coming from a distance and was on me like white on rice to show off his new wares. What he really wanted to know was where Deanna was, because she loves to pay retail!
Tonight brings New Years eve but most of the local restaurants are closed. Good and bad really. For those that felt like an extremely good meal, must now take on those duties themselves. On the other hand, it becomes a great opportunity to enjoy your family with a special meal in front of the fire at home. As I am in the “all by my lonesome camp” on this trip, a night at an extremely good restaurant was what the doctor ordered. Oh well, a selection of local sausage and goat cheeses will suffice and obviously pair well with a spot of local red. I will more than likely be fast asleep hours before midnight ticks over to 2022 anyway. I am not sure what this afternoon will bring but it will require a ton of walking to get me over the daily line. Here are a few early morning images captured while up high searching for low cloud. Happy New Year from Bonnieux! All the best in 2022..
Live well.
Mark
Please leave a comment if you have time.
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
AUREL & SIMIANE-LA-ROTANDE IN SHADES OF GREY.
No words, just moods. A different perspective on Provence.
Please leave a comment if you have a moment.
All images captured by the Leica Q2
Live well!
Mark
Taken by me on 2021-09-14
Taken by Henri Cartier-Bresson in 1969
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 7TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.
Ansouis was built in the 10th century! Many of you weren't even born then. Does Ansouis suck? The answer is a resounding no! No, it doesn't suck. I can guarantee that when I am 1100 years old, I won't look or smell this good, and neither will you! This village of just over a thousand people (not in the winter) is a gem in the Southern Luberon. On the approach to Ansouis, you predict the future. You predict the kind of morning you are going to have. You predict what you’ll see as you wander the streets and alleys of one of France's “Beau Villages”.
Sure, Ansouis is old, but regardless of age it looks in better condition than 99% of the pink stucco castles built in the 1990s in Richmond, Surrey or Gordon Head. Sorry for assuming most readers live in British Columbia. What do they say about assumptions? A quick check of Squarespace's analytics tool tells me that readers visit this site from all corners of the globe. Lately, readers in places such as the Seychelles, Uganda, Singapore, Switzerland and New Zealand to name but a few have stopped by to have a look. I do appreciate all of your precious time!
Once parked and geared up, I left the most recent rental (A silver Renault Captur, no psychiatrist's note required) all locked up and began my walk to the castle and later the abbey. Once again, I was taken by the feeling inside the castle’s chapel. The colours were incredibly warm. I remained alone while wandering the nave. To be fair, I was alone most of the morning. The tourists are all gone. School is back, and local villages are turning like the leaves. Cafe's, bars and restaurants are shortening their hours. However, skeleton crews remain to continue providing outstanding food and drink for the locals. There are no worries that you will be overlooked or forgotten. I thoroughly enjoyed my double espresso at the Anouis "Sports Bar" while resting my feet. I can't say that I understand how they came to name it the Sports Bar? All of my fellow patrons looked far from participating in any sport other than the chain-smoking 15 meter dash.
I like the colours here. I like the warm stone hues. I like the quiet. I like Ansouis. It doesn't suck!!!
Please leave a comment if you have time.
Live well!
Cheers,
Mark
The following photographs were taken with my Leica M10-R and Leica Q2.
I HAD A SNEAKY FEELING I WOULD END UP IN AN ASYLUM ONE DAY.
Rather than self-medicate, because we all know that's not ok! I decided to go and see what life in an asylum was all about. Most of you are now thinking to yourself; it's long overdue. Well, hold on a minute, in my former life, I had to visit these facilities somewhat often to speak to those who may have done something naughty to someone else. But my adventure today is not one of those asylums for “mischievous” folk. This one is in Saint-Remy-de-Provence, and it was home to Vincent van Gogh for quite some time. Vincent suffered with his mental health (thus the missing ear), mainly due to the underlying problems that were exacerbated by a shit ton of Absinthe consumption.
Absinthe was, to most, a very slippery slope. But, from what I gather, it affected those who took part in a wee dram (or 10) in ways that mimic today's street drugs. Vincent seemed to be a big fan, and as such, he stumbled from time to time. Vincent's brother Theo was very close to him and decided the best way he could help was to fund Vincent's hopeful recovery at Saint Remy.
Treatment was not cheap, but the facilities were thought of as well run and successful for the time. For fear of sounding like a broken record, I left home at 8 a.m. My journey was supposed to take 46 minutes, and it wasn't far off that. If not for a few tractors pulling trailers full of cantaloupes in front of me, I would have been spot on.
I had never been to Saint-Remy-de-Provence before, and even though I had done a quick search for the historic bits around the town, I was not prepared. The city is stunning. Another gem that, if not for van Gogh, I would have probably never visited. I arrived about 20 minutes before the market day officially kicked off. There were so many stalls with such a variance of goods I was taken back. There are some massive market days near us, but this one in Saint Remy takes the cake.
I wanted to be in time to wander the grounds outside the walls. Still, with enough time to be in line for my ticket as the doors opened at 9:30. You can park in the shade of the plane trees adjacent to the 20 foot stone walls surrounding the facility. The asylum is still operating as such, and the noises I heard while wandering in the olive grove indicated business as usual. Currently, the wing that once was home to Vincent has been annexed off as a museum of sorts, and the remainder is still staffed and operating like any other mental health hospital.
I was all alone as the gates opened to the museum. I was confused as to why given the gravity of the place and beauty that surrounds it. I supposed a hundred years ago that you would have rarely born witness to a lineup to get into an asylum.
The ticket cost six euros, and after showing my pass Sanitaire to prove vaccination, I was in and walking towards the imposing building at the end of a beautiful tree-lined lane. You are treated to many reproductions of Vincent's paintings hanging on the garden walls as you meander along. They are hung perfectly in amongst a veritable cornucopia of local flowering plants. Many of these plants are seen in the paintings on show.
Some intermixed sculptures provide juxtaposition. After taking it all in, you come to the chapel. It is of considerable age but in beautiful condition. The origins of this place come from the Catholic church, as this was a monastery for many years. I try to stop and appreciate the architecture in every case such as this. Once inside the chapel, even a devout atheist may be moved. I spent some time inside until my little voice said, you better move on into the asylum to take in Vicent's room, the view from that room and the remaining facilities before more tourists arrive.
A young man working in the building gave me directions, and I climbed up the stairs to the second floor. There, on the left, was the tortured master's quarters. The room is laid out as it was in his day. The view from his window is supposed to play a small role in "A Starry Night " and many others.
I was there alone, and alone I stayed for just over 20 minutes. I sat in the room, trying to absorb the enormity of the opportunity and the experience. I suppose the right word is surreal. When I eventually heard voices on the floor below, I stood up and wandered across the hall to look at the other facilities. You will recognize in the photograph below that if you were not acting appropriately at bath time, you may be placed in the tub and then have the board resembling medieval stocks set over you. In addition, several burly staff may have to take a seat on that board until you had finished your required ablutions.
I'm unsure if my 18'" neck would have allowed my head to rest above the board. Nightmares are absolutely coming my way. Still no sign of other visitors, so I slowed my roll and read every bit of information I could on the walls. Eventually, it was time to go out into the walled (prison-like) garden to see the grounds and more of the places Vincent used for inspiration.
It never got old, and I had no reason to leave. If the prices were right perhaps, I could check-in. Maybe Blue Cross would assist with the bill payments. All things to ponder while I sat in van Gogh's garden. Eventually, one or two visitors appeared. I took that as a sign not to be greedy and make my way back to the gates like an escaping lunatic.
The unhinged screams from next door at the real deal continued as I walked across the road to the tiny Citroen I currently drive. What a wonderful morning. For me, of course, not so much for the tormented next door. Maybe a move to the asylum isn't what it is all cracked up to be. Not as I imagined while sitting alone in Vincent's room. It's for people that need some help to keep both their ears attached. Perhaps not for me. I know what you're saying under your breath! Bye for now.
Please leave a comment if you have time.
Live well!
Mark
p.s. All the images below were captured with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q2.
MY 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
MY FIFTH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES, IT’S NICE TO HAVE NICE NEIGHBOURS!
Thank you for stopping by. If this isn't your first visit, thank you very much for returning to the Luberon. But, if this is your first time, then what you will find here is a snapshot (pardon the pun) of where I go and what I see as I settle into life here in the south of France.
I write in a chair on the top floor of our home in front of a large open window. The view is an expansive one that takes in the entirety of the north side of the Luberon valley. It is much later tonight than I would usually be up. So, from time to time I stop typing and peer out to the North, gaze at both the stars and the village lights of Gordes and Roussillon in the distance.
In this episode, I have focused on one of our neighbouring villages to the Southwest. Menerbes was named in honour of Minerva, Roman goddess, daughter of Jupiter. Menerbes, like many other villages in the area, traces its roots back to Romans times. But, like many other local villages, it seemed to really establish itself in the middle ages due to the crusades and the resulting influx of Carmelites. They built many of the priories and abbeys in the surrounding area.
History states that Ménerbes and its citadel was the site of a significant battle between Huguenots and Catholics called the siege de Ménerbes, which lasted from 1573 to 1578. This period was known as the French war of Religions. Protestants intentionally aggravated Pope Pius the 5th by settling 150 soldiers in Ménerbes, led by Scipione de Valvoire, Gaspard Pape de Saint-Auban.
As time marched on, Menerbes has become better known for the finer things in life. Many artists and poets have called this place home for years. In the latter half of the last century, Picasso's girlfriend (Dora Maar) would take long sabbaticals from Antibes and came here to rest in Menerbes to use her camera as inspiration for her painting. The British novelist Peter Mayle was the latest celebrated author in the area, but sadly he is no longer with us. If you have never had the opportunity to read Peter's books about his life in France but more specifically, his life in and around Menerbes and Bonnieux, please give "A year in Provence" or "A good year" a thorough read.
Couple his words to the following images, and I'm sure you will soon be transported to the sights, smells and tastes of this region. For those who have had the privilege to read his books, you will be keenly aware that his work reflects life in this valley and how he and his wife renovated their home, learned the language and wove themselves into the fabric of the valley. I am a massive fan of all his collection. Mr. Mayle was singularly responsible for igniting a tourist frenzy here, much to many people's chagrin; however, it goes to show the power of his storytelling.
The Brown Foundation Fellows Program based at Dora Maar's former home in Menerbes provides residencies of one to three months for mid-career professionals in the arts and humanities to develop and grow their craft.
I like Menerbes. It is unique in this valley. The home prices in the real estate agent's windows reflect that. The people here are happy, and it seems impossible to feel unwelcome. You are really spoiled for choice in Menerbes. If you feel like a Michelin star meal or just a coffee, simply follow your nose. This village must have one of the highest ratios of restaurants and cafes with spectacular views from a terrace in France. I am yet to visit in the evening, so I can't begin to imagine which restaurant to recommend. Still, I have had coffee on several stunning patios that have all been unbelievably smooth and exceptional in quality. Yesterday morning I happened to notice a well-healed gentleman enjoying a pastis while overlooking the valley to the east at around 8 o'clock. I am not judging; it was obviously 5 o'clock somewhere.
Please leave a comment; I love to read them!
Live well,
Mark
p.s. All my images below were captured with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q-2.
