NOT FOR THE LACTOSE INTOLLERANT.

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

ADJUSTMENT THROUGH ART.

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.