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.

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 FOURTH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. A SEVEN MINUTE DRIVE FROM HOME BUT A WORLD OF COLOURS AWAY.

Leaving home this morning just before eight, I had a feeling that the light in Roussillon was going to be almost perfect for capturing its colours. But, of course, Roussillon is a very short drive from our village. Being so close would suggest that it is similar in most ways. But, as you will see as you peruse the images posted below, it is very different from Bonnieux.

Ocre is found everywhere in the area. Ocre is used for many different purposes, and in this village, it is used in large amounts for building homes, businesses and churches.

This is a tourist town. If you are not here and parked by quarter after eight in the morning, you won’t get parked at all. Roussillon is so vibrant and comforting that it attracts thousands of people every day. Considering its size and small population, it is awe-inspiring how they manage all those who wish to look around and dream of a life here.

Get here early, and you can enjoy it on your own or, in our case, with a multi-generational family that were all wearing khaki zip-off pant-shorts. You know the ones of which I speak. One pair is funny, but seven pairs in one group are hilarious. Couple that with those hats that Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. wore with a hell of a lot more panache and you’ve got yourself a vision of haute couture one should try not to replicate (ever!!).

The streets of Roussillon are so vibrant that even if you came to visit in December in the middle of a mistral from the north, you would still feel nice and toasty inside. The further you get from the village square adjacent to the local Marie, you will discover a lovely and inviting residential feeling. Homes of all sizes, shapes, and colours sit in the shadow of the bell tower. The church is simple but spectacular. Immaculately kept by an old darling that was setting out candles for parishioners as we walked in for a quiet moment.

The artisan's galleries in Roussillon are varied and tasteful. So whether you are in the mood for watercolours or ceramics, you will find something of a fitting keepsake as a memory of your visit.

My only regret on this visit is that when you arrive early to beat the crowds you eliminate any chance of a beautiful glass of red from this gem. As you will note on the sign posted on the vine that it is 175 years old. Please don’t touch it and please don’t remove any grapes. I have put a reminder in my calendar to return in September for lunch after the crowds die down.

The bottom line is straightforward. If you decide to visit Roussillon when you are in the Luberon Valley, you won't be disappointed. You will enjoy the village, the people and the feel. If you decide to rest your weary feet at Cafe Des Couleurs and order a Grand Cafe, you will be treated to a most excellent double espresso. Like an angel peeing on your tongue! I usually reserve that reference for a wee dram of Red Breast Irish Whiskey. So come, wander, and enjoy. We did, and given it took us seven minutes in the car, we can't see a good reason not to do it more often. Of course, sans zip-off pant-shorts and inappropriately chosen headwear.

Please take the time to leave your thoughts in the comments box.

Live well!

Mark

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

THE FRENCH RIVIERA IS FABULOUS. AFTER 20 YEARS OF STELLAR ADVICE, DOES RICK STEVES DROP THE BALL?

Right off the bat, please don’t dwell on the negative. I’ll get back to my travel guru Rick Steves later. I’m currently on a time-out from watching him on Youtube until I calm down. I’ve been advised to practice deep breathing until I centre my Chi (whatever that means). Let’s move to the main event. For the last four days, we have been living the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous (Starring Robin Leach). You know, champagne wishes and caviar dreams. In reality, we enjoyed very little in the way of opulence; however, what we did enjoy was just what the doctor ordered. We didn’t drive to Monaco in a drop-top Bentley along the upper corniche. In reality we actually rode the rails with the French National Railway Company (SNCF). Why cause unnecessary work for those overworked valet parking guys at the Monte Carlo Casino? They are already going to be hopping busy from eight in the morning until later in the day. So many hypercars, so many luxury cars, so many horrific stretched G-Wagon’s with Dubai licence plates. Having an abundance of money does not presuppose good taste, my mother always said!

Our base for this trip was Nice. It's in a great location as geographically it provides options to visit prominent places in either direction along the Mediterranean coast. Even though I already regret using this vernacular, it's not our first rodeo in this area. Nice is big, but the old town with its Italian colours and charms makes it very warm & quaint. The absolute game changer for people wanting to spend quality time locally this summer is that there are very few tourists. Sure, it's easy to recognise the expected German, Dutch, Swiss, Italian, and Belgian accents. However, they are next-door neighbours and free to make anywhere in the EU home. There are no cruise ships and no bus tours. It's really some sort of post-apocalyptic nirvana. I have never had a more relaxing slow-paced experience in this part of the world since our honeymoon in the early '90s.

After settling in at our hotel, we grabbed a tram pass and headed towards the Promenade des Anglais. We wandered the length of the "Prom," investigating the old town. Later in the day our walk back was just what the doctor ordered to get rid of our stiffness & stress from the drive here along the A8. It is around a two and a half hour road trip from our house to Nice. If you would prefer to make Monte Carlo your base, just tack on another 15 minutes. Whether you're wandering along the P.D.A. or getting lost in the narrow back streets of the old town, Nice never disappoints with its pastel buildings deep blue water. The following may be way too many images to illustrate the benefits of life on the French Riviera. Apologies in advance!!

Moving on from the Promenade and into the old town. Nice was firmly part of Italy until relatively recent times (in European History).The colours are reminiscent of the Cinque Terra or the Veneto’s Burano. In my experience, coastal Italian places have a firm hold on just what pastel colour works for each and every square inch of their buildings. We wandered and then took a break for refreshment. We were told by our lovely server and the owner of Cafe Simone that we sounded just like another guest, who sat 10 meters away and apparently from Colorado. Having had the opportunity to hear every word Miss Colorado had uttered in the 15 minutes since we sat down at a volume well above all the other patrons combined, we asked our new friend to reconsider her earlier statement. Here are a few images from inside the walls of old town Nice (Cubanisto Beer from Spain is good because it has rum in it?).

Moving on to Monaco and all that is a principality. The roads are as perfect as you expect for the home of an F1 race. Don’t try to find litter anywhere, or for that matter, don’t bother trying to find anything out of place at all. You would think that there was a municipal sanitation engineer for every resident and visitor, but I did not see one the entire time we were there. They must only come out at night like bats or for those who grew up with British children’s television, Wombles. Google Wombles if you fear the unknown. Once again a thirteen-kilometre day, and it was a terrific way to take in the beauty and luxury of one of the most financially solvent places on the planet. If you have ever contemplated purchasing a pleasure boat the size of an aircraft carrier or a relatively small 100m2 apartment for 4,200,000 Euros, then you are in the right place. Of course, we went to the casino. Of course, I remembered to know my limit and stay within it. Of course, we wandered the F1 track and the inner harbour. We stopped midday for a really lovely Thai meal in the shadow of one of the mega-yachts registered in Malta. For those who have read the odd news story about Eastern European organised crime in Malta of late, then look no further for evidence of offshore banking and dirty deals done dirt cheap (as ACDC once sang). Regardless, Monaco is top-shelf. It’s hard to feel safer anywhere else in the world. Like everywhere in sensible Europe, Monaco has adopted the Covid passport system. Sorry anti-vaxers and anti-maskers, but if you have no evidence of being inoculated, then have your groceries delivered and make sure your cable bill is paid up to date. Be as woke as you wish about choice and social justice, but sporting purple hair and a ton of face shrapnel won’t cause European governments to relent and allow the virus to continue to spread further. Shine on you crazy diamond / Facebook warrior!

With a day or two left to explore and always the better for embracing one of Rick Steves top travel tips, we decided to get on the train and head for Antibes. Yes, we buy his guide books, yes I taught all our kids the wonders of travel as we watched his show after supper on PBS when they were young. We have never gone wrong by following his advice. “Only go to the Louvre on a Friday evening to have the place to yourself.” “Saunter up to the Mona Lisa as you please.” In this case, Antibes has always been Mr. Steves top tip for accommodation and relaxation. Mr. Steves has described Antibes as out of the hustle and bustle of Nice. A warm and inviting place.

I will state that the main reason for getting aboard the train for us was to visit the Pablo Picasso museum. The standout experience in Antibes. Picasso lived and worked in this “small” castle on the waterfront of Antibes after the war when he moved south from Paris. He painted, drew and sculpted until his death in 1973. I am not sure why but he passed away just north of Cannes in a town called Mougins. We were the second ticket holders in line at opening time, and that guaranteed (post covid pass check) that we were free to enjoy every one of the gallery rooms in near silence and alone. An experience I will never forget and quite moving.

I can’t say how long we spent inside, but after wandering at our leisure, we left with a curiosity for more of Antibes and more cubist art. Let’s say that Antibes is a fine place but not outstanding after you have spent time in other coastal towns. We did visit the covered market, which was of excellent quality. We tried our first slice of Socca (chickpea crepes with lots of pepper) along with a stall-bought cantaloupe. The town vibe is a bit brash, and sadly I can now unequivocally state that I have had a bad meal in France. The waiter was 11, maybe at a push 13. Hard to tell. The service was what you would now imagine. At one point, I watched a young man at the table to our left take the Rose bottle from the child waiter and show him how to use a corkscrew. And I thought that was a skill all 5-year-olds had in this part of the world.

Our meal was not worth describing, and if not for the fact that the heavens opened up and poured buckets of rain onto our table’s very large umbrella, we would have left much earlier. I had the late presence of mind to check the google reviews about the place as we sat trying to stay dry. An average of 2 stars. I am being very kind by saying it was shit. I know this because every review I read stated it was the worst restaurant experience they had ever had. When we saw a break in the bad weather, we made our way through this average town and back to the train station for our trip to Nice. Go for Picasso but find a better place to eat. Do your research! The first of a few images may be an indication of what I describe. I can only assume these Aussies were late with the municipal taxes because they bricked up every door and window.

I apologise upfront for the length of this post, but when I sat down this morning, I knew I had an hour or two, and I can't predict what tomorrow will bring. I have clearly included three visits into one blog, but I'm sure you can see the correlation between all three based on proximity alone. As far as Antibes and Mr. Steves go, this post describing our time there has been cathartic and exercised most of the demons I have been harbouring. Yes, he recommends it above all other Mediterranean towns. Yes, I can't entirely agree. This one discrepancy in an otherwise perfect travel relationship with the Mistro happened, but it is not fatal. We will live to travel another day with the help of Mr. Steves. We all drop the ball now and then!

Please take the time to leave a comment.

Live well!

Mark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

Images taken using the Leica M10-R and Leica Q2

MARSEILLE… GREAT DAY…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bon Soir!

Live well…

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

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

The Village of Goult.

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

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

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

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

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

Live well!

Cheers,

Mark

p.s. Please leave a comment.

All photos taken with the Leica M10-R

SMOKE ON THE WATER

Well, it seems like our cousins to the South have decided that “Gender Reveal” parties (whatever that means) are more important than the wellbeing of not only their own countrymen, but all of us poor schmucks up here north of the 49th as well . Before you begin to turn to typing comments such as “lower Vancouver Island is further south than that”, I know & I’m just keeping it simple.

I swear to god for the last 4 days we have been enduring horrific air quality and very limited visibility. The smoke from the massive forrest fires in California, Oregon and Washington have blown north and we are in it big time. I am not kidding when I say I had to go to Google this morning to search what a gender reveal party is. When I sat back to watch several videos of these shenanigans on CNN, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Who am I kidding, this should not come as a surprise. Orange Man Bad is the President and QAnon is a thing.

I have watched a man do donuts on a quad bike that was pumping baby blue exhaust smoke into the air. I have watched a man force a balloon into an alligators mouth so as to pop it revealing pink confetti. I have watched a man announce the birth of his daughter with a shot gun loaded with pink paint cartridges. I understand the cause of the worst fire in California currently was a man (presumably named Cletus) lighting off pyrotechnics into a dry canyon. No big deal, just horrific death and destruction because “Karen” told him to. On the bright side the hundreds of prison inmates sprung to fight these fires have all been promised early parole for their efforts (if they live).

This morning I grabbed my Covid / Smoke mask and went out to see what I could see. Spoiler alert, I could see f#*k all! Anyway, here are a few shots from todays adventure along the coast. Try to keep in mind that when they aren’t causing massive forrest fires down south I can actually see for a very long way in all directions. Meanwhile, north of the border the last image in this series will illustrate what we think about clearcutting old growth forrest. If we cut them all down, what are our cousins to the South going to buy from us when their government decides to stop imposing softwood lumber tariffs. As time marches on, I am becoming more and more of a religious man. I know this because at least 3 times a day I utter the words “please god make it stop”.

Cheers!

Mark

THINGS COME AND GO, UNTIL THEY DON'T.

Leica Q-P in the Lake District

As I have stated many times in the past, having a camera near to hand has brought me a lot of happiness through the years. Along with watches, cameras have always been my passions and my vices. If there is anyone to blame for this costly habit, it would lay squarely at the feet of my father and grandfather.

Leica Q-P in macro mode

Growing up I was always told that there were certain brands one should aspire towards owning. Aspirational brands that have stood the test of time and have done so for a reason. Simplicity in design is first. If you instinctively know what the object is, what it does, and how you can manipulate it with ease, then you have my definition of perfect.

Leica Q-P in backwater southern British Columbia.

Leica Q-P in The Lake District

Timelessness follows. If that product has stood the test of time and still finds itself lusted after, then the manufacturer has achieved the highest praise. Does that item perform as expected after years and years of use? Is it future proof? Will you be left wanting for more after a short time in your possession?

Leica Q-P in the Okanagan

I am happy to report that I have found that camera. I like uncluttered design and favour simplicity of operation. For me, the qualities I have come to appreciate from my Leica Q-P are directly in line with what makes me happy and content. It took me a long time to get here, but now that I am I can’t foresee much change.

Leica Q-P in Istanbul

When I pick up my sage green Billingham bag (Thanks Deanna) on the way out of the house, I know that the camera inside it inspires my confidence. It stirs my senses and puts me in the mood to capture images that keep me in an altered state of anticipation until I get home to view the .DNG files in Lightroom.

Leica Q-P in Jerusalem

I have never worked with files such as the ones from the Leica Q-P. I think they are unique and special. I have owed many cameras over the years. When I finally put down my film Pentax KM and Nikon FE2, I moved cautiously into the digital age. The following cameras made it into my bag as the years passed. The Nikon D70, D200, D700, D3200, D850, the Olympus OMD EM5, the Fuji XT-2, X-Pro-2, X100T, the Sony A7, A7II, A7rIII, and the Canon 5D MkII. All of these cameras were fantastic in use. I don’t make a point of criticizing any of them because at the time I owned them they enabled me to capture thousands of photos of my family and my travels, both at home and abroad.

Leica Q-P at Vimy Ridge

The Leica Q-P is not the only camera I own. I also have recently acquired a Nikon Z6 and a couple of lenses to capture my sons competing in various sports. To my mind that is also the only downfall of my Q-P. And that is why I love it. With the f1.7 Summilux lens it does most everything else very well. I know that the 28mm focal length may be too wide for many. If you are familiar with your feet, then try putting one in front of the other and that will put you into a position to compose the great majority of what you hope to capture (I promise).

Leica Q-P at the Acropolis

I have never written about any other camera with near the affection I have for the Q-P. It is an extension of my hand. I'm not saying that in any way that I take good photos. I am saying that the detail and colours that come from my Q-P make me happy. Happier than I have ever been with any of the cameras that I listed above.

Leica Q-P at the Grand Bazaar

The Q-P is simple in operation and simple to master. Sure you can put it in automatic and it will produce fine images. But when you control the exposure triangle the images are just next level. I understand how viewed on a platform such as this it is hard to see the differences. Millions of iPhone users snap trillions of 28mm wide shots every hour of every day around the world. Those iPhone users are happy to have one. I am happy to have the Q-P. For me it is special. After my visit to the Leica factory in Wetzlar, I was left wondering not if I would buy one but when.

Leica Q-P at Whitley Bay

It was just a couple of months later when I walked into Broadway Camera in Richmond BC. I am sure that the salesman saw the saliva dripping from the corners of my gob. They had one and I wanted it. So I parted with my money and immediately began this love affair. Maybe one day that Z6 may find a new home and an M10-P or and SL2 may find their way to mine. But that won’t happen this year (I think). Never say never. Things come and go, until they don’t. The Q-P is that exception!

Leica Q-P in Jerusalem

Leica Q-P in Jerusalem

Leica Q-P in Hexam

Leica Q-P in Budapest at night.

Leica Q-P inside the Blue Mosque.

BACK TO PROVENCE FOR SOME R & R

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I must admit that for the first time I had let poor reviews cloud my judgement and fill me with dread regarding our upcoming flight to Lyon.  I made the huge mistake of researching Transavia Airlines a day prior to leaving Tel Aviv and what I read gave me the willies.  Lets just say that those who had taken the time to review their past experience with Transavia were not too complimentary.Knowing that this was to be our longest flight during the trip (save the trans Atlantic ones) I was convinced I was about have to start believing that Ryanair was actually decent.  And that was going to be a huge ask given their business acumen.

Well as it goes Transavia saved the day and rekindled my love of discount airlines that Ryanair had done its best to ruin.  It was a great trip and one I would not hesitate to take again.  Friendly staff, comfortable seats and a smooth journey.  Upon arrival in Lyon the pilot even came over the PA to advise that he was very sorry that the airport in Lyon was not managed properly and that it was one of the worst organised that he frequents.  He continued to say that he would be making a formal complaint to the airport authority for the time we spent on the tarmac waiting for a gate.Out of the front doors of the Airport and we said au revoir for the evening as we were staying at different hotels.  My discount place was reasonable and no nonsense with a stark but modern style.  All I needed was a place to recoup and reacclimatise to normal temperatures and a more laid back approach.  

Seven hours later I wandered down to the continental breakfast buffet and stocked up on yogurt, coffee, and of course pain au chocolate.  All of this simple sophistication compliments of the Ibis Hotel staff.Dale arrived with our Citroen rental car 20 minutes later and soon after we were southbound on the A7 ready to tackle the busy freeway & toll booths.  It costs you a few extra Euros to take advantage of the directness of the A7 and the speeds that it allows.  As long as you travel below 140 kph you are good and free of speed camera fines.We were soon nearing Avignon.  I have had the pleasure of visiting there in the past but this time we travelled just a little south of town to an art installation so typically french with a combination of an outside the box venue matching perfectly with the work of Vincent Van Gogh.  

I have to firstly thank one of the guys at Sound Hounds in Victoria for tipping me off to this “gallery’ as he raved about it when I was in sniffing around a stereo upgrade a few months ago.Dale dropped me out front and I grabbed tickets while he parked up.  Just a couple of minutes later and we were entering into the depths of a once busy quarry / mine and about to have our minds blown by the collective works of Vincent projected on to every 100’ granite wall, ceiling, and floor.  With the vastness of everything inside coupled with the colours and musical accoutrement it was an experience I will long remember and cherish. From there we set sale for the Luberon and the heart of Provence.  We followed the twisting narrow roads through village after village, taking stock of what each had to offer.  

Places such as Sault, Lacoste, Saint Christol, Rustrel and Murs were fantastic.  We stopped along the way for typical french sustenance.  Everything you should try and everything they do except for the midday vin rouge.  Can’t be on the drink when you drive the paved goat paths of this rural area just to the Northeast of Mt. Ventoux (for the Tour de France fans out there).That night we grabbed a cheap little place in Apt.  Apt is a sizeable town of 50,000.  Everything you could want or need.  We decided upon Le Petite Histoire for dinner and that turned out to be an excellent decision.  

The French don’t leave their homes for dinner until around 9pm so we turned up early to get a seat and perhaps the meal of the trip.  Dale had the Octopus prepared in garlic butter and presented as a whole tentacle on a bed of mashed yam.I took our waiter’s advice and went with the glutinous Tomahawk of beef.  Paired with a local organic Syrah and fresh root vegetables it did not disappoint.  The entree was followed by a Tiramisu that tasted like an angel had *%£^ in my glass.  As the families began to arrive we were heading for some shut eye.The following day was spent in Bonnieux and Saignon in the morning where I made some contact with realtors.  At noon we set sail for Goult and the typical french three course lunch with plat du jour and two hours to enjoy it.

After a great lunch we wandered the local streets.  Once the meal wore off we returned to Chateau La Cornogue in Bonnieux to purchase some wine to take home. This vineyard has been around for sometime and played host to the cast and crew of a Russel Crowe movie shot there over a decade ago titled “A Good Year”.  That movie drew me to the place many years ago and each successive trip keeps me retuning every year.From Cornogue we headed for Lyon to drop the wheels and prepare for our return home.Thirty hours later we wandered off the ferry at Schwartz Bay after four flights and long layovers.  Thanks to KLM and British Airways for the safe and enjoyable flights.  All four went by without issue and capped off a really enjoyable and may I say epic journey.  For me, this trip has ticked many of my travel boxes and has forced me to grow and appreciate things I had no experience of in the past.  Seventeen days, eight countries. C’est Magnifique!Cheers Dale! Thanks for the companionship along the way.

REMEMBER WHEN WE HUNG OUT AT THE DAMASCUS GATE?

The voices are faint in comparison to Istanbul, however even in Jerusalem you are still woken at dawn by the call to prayer. We are in a Jewish neighborhood but sound travels and as the crow flies we are not too far from the Muslim quarter of the old city.  The call to prayer is soothing. It’s unlike any alarm clock I have ever set.  I like it. I don’t pretend to understand it but I appreciate it.

On our roof top terrace the sun could be seen in the distance just beginning to clear the eastern rooftops.It’s quiet and it’s peaceful. Time to get after it. Time to find an Arab taxi (it’s Shabbat so there is no Jewish transport today) and head down to the old city.We were dropped at a cab stand in the shadow of the Damascus gate. Our driver recommended Al-Ayed for breakfast so we strolled in to the back and sat down at a table with some Spanish pilgrims.

“What you like my friend” were the first words uttered by our waiter. Some fresh squeezed juice with mint tea and an assortment of Arab dishes quickly found their way to our table. Delicious and abundant. Portion sizes are crazy and smiles are followed by make it stop before I pop.

We paid our shekels, took our chances, said our goodbyes and crossed the road through the gate into the city of David. Wikipedia says there have been people living, loving, and fighting here since the first millennia BC.  We followed the stations of the cross (as you do) and touched Jesus’s hand print. History describes the place Jesus caught himself from falling as he stumbled carrying the cross.No big deal, just that, just Jesus.

As you wander the maze that is all four quarters, you find yourself mesmerised by gentle people selling to gentle people. Muslims stick to muslims. And Jews seem to stick to Jews, but there is simpatico.

Visiting the Western or wailing wall on Shabbat is a treat. It’s full on, it is busy and it is a lesson in what this place means to the people that worship here. The western wall of the city is the support wall for Temple Mount.  It is sacred and grand.  A moving experience, of that there is no doubt.

With our next steps we returned into the Muslim quarter and continued our quest to absorb the place, the people, and the history.  Dale got a haircut, and I watched intently as a Arab man sat inches from me and entrusted the barber to sharpen his straight razor and shave away.  Three minutes of precise shaving and good as new.  Feeling fresh and crisp and ready to take on the rest of the day in the market.  

A young man of four or five made us a fresh squeezed pomegranate juice.  He was extremely well mannered and the apple of his dads eye. “He is a good business man” dad remarked as junior took our shekels.  I decided to haggle with a shop keeper.  He started at 300 Shekels.  I countered with 60.  He worked the game hard until I walked away for the last time,  He chased me down with his final offer of 60.  1-0 Mark.  That never happens!  

We are now back relaxing on the terrace and contemplating Palestine tomorrow. Shabbat is soon over and the Beer Bazaar should be opening their draft taps Inshallah.

L’Chaim.

Mark...

Images taken with Leica Q-P

T-MINUS TWO HOURS UNTIL SHABBAT.

Four in the morning is early no matter where you are in the world. But when you are trying to navigate passport control and security at Istanbul International airport at that time, mistakes are going to be made. For instance, lets say one of us is travelling with our parent's ashes to be sprinkled in Bethlehem. Let's say one of us was asked about the contents of the urn said ashes were travelling in.

Let's say that because no English was spoken by local security staff that one of us decided to perform an interpretive dance to act out his parents demise and subsequent cremation. All this in an effort to convince those now surrounding him that he was not in fact smuggling black tar heroin out of Turkey.Those of you that have been alive for over forty years will remember several movies depicting the horrific conditions of a Turkish Prison.  

And finally lets say that in order to dance and or mime his way out of cell block H he made a motion simulating death by the cutting his own throat in front of security.That was the last I saw of that person (Dale) for quite some time. I can honestly say that I thought I was going to have to write to amnesty international from my roof top lounge chair later in the day to help him get duty counsel.  Crisis averted several minutes later after an ion scan of mom and dad revealed no heroin.

Then we move on to gate 201B and our Pegasus flight.I'll start by saying this is my first time in the holy land. I have never been to Israel before. I was overwhelmed by Ben Gurion Airport (the most secure airport in the world). I was overwhelmed by the 32 degree heat. I was surprised how many people you can fit in a minibus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. From sea level to 3000 feet in half an hour.We traveled with a father and daughter who were in town to visit a brother who is interning at a local hospital.

These folks were from New York and it took about a nano second to pick up the accent. To our immediate right were a couple from Northern Ireland who had their eyes wide open around every bend in the highway. We had some some great chat along the route and got some great pointers from the Yankee fans.From Tel Aviv, a place that resembles any super modern city in the world to a city that has been around long enough to write the book.

In fact, around long enough to write many books about many people of many faiths. Jerusalem is spiritual, hectic, alive, electric and just a little tense for a first time visitor. Soldiers kitted up everywhere remind you that Israelis take there security very seriously.We have arrived just a couple of hours before the people of Jewish faith shut it down for 24 hours and celebrate Shabbat. From 5 o'clock on a Friday afternoon until the same time tomorrow. With that comes panic. Every family must prepare. The grocery shopping isn't gonna do itself. The Yahouda market is packed to the gunnels with throngs of desperate faces.

Shabbat falls after a long week of work so Friday afternoon gives everyone some time to organise the family holiday.Every food and beverage you can think of. Every bread, meat, spice, sweet, fruit and veg are on display in the Yahouda. Get it while you can, its T-Minus two hours to Shabbat. We were advised to be mindful of doing a bit of grocery shopping for ourselves but also to make the "Beer Bazaar" our first stop on the tour.We did and we were treated to an array of over 100 different Israeli micro brews, both on tap and in bottles.

We sat at the bar and ordered what the barmaid recommended. Pints on the bar and settled into a conversation with a friendly lady from LA who regularly visits family here. She was very helpful and a fountain of local knowledge. We sponged up the intel and the remaining drops of our pint. I wandered back about 80 meters to our airbnb and Dale stayed to battle the crowds while at the same time picking up a little local grub for dinner.

So here we sit on the rooftop of our Jerusalem home for the next 4 days. The sun is out its after 5pm now so you could hear a pin drop in the neighbourhood. Shabbat is upon us! Shalom and L'ChaimM.

Images taken with Leica Q-P

ISTANBUL NOT CONSTANTINOPLE.

This place is unlike anywhere I have ever been or likely anywhere I will ever go. Sixteen million people live here. It is all things to everyone. We are beginning our journey here just as the US are evacuating from Syria and the Turkish military is attacking the once protected area of the Kurdish people by air and land. We are visiting a country at war.

You must have a visa to enter Turkey so we paid for one prior to going through passport control. We were stamped and made our way through into the arrivals lounge and chaos.  We negotiated the bank of hundreds of smokers just outside the airport doors to find a cab.

Job done and towards the Bosporus we hurtled. Istanbul is perhaps the biggest contradiction in terms I have ever visited. The suburbs passed through on the way from the airport are very very modern. Huge skyscrapers lit up like Vegas. Outlet malls everywhere you gaze. Chain restaurants and all the standard Hotel brands.

It takes an hour to get into the centre of Istanbul and the longer you watch out the window the more it becomes clear that western media portrays Turkey so much differently than it actually is. This place does not need propping up. It is not destitute and it appears to be thriving in every way conceivable.I am so glad I came here because it has set me straight on what Turkish life is really like.

Our Airbnb is about 20 meters from the Galata Tower. That remarkable building sits proudly like a beacon on the European side of the Bosporus gazing across to Asia.

Upon arrival we were greeted warmly by our host Jamil and we got a lay of the land.  We soon got out on to the street  to find a cafe (not hard) and enjoyed some Turkish cuisine.

We wandered about after that in the local area and eventually shut it down around 1:00 AM. Back up at 6 to have a Turkish coffee and find a cab to the Blue Mosque.

You don’t need an alarm clock in this city. A call to prayer is sung from the minarets to wake the weary so that they can start their day the right way. A few minutes later and we were screaming across the Galata bridge while locals fished on either side.

Getting anywhere early is the right thing to do but in this case it provided us an opportunity to tour the mosque at opening. As a special bonus we were incessantly pestered to buy a carpet by at least a dozen different men who were curiously all English students to begin with. Then they all funnily enough either had visited Halifax or had cousins in British Columbia.

Of course if we said we were from Iceland they would have all visited Reykjavik too.

What are ya gonna do. There are thousands of carpets to be sold and you gotta hustle to get them gone. After the Blue Mosque we strolled over to the Hagia Sophia and wandered around with jaws dropped. Amazing place, of that there is no doubt.

After a morning with the prophets we wandered on to the Grand Bazaar for some retail therapy. We didn’t buy anything but we were seriously bowled over by the experience.

Do you want a Bolex or Bugo Hoss suit? Are you interested in knock off everything? You are in the right place.

It’s massive it’s busy and it is one of the oldest shopping malls in the world. From there we wandered the streets jammed with tourists and Turks alike passing literally thousands of shops eventually arriving at the Egyptian spice bazaar. Smells and colours and people selling anything and everything you can imagine.

We had a seat at the other end of the market near the river to take a load off and consider the remainder of the day.I won’t go on and on. I would recommend this place to anyone. It changes you. It helps you understand. It breaks down walls and it teaches you that what you are used to is no better or worse than what you seeand experience here.

I will be the first to say that what has been depicted by the Western media most of my adult life is skewed. If you are interested in putting things straight come and see for yourself. You will initially feel betrayed by what you have been led to believe but let this place and these people sink in. You will be doing yourself a massive favour.

Istanbul expands the mind!

M

Images taken with Leica Q-P

THE POSEIDON ADVENTURE.

Our journey to Athens started quite late in the evening as we landed at Athens airport just a little bit after 10 last night. We grabbed a cab and made our way into the old town as fast as we could. I suppose it seems obvious to say that Athens is completely different to Budapest. A stark change in temperature, humidity, people, and architecture. Everywhere you turn you see remnants of the cradle of civilisation.

We seemed to travel past every possible Greek monument that you have ever seen in books or on television shows. Our Airbnb was very close to the Acropolis and everything historic that goes along with being in that hood.

Our host suggested that once we stored our bags and got settled that we walk across the street to a local restaurant that served typical simple Greek cuisine. Ten minutes later we were sat down in a typical neighbourhood diner.  We were welcomed with open arms and treated like family.  We ordered two very big salads and a mixed grill of sorts to share between us.

It would have been highly unlikely for four people to be able to eat what we were presented so I must admit we were unable to finish what we started. The meal was fantastic and the service was excellent.Cost was minimal for the spread we were served.

After a long day of fighting crowds and airport protocols we shut it down with a plan to be the first in the gates of the Acropolis the following morning.

That went to plan and we made our way up the pedestrian street in front of our accommodation in the dusk in order to get some blue hour photography done and to see the gates open after sunrise at 8.

Job done. In first and we scrambled up the stone and smooth marble stairs to the top. It was surreal to have the place to ourselves other than the stone masons who had begun restoration work just a little earlier.

We wandered for over an hour and enjoyed it all. From there we made our way back down the hill to a little cafe nearby. A Greek breakfast consisting of yogurt, fruit, and small feta omelette was accompanied by a stiff coffee. Excellent meal and the service was fantastic!

We hung around the neighborhood for the rest of the day and made plans to make the following day as jam packed as possible given that we were leaving for Istanbul at the end of it.

Prior to leaving Canada we had booked seats for that evenings performance of We Will Rock You performed by London’s Westend cast and accompanied by the Athens Symphony Orchestra. All performed in an amphitheater built in 167AD.

The following morning we started out by returning to the same place up the street for breakfast. This time we both had the Greek breakfast three course set menu. Yoghurt and fruit drizzled with honey to start. That was followed by a fried egg placed on top of cubed bread soaked in olive oil presented in a tall glass with a long spoon. To top it all off came warm donut like balls filled with cream and served in a Nutella sauce with crushed walnuts. That was accompanied by coffee and cold water.

We asked our waiter to order us a cab to head down to the port. Soon after Vasilli arrived in his bright yellow Skoda.  What turned out to be a 20 minute trip to the water became a three hour tour that was excellent in every way. We set sail south of the city for the ruins of Poseidon’s sanctuary.

An amazing unspoiled place high atop the sea exactly where you would assume the god Poseidon would have wanted his sanctuary to be. The weather was beautiful and very few people.

After a wander we jumped back in the cab set for Athens. On that return journey we visited the Greek parliament and its unique guards. Next the Olympic stadium and several local neighbourhoods that we hadn’t walked through earlier. An awesome day and tonight we travel to Turkey.

M.

I CAME FOR THE GOULASH, I LEFT HUMMING CULTURE CLUB.

Arriving in Budapest is a no nonsense experience. The Customs folk are a stoic lot.It seems that they are just a little sick and tired of British 20 somethings posing as Love Island wannabe’s. Their fake tan, skinny jeans, puffy bomber jackets with fur lined hoods and masterfully groomed eyebrows.

Sadly I describe just the male of the species. The females take it to the next level with everything I mentioned above but on steroids. If Prague is for stag and hen parties, Budapest is for Instagram Influencer hopefuls that believe simply in keeping their bedazzled fashion runners as white as the driven snow.

We made it through passport control and out to baggage claim. Bags in hand and just outside the door we found the FO’ TAXI stand where we got our taxi chit and waited for number 1627.  In mere seconds 1627 arrived & the driver was a quiet man with the look of someone who endured the Russian occupation and hasn’t been too outwardly happy ever since. We put our bags in the trunk and we were away.

Not since we took our lives in our hands on the airport bus in Rome 4 years ago have I felt the same sense of terror. Our not so smiley driver was somewhat of a formula one fan. He drove his bright yellow Ford Mondeo at least 3 times the speed limit and weaved in and out of slower traffic with the ease of Nico Rossberg and the calculated calm of a Hungarian executioner. I must admit I felt a tad uneasy.I like to drive fast.I like to weave through traffic. I just don’t grip the steering wheel so hard that I leave marks in it while grinding my teeth.

It was at the 10 minute mark of the journey that I thought we were not going to live long enough to walk the banks of the Danube.And then it happened. It was a liberating moment for both us and the driver. The radio volume bumped up a notch or two and at just that moment the golden tones of Boy George took to the air waves to change all our moods with Culture Club’s smash hit Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon.

They say music calms the savage beast, well George calmed our driver.A cheeky smile and a new attitude.Just 5 minutes later we arrived in the Astoria area of Budapest.It’s a Hotel heavy neighbourhood with an uncanny number of Lebanese Shawarma restaurants.I came for the Goulash but all we could find as we wandered the streets was meat roasting on a vertical spit.Meat being lovingly shaved to the plate below by olive skinned men who prefer to call all their customers “Boss”.

So a few local beers accompanied by some gyro and felafel and that fuelled a healthy after dinner stroll through some of old Budapest.It’s a strong sturdy town with a mix of French, Spanish and Soviet architecture.Not a ton of people on the street at this time.We attribute this quiet to the bars being full of manicured eyebrows.

A bit of a life saver really. We took the opportunity to end the night with Hungarian Apple schnapps and that worked very well as a “natural” sleep aid.

This morning we headed to store our luggage and then did the most out of character thing we have ever done.We bought two passes for the Hop on Hop off bus with the river cruise add on. It was really what the doctor ordered.We saw it all. Both by land and by sea.Now I know that this flies in the face of my get away from the tourist hordes mantra, but today it was worth taking the chance.

Now we leave Budapest well travelled but without trying any goulash.We came, we saw, and Culture Club raised all our spirits. Thank you George! Always loved the Hat!

Viszontlatasra and catch you in Athens tomorrow.

Mark.

Images taken with Leica Q-P

p.s. Just kidding, of course I found the goulash!

THE PUZZLING CASE OF MR. FLATFACE

It’s been four days since we arrived here in Old Blighty, and today is the first day that I have had the time or the energy to put fingers to keys.  I do like to tell stories.  What I like the most is to tell stories about my travels and some of the characters that seem to find their way into a position where I can observe their antics. This trip is so far no different.  

The first character of this trip appeared as I took receipt of a very tasty Empress Gin & Tonic in the Vancouver Airport Fairmont Hotel lounge.  The lounge of which I speak is a special place to be and a perfect oasis in an otherwise hectic and stressful international hub. I can simply describe the man as in his early 60’s.  He had a receding hairline, very pail skin and wore glasses with frames that would have been contemporary in the 70’s.  

The man’s most unique feature was of course his face.  So flat indeed that he could have taken a bite out of any of the walls surrounding us.  Unfortunate features and just a little weird to boot.This man seemed to be lost.  He seemed to be overwhelmed.  He wore a simple smile that suggested he was very confused.  The man stood near the bar for a while and then inexplicably began to spin like Julie Andrews in the The Sound of Music.We were waiting for the waitress to inquire if he was alright or if she could help him.  

Just as she was about to do so, Mr. Flatface stopped and focused on her attention.  It turned out he was OK'ish. He told the waitress that he was just enjoying some time on his own as his wife was several minutes behind him.  Make what you want of Mr Flatface's statement, but I sensed he wasn’t thrilled with Mrs. Flatface and that any alone time he scrounged was precious and to be enjoyed in anyway he saw fit.

And then if by magic Mrs. Flatface arrived on scene.  Mrs. Flatface was dragging numerous bags and had a scowl that could stop a clock.  If you are ever in doubt of the definition of the word evil, don’t bother with the Oxford English Dictionary.  Just consider Mrs. Flatface.  Mr. Flatface at that point noticed his betrothed had arrived. Mr. Flatface took a seat beside her and promptly changed his happy-go-lucky outlook to a significantly more forlorn expression of “just shoot me now”.

Perhaps we will revisit the Flatface’s a little later.  Thirty minutes on & we hopped aboard BA flight 84.  It took us nine and a half hours to arrive at London Heathrow and with a quick connection we were soon in Newcastle Upon Tyne in the Northeast of England.  Our rental car was a winner and we drove away from the airport in style to our accommodation for the next 3 days. The following morning we drove the narrow country roads of Northumberland and Scottish Borders with no real destination but a sixth sense for the finer country pubs en-route.  

We had some fantastic beer and wonderful meals to accompany them.  Having the opportunity to visit Flodden field a little later was amazing.The site of one of the biggest battles ever to take place on British soil happened in 1513 on this field and saw the King of Scotland loose his life in battle.  The last time any British monarch lost a life in combat.  We made our way from the countryside inland to the beaches and castles of the Northeast coast.  

Bamburgh Castle stood proud.Next on the agenda was to meet old friends for dinner at a pub near Whitley Bay. A modern pub with classic grub. A couple of pints of real ale and some awesome conversation.We then followed our noses into the city centre of Newcastle and walked the quayside into the early hours.  No rain and a sky full of stars with very few clouds. The city is clean and tidy and impressive as a result.The following morning we made our way across the country towards the West coast.  

We visited Heavenfield Church.  Heavenfield is aptly named as it is a little slice of you know what.  I wont tell you how to get there as it is mine all mine.From there we stopped in Corbridge, Hexham and then finished our day in Keswick which is the hub town for Lake District walkers, hikers and climbers.  Our stay at the Royal Oak was great and the full Cumbrian breakfast was unreal.  We were up early this morning and made the most of our travels visiting some of the prettiest places on earth.  Several more stops at top class pubs provided further sustenance. You find me in our room at an airport hotel in Manchester.  Tomorrow morning starts very early as we leave England behind and fly east to Budapest.  My first time in Hungary.  Can’t wait, it should be fantastic.

Cheers!!!

Mark

VIC WEST AND MY SECOND INSTALMENT OF THE COFFEE DIARIES.

When did it become a rule that every thirty something male "barista" who works on the left coast must look like a wizard. To be fair its not just limited to pouring coffee, they could just as easily be entrusted to monitor cycle lanes or restock the organic produce bins at whole foods.For me its not what they are doing really, its the dismissive and grumpy way they accomplish these seemingly simple tasks. It's the little things. Why do they greet you with "what can I get you man?". Am I to assume that they learned their lacklustre manners from other disingenuous millennials.

Why do they use the word "LIKE" several times in every spoken sentence, even though it is never used properly or even required?Let's just hypothesize for a moment that you don't have the energy or the will to order an extremely complex multi ingredient beverage that at some point includes the use of oat milk or cao cao butter. Let's say for instance that all you want is a medium drip coffee.What would you do if the wizard with the perfect pony tail pauses to wrap that tail up into a "man-bun" while he looks at you in disbelief? You sense he's thinking I've never encountered this dialect of language before.

This is clearly a challenge for Dumbledore as you just know he has recently returned from Nepal, Bhutan and Vietnam. He is obviously a cunning multi linguist and the proud owner of a backpack adorned in prayer flags and friendship bracelets.The silence is broken with Dumbledore's first question. "Drip coffee"? Yes I replied "just a drip coffee thanks". With that he turned 45 degrees to his female colleague and said with disgust, "this guy wants a filtered coffee". Oh I see, I ordered drip and I am clearly so far out to vegan lunch that I hadn't realized at this local chain, wizards refer to drip as filtered. Where's my head?

What have I done? How many wizards have I unknowingly vexed of late?Several minutes later I watch in awe as Dumbledore majestically poured my filtered coffee. He is clearly a finely honed barista with the sixth sense of an Olympian . Unfortunately his right arm must have experienced a twinge of exhaustion and he stopped pouring much sooner than expected.Dumbledore had only half filled my ethically sourced paper cup at the time he placed the pot back down on the counter. Even with his assumed catastrophic injury he was still able to summon up super human strength and painfully grunt "the coffee condiments are over there man". All I could think is this wizard is a living legend. His extra effort was astonishing.   Not too long after I snapped back to reality.

If I had wanted to be made to feel even less worthy of oxygen, I could have asked Dumbledore to take it back & fill it this time. Alas he had me under his spell. The kind of spell that makes you stop giving fucks.I dragged one leg behind me (knee injury at the moment) over to an open table and set down my diminutive half cup off Ethiopian Bronze. After getting sorted I opened my iPad to read about the third mass shooting in the US this weekend. The usual thoughts run through my mind. What is wrong with those people? What makes them do this?It was then I began to sense the room starting to hum. It seems as though there are triple the amount of customers in line now and Dumbledore was not in his happy place.Call me demented but I was seated close enough to experience what was sure to be Dumbledore's day go for a shit.Too many hilarious negative interactions to describe. My favourite was the successive seemingly unrelated customers each wearing one of those stupid hats that Sammy Davis Jr. would have worn with Dean Martin in the Rat Pack movies of the 60's.

Dumbledore was clearly not into these retro 1st world Walmart copied abominations and as such I watched intently as he tried with great success to treat each witless drone with ever increasing distain.It was at this point I didn't think I could have had any more pure old fashioned satisfaction by remaining in my seat.It was time to venture off to Vic West to take a few photos and enjoy the fabulous weather. Vic West is not beautiful nor is it hideous. I felt like throwing caution to the wind at one point and even crossed the line into Esquimalt.I have a friend who described his time serving the people of Esquimalt as like working in 10 square miles of little Chicago. Who knows really. I made it in and out unscathed and better for it. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.I hope you enjoy the photos. I have recently taken receipt of a different camera. I find it somewhat inspiring.Best wishes from E-town (The Place of Shoaling Waters)!Images captured with Leica Q-P

FERNWOOD SUNDAY AND MY FIRST INSTALMENT OF THE COFFEE DIARIES.

Sunday mornings come and go, but when you know that fall is here and winter is just around the corner you tend to make the most of the now. This morning brought beautiful dark blue skies and the warmth of the autumnal sun. In our household one of us is a newly converted yoga fanatic and one of us isn’t. So while I happily waited for my life partner (when in Rome), I strolled around the neighbourhood with my camera looking for rich colours and contrasting shadows in the bricks and mortar.  

What used to be turn of the century historic buildings are seemingly now bill boards for trek Thailand this, or paddle Borneo that.  A  little while later I stop to gaze at another poster for holistic healing and the power of the African drum.  Next to that appears information on the numerous advantages of using crystals in your day to day life. Where am I? I love to travel, but here is here and the power of that is what I come home for.  

Away is away and that change of scenery and custom is what I travel for.  Distinction and difference makes travel better.  I don't want to travel to the other side of the earth for an afternoon of micro brew & Fanny Bay oysters, however I imagine a traveller from far away might just enjoy a restful afternoon at Spinnakers Brew Pub while on a well thought out tour of Victoria. With that said, I enjoy Fernwood Village in the morning. The business owners are opening up their doors and sweeping their sidewalks. The din is no longer that of last nights pub goers but that of the locals who are now flocking to Gladstone Coffee.  

I see them carrying their own ethically sourced mugs for their ethically sourced beverages made by a myriad of female baristas wearing the jeans their mom’s wore in grade 10.  Most also wear repurposed eyeglasses once worn by a 73-year-old lady named Marge back in the times when Gerald Ford was the laughing-stock of the world press. Look how far we have come? If you can’t beat them, join them,  I approach the young girl behind the counter. For some reason the new fashion trend is to readjust your waistline from your waist to somewhere just below your collar-bone.  

I swear to god that if she had to get her iPhone 4 (retro) from her back pocket she would have to reach over her shoulder like Mrs. Incredible to get it.  And how counter productive would that be when she has but a moment to check Used Victoria for recently posted vintage fur lined trench coats. My barista remarks that she likes the camera slung over my shoulder. I thank her. She says she only works in film. I think to myself “of course she does”.

We exchange further pleasantries and I walk off with my hipster coffee for $4.00. That’s cool!I perch on a stool in the window facing Fernwood Road.  Across the street a man arrives in a truck. He soon hops out and walks to its rear to grab his tools.  Like magic he begins to dance from tag to tag removing the week’s recent graffiti from local buildings.  We are not talking Banksy here.  We are talking about single words or symbols that mean nothing to 99.9 % of us and in my opinion should be transposed on to the faces of the half wits who decided to bust out their spray can in the first place. What was actually more satisfying than seeing the tags being removed was the pride in the face of the man who was doing it.  This guy looked pleased with himself and that speaks volumes.

Deanna arrived and we set sail for a quick grocery shop.   From the frying pan in to the fire.  What I have been describing for the last 10 minutes just got exponentially more intense at Whole Foods.  “Dude, can I interest you in a creamy matcha with a double shot of wheat grass?” I just nodded and he jumped aboard his Boosted Board to harvest my ingredients!  I can’t wait until Amazon delivers Whole Foods groceries by drone just so I don’t have to try to "like" wander up and down the isles " like" trying to understand the meaning of life anymore "dude".

Until next time...... 

Cheers,

Mark

DOWN BY THE SEA!

I always have my camera bag with me when I leave the house and yesterday was no exception.  The weather was iffy and the wind was blowing hard from the Southwest.  My intent was to head to a couple of locations nearby to take some long exposure landscape photographs. Upon arrival the wind at my back was lifting me from my feet and it became immediately apparent that my tripod wouldn't be cutting the mustard.  

So whatever I did get up to with my camera was going to have to be handheld.On my drive home along Dallas Road I caught a glimpse off to my right of dozens of colourful kites zipping backwards and forwards from east to west and back again.  It has been a while since I have driven the coast road and the last time I did parasailors were all the rage. Clearly the wind was a bit too furious for those folks but for a kite boarder this was the day to be out on the water.  

The Straight of Juan de Fuca is clearly a great place to hone kiteboarding skills.  The Victoria coastline is a truly picturesque location.  You have shipping lanes full of traffic, you have lighthouses standing watch and of course there is always the backdrop of the city itself. After watching for quite some time I came to the conclusion that I would love to try this high octane sport.  Unfortunately and alas, I envisioned that immediately upon entering the water the kite would drag me along the shoreline and over the jagged rocks on my face.  I recently read that a Montreal surgical team completed the world's first face transplant, so I hope they believe in practice makes perfect (I think my wife would like it if George Clooney was up for a swap).  

On second thoughts I think I'll give it a miss and maybe refocus on surfing.  Not sure if it's a retirement sport but what the hell, nothing ventured nothing gained.

Cheers! 

Mark

SOMETHING FLORAL MIGHT DO THE TRICK.

It has taken time to adjust to being back home.  I must admit that I have come to a point where I sometimes forget about what I’m missing when I’m away.  Don’t get me wrong, if I was honest my heart is on the road and where it takes me is usually just what the doctor ordered.  I am a self-confessed Europhile and as such if you gave me an option I would always take time spent on the continent.

I have an appreciation for the finer things but on balance I dream about them more than I enjoy them.  When I am wandering a stone path in a quiet Tuscan or Provençal village I seem happiest.  The warmth, sights and sounds take me to a relative state of nirvana.  There is something about a very old church bell that strikes four times an hour to prompt one to acknowledge time is slipping away and one should never squander a precious commodity.Reality doesn’t have to bite.  

I can’t spend all my waking moments in my happy place and just because I’m not there now doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the moment no matter where I am or what I’m doing.  One of the things I like to do in the summer months when I’m home is photograph flowers. I’m by no means a macro photographer nor am I remotely understanding of flora.  I don’t know many of their names in English let alone their Latin ones.  

It comes down to knowing what you like while trying to expand your understanding.I am blessed to live in a place that arguably is home to one of the best and most prestigious gardens in the world.  Butchart Gardens is in form and function something very special.  The garden is filled with so many varieties of flowers that the mind boggles.  I don’t get there very often but when I do I try to arrive much earlier than the hordes and wander in the early morning sun.  

It’s a quiet peaceful place in the morning where you can actually stop and reflect on whatever is in focus for as long as you need.What’s more important really is that you don’t have to pay the price of admission for similar experiences in many of the smaller municipal parks in the area.  I very much enjoy spending time in Oak Bay’s Rose Garden for instance.  It’s not just the flora, it’s the solitude and moments of tranquility that are yours for free if you decide to visit.I could be very much criticized for never writing about my surroundings when I’m home.  

It’s by no means limiting, boring or taxing.  To be honest there are hundreds of thousands of Canadians that would crawl over miles of broken glass to live on the southern tip of Vancouver Island.  Postcards were invented especially for this place.  The weather is mild in comparison to the other 98% of Canada.  Rain is our enemy in the winter months but snow is a mythical creature and the remainder of the year is normally very pleasant.  

We are surrounded by water and further afield you are charmed by stunning coastal mountain vistas.It’s really a case of trying to see the wheat for the chaff.  I have a friend named Daryl who regularly writes on this platform about his experiences here.  He observes the good the bad and the ugly, but he is always able to lock focus on the good. www.readerwriterrunner.comI however, am usually plagued by a dissimilar approach.  

I am a self diagnosed critic.  I visit the Louvre on a Friday evening (thanks for the tip Rick Steves) and my first stop is to look for imperfect brush strokes on the Mona Lisa (not really).  I have to stop but I fear there will be limited success on that front. My job of 27 years has taken its toll on my ability to focus on the whimsical or fantastic.  I look for the unusual and the abnormal.  It’s weird but that’s me.  So here I am back in the garden.  A place where it serves as a lesson in enjoying my environment not being sceptical of it.  Perhaps the longer I spend, the greater the chance that damage done can begin to repair.

Cheers!

Mark….