I THINK I’VE FOUND NARNIA.

Embarking on a journey from the beautiful and tranquil region of Vaucluse, where the landscape seems to have been sculpted by the rough-skinned hands and loving heart of a Renaissance artist, to the charming provincal town of Uzès is akin to stepping on to a vividly painted Van Gogh canvass. A canvas where history doesn't just whisper; it pours you a glass of cold, crisp local Rose and sits beside you to spend some quality time.

As a retired wanderer and not the kind that regularly escapes from a care home but the kind that hails from the wild, wet west coast of Canada, the idea of walking through the ancient streets of Uzès in the soft embrace of the warm golden sun on an early spring morning, with nary a tourist in sight, makes me extremely happy. There's something utterly delightful in the thought of meandering alone through history, my steps the only sound apart from the distant chime of church bells and the occasional disgruntled French cat, disturbed from its sun-soaked slumber by my size 13 Birkenstocks.

Uzès, a town that seems to have been gently nestled into the French countryside by a benevolent giant, is rich with history that feels almost palpable as you walk its ancient streets and alleys. Founded in Roman times, the town is a feast for those hungry to glimpse the past. It’s as if each cobblestone is a breadcrumb leading back through time, and I, a Canadian and larger version of Hansel, am more than happy to follow, in the hope that they have fallen from a gigantic pain au chocolate & preferably without the subsequent witch issues.

At the heart of Uzès is the Place aux Herbes, a square serving as the town’s living room, bordered by arched pathways and lined with trees that have seen more history than we can fathom. The morning market here is a symphony of colors, smells, and sounds, a place where the local dialect is as thick as the daube they sell. To walk through it alone is to be a shadow, observing life in its most vibrant form without the need to partake.

The town's churches, such as the Cathedral Saint-Théodorit, with its Italian Renaissance-style bell tower, are monuments to faith and artistry. Venturing inside, the cool, hushed interior feels like a sanctuary from time itself. It’s easy to imagine the generations that have come here seeking solace or salvation, their whispers adding to the layers of history. As someone who has weathered the storms of the Pacific, standing in such a testament to endurance is both humbling and uplifting.

Accommodation in Uzès, particularly if one is looking for a touch of luxury, is like choosing which historical epoch you’d like to dream in. The 4- and 5-star options are as varied as they are splendid. One could opt for the Hotel Entraigues, located in the city center, where modern amenities blend seamlessly with ancient architecture, offering a rooftop view that competes only with the gastronomical delights served beneath it. It’s a place where one can feel like a king, albeit a king who thoroughly enjoys free Wi-Fi and espresso machines in his room.

Or perhaps the La Maison d'Uzès, a sumptuous boutique hotel that whispers tales of centuries past through its elegantly restored rooms. Waking up here is like being cradled in history, with the added benefit of an outstanding breakfast that could easily turn a morning person out of the most nocturnal creature.

Walking through Uzès alone, especially on a wonderous warm spring morning, allows one to appreciate the town’s beauty and serenity without the bustling crowds. The solitude amplifies the architecture's beauty, the heritage's majesty, and the gentle flow of daily life. It’s a reminder that sometimes, to connect with a place truly, we must experience it on its terms and in its quiet moments.

As a guy who has left behind the perpetual motion of the Western world for the serene cadence of retirement, Uzès offers not just a journey through space but also through time. It’s a place where one can stroll without purpose, lost in thought yet fully present. The lack of tourists is not just a boon but a blessing, allowing the soul of the town to shine through unobstructed.

In conclusion, as I, a humble Canadian with a newfound zest for life and a pension for adventure, wander through Uzès, I am reminded of the beauty of solitude and the rich tapestry of history surrounding us. This journey from Vaucluse to Uzès is not just a travelogue; it's a pilgrimage to the heart of tranquility, a lesson in the art of being alone without being lonely. And as for the humor that bubbles up like a spring in this ancient town, it's found in the realization that, after years of seeking company, the best conversations are often the ones we have with history, nature, and ourselves.

If you ever venture in this direction, I hope you don’t miss this place and have the same experience I now insist on having regularly. All the images in this post were captured with the new Leica SL3 and several new lenses (drop by my gear page if you are interested). Please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments box below the last image; I would love to hear from you if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

WHAT RHYMES WITH ORANGE?

A few days ago, I did what I often do over a cup of tea in the morning. That is infact to open up a map on the dining room table and mull over the options for a day of travel and adventure. A paper map, if you will. A paper map to most people today would probably cause them to cock their heads to the right with a look of bewilderment. Who in today’s tech-dominated app-based world uses such an inferior tool? Well, I do. I step back in time every day because I love a little bit of old school. After a short period of deliberation, I chose to visit Orange. Orange is just over an hour’s drive north of my home. A journey not just of mere miles but a leap through layers of time, seasoned liberally with that peculiar French flair for making even a simple road trip feel like a passage through a living museum, where every stone and corner bakery has a story to tell, often with a slight disdain for the English-speaking visitor. But let us not get ahead of ourselves.

Our adventure begins in the Luberon, that part of France where during most of the year, the sun douses the landscape in a light so perfect, photographers wonder why they bother anywhere else. The Luberon, with its vineyards and ancient hilltop villages, is the sort of place that doesn't just whisper but sings its invitation to wander and explore. It is here we start, with a Romanian-built SUV, a map, and a sense of expectation so palpable it could be bottled and sold as 'Eau de Adventure.'’

As I mentioned earlier, the drive to Orange is not long, but in France, distance is measured not in miles but in distractions. There's always a village that wasn't on your map, a vineyard that beckons with the promise of a perfect bottle, or a view so stunning you're obliged to stop, stare, and open your camera bag. French roads are a conspiracy against direct travel, which I wholeheartedly approve of.

Arriving in Orange on market day is like stepping into a painting by a French impressionist artist who is so good at capturing light and life. The sun is indeed out, casting a gentle warmth that makes the early March chill scamper away, sort of embarrassed at its own impotence. The market sprawls with a confidence that only centuries of tradition can bestow. Stalls burst with colors, smells, and sounds, sending frantic messages to your brain, causing utter delight.

The food, It's a symphony, a ballet, a high-wire act of flavors and aromas. Cheeses that wink at you with the promise of untold delights, olives that have soaked up the essence of the Mediterranean sun, bread that crackles with the sound of a perfect French morning. And the fruits, so fresh they seem surprised to find themselves out of the orchard. It's all here, a feast for the senses, where the biggest challenge is not what to buy but moreover how to stop buying.

But Orange is not just a market. No, that would be like saying the Louvre is just a museum. The Roman amphitheater looms with an imposing grace, a relic of a time when entertainment meant something a tad more visceral than scrolling through Netflix. Its ancient stones hold the echo of a thousand cheers, a monument to human ingenuity and our enduring love of spectacle. Walking its tiers, you can't help but feel a connection to those ancient spectators, a shared thrill that transcends time. It's humbling, and yet, curiously uplifting.

Wandering the streets and alleys of Orange is an exercise in time travel. Each corner turned reveals another layer of history, another story waiting to be discovered. Buildings wear their age with a dignified elegance, their facades telling tales of generations past. And through it all, the city's daily life flows with an easy rhythm, a reminder that while we marvel at the past, the present has its own charms.

The market, with its riot of colors, its cacophony of sounds, and its dizzying array of scents, is the heart of it all. Here, food, housewares, and clothing mix in a cheerful jumble, a testament to the French ability to elevate shopping to a form of high art. It's not just commerce; it's a celebration of life's daily pleasures and how.

The day passed in a blur, a delightful assault on the senses that left me exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure. As the shadows lengthen and the market packs away, there's a sense of having been part of something special, a communal experience that binds you to this place and its people.

And so, as I bid adieu to Orange, with its ancient stones and lively markets, its food that sings, and its history that whispers, I can carry memories of a day well spent. It's the kind of experience that makes me want to return, explore those streets and alleys again, lose myself in the market's embrace, and feel that connection to the past once more.

I hope that you enjoyed this trip to Orange. As always, if you have a moment, please leave your thoughts or comments in the box below the last image on this post.

Live well!

M.

All images included in this post were captured with the Leica Q3 in raw (.DNG) and processed with Lightroom Classic, a testament to the enduring power of light and lens to capture the essence of travel.

WHY YOU SHOULD VISIT THE RIVIERA VILLAGES.

Welcome, everyone, to the sun-drenched shores and pastel-hued panoramas of Cassis, nestled like a gemstone along the glittering necklace that is the French Riviera. But before we dive headfirst into this Mediterranean marvel, let us first chart our course, for even the most anticipated of journeys must begin with an hour or two of planning. For those of you with a penchant for the scenic route—or perhaps an aversion to the indignities of airport security—fear not, as Cassis is just a leisurely train ride away from the bustling metropolises of Marseille and Toulon. Simply board the sleek TGV at Paris's Gare de Lyon, sit back, and prepare to be whisked away on a journey through the picturesque Provençal countryside, where vineyards stretch as far as the eye can see and sunflowers nod and wink in silent approval. But should the songs of the open road prove too tempting to resist—and who could blame you, with the promise of impromptu picnics and roadside vistas aplenty—then by all means, rent a car and embark on your own odyssey along the winding coastal roads that lead to Cassis. Just be sure to pack a sturdy map—or better yet, make sure Waze is installed on your IPhone (other brands are available) as the abundance of speed cameras, narrow streets and labyrinthine alleyways of this ancient village have been known to frustrate & confuse even the most experienced of travellers .

First, a bit of background for those who may not have had Cassis on their radar, as we approach our destination, let us pause for a moment to reflect on the storied history of this charming enclave. Legend has it that Cassis was founded by the Phocaeans, those intrepid seafarers of ancient Greece, who sought refuge from the rough seas in the sheltered coves and tranquil harbors of this idyllic coastline. And though the centuries have brought conquests and conflicts aplenty—most notably the brief but tumultuous reign of Julius Caesar, who famously declared Cassis to be "the most charming of all Gaulish villages"—the spirit of resilience and joie de vivre that defines this community has never wavered. Fast forward through centuries of sieges, skirmishes, and the occasional invasion by pirates—because what Mediterranean paradise would be complete without a dash of swashbuckling adventure—and we arrive at the modern-day Cassis, where the only marauders are those on the hunt for the perfect seafood platter. But enough with the history lesson, for we have arrived at our destination, and the delights of Cassis await! As you wander the sun-dappled streets and mingle with the bronzed beauties and jet-setting sophisticates who call this village home—or at least their vacation home—be sure to take note of the myriad architectural wonders that dot the landscape, from the ancient Romanesque church of Saint Michel to the elegant Belle Époque villas that cling precariously to the cliffs above the harbor.

Now, let's talk cuisine. The gastronomic delights that await you in Cassis! From freshly caught fish served with a side of sea breeze to decadent pastries that practically beg to be photographed, this little slice of Riviera heaven is a culinary cornucopia. And fear not, friends, for even the most discerning palate shall find satisfaction amidst the plethora of cafes, bistros, and Michelin-starred restaurants that line the cobblestone streets. But I digress. I came not merely to feast—but to explore! And what better way to do so than by boat? Yes, my friends, prepare to set sail on a nautical adventure worthy of the most intrepid of explorers (or at least those with a penchant for sunbathing and Champagne). Whether you opt for a leisurely cruise along the coastline or a thrilling excursion to the nearby Calanques—those rugged limestone cliffs that plunge dramatically into the crystal-clear waters—you're sure to be treated to views so breathtaking, you'll forget all about the exorbitant price of your boat rental.

Of course, no trip to Cassis would be complete without a bit of culture—or at least a half-hearted attempt at it between sips of rosé. Fear not, for this quaint village boasts its fair share of historical landmarks and cultural attractions. From the ancient Château de Cassis, which looms ominously over the harbor like a guardian of bygone eras, to the charming Musée Municipal, where you can brush up on your knowledge of local history between bites of pain au chocolat, there's no shortage of opportunities to feel vaguely cultured before returning to your sun lounger.

And let us not forget the beaches! The beaches of Cassis, where bronzed bodies mingle with the occasional nudist and sandcastles stand as monuments to our fleeting existence. Whether you prefer the bustling atmosphere of Plage de la Grande Mer or the more secluded shores of Anse de Corton, one thing is certain: you'll spend far more time debating which swimwear to put on than actually swimming. And speaking of the harbor, dear reader, let us not forget the beating heart of Cassis—the bustling port where fishermen ply their trade amidst a cacophony of seagulls and sunbathers vie for the perfect spot on the quayside. Here, you can while away the hours watching the comings and goings of the local fishing fleet, or perhaps charter a boat of your own and set sail for the nearby Calanques, those rugged limestone fjords that have inspired artists and poets for centuries.

But our journey is far from over! Beyond the sun-drenched shores of Cassis lie a veritable treasure trove of hidden gems just waiting to be discovered. From the medieval hilltop village of La Ciotat, where time seems to stand still amidst the winding alleyways and ancient ramparts, to the cosmopolitan charms of Aix-en-Provence, where fountains splash and café terraces beckon, the delights of Provence are yours to explore. And, so we come to the end of our journey through the sun-drenched streets and sparkling waters of Cassis. It may just convince you that your next trip may be in this direction. Bon voyage!

All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q3 and it’s RAW images (.DNG’S) were processed in Lightroom.

As usual if you would like to leave your thoughts or comments plaese do so in the box below the last image. I do enjoy hearing from you.

Live well!

M.

AN EVENING OF STREET PHOTOGRAPHY IN MARSEILLE WITH THE NEW LEICA Q3.

This post is a little off-piste. After receiving a lovely invitation to join a group of talented local photographers in Marseille, I accepted and spent a wonderful sun-drenched evening walking around an area not on the tourist trail. These are a few of my favourite images from that memorable adventure. I hope that you will find interest in the composition. The second group of black and white photos should be seen to have the natural grit that I had assumed would come with time spent in this neighborhood.

These photos were captured with the Leica Q3 in the .dng (RAW) format. Some were later processed into monochrome with Lightroom Classic.

Live well!

M.

Please leave your thoughts in the comment box below the last image if you have a moment.

MONOCHROME IMAGES.

MY 11TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.

The Luberon Valley is a place so quaint and picturesque that even the local goats are Instafamous. It was from this very valley, this fine morning, that I embarked on a journey so filled with promise and potential liver damage that even Ernest Hemingway might have thought twice. My destination? The illustrious and immaculately tidy village of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a name that rolls off the tongue with the same complexity and satisfaction as a full-bodied glass of its namesake wine.

Now, for those unacquainted with the joys of navigating the French countryside, let me assure you, it's an experience akin to finding oneself in a real-life game of Mario Kart, minus the helpful floating question boxes (or so the kids used to tell me). The roads twist and turn with the kind of reckless abandon usually reserved for soap opera plotlines, ensuring that any journey is as much about survival as it is about sightseeing.

But let's not dwell on the near-death experiences and instead focus on the destination. Châteauneuf-du-Pape, or as I like to call it, "The Village That Wine Built." This place is so steeped in viticulture that even the feral cats seem to have a discerning palate for a good vintage. The village itself is a marvel of stone buildings that look as though they've been plucked straight from a medieval fairytale, complete with a castle that seems to frown down at the modern world from its lofty perch.

Ah, the castle. Or what's left of it, anyway. The Château de Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a name so nice they named it twice, sort of. This once-majestic fortress now serves as a reminder that even in the world of wine, not everything ages gracefully. Its history is as rich and complex as a well-aged Grenache, having played host to several popes during that curious period when Avignon fancied itself the center of the Christian world. It's said that the popes, in their infinite wisdom, decided that what the papacy really needed was a good vineyard because nothing says divine authority like a robust wine list.

And so, Châteauneuf-du-Pape became the go-to destination for holy men with a penchant for the grape. The village's reputation grew, much like its vines, until it became synonymous with some of the finest wines known to humanity. Or at least, make it known to those humans who can afford it. The irony, of course, is that the popes were probably too busy being pious to enjoy the fruits of their labour truly, but that's the Catholic Church for you – always thinking of the future.

Surrounding the village is the Côtes du Rhône wine-growing area, a region so fertile and productive that you half expect the vines to start planting themselves. Here, wine is more than just a beverage; it's a way of life. The locals speak of terroir with the same reverence that others might reserve for holy scripture, and to be fair, after a few glasses, you too might start seeing the divine in a well-crafted Syrah.

Wine experts and enthusiasts from around the globe wax lyrical about Châteauneuf-du-Pape, using terms like "bouquet" and "finish" with the kind of casual expertise that makes mere mortals feel hopelessly uncultured. These wines are the celebrities of the oenophile world, complete with their own entourages of adoring fans and eye-watering price tags. It's a place where the phrase "let's have just one more glass" can lead to life decisions that seem much less wise in the cold, sober light of day.

In the midst of this vinous Valhalla, a particularly clever wine cave owner, spotting the wide-eyed wonder with which I beheld his domain, beckoned me closer with the promise of capturing this oenological oasis through my camera lens. "For memories," he said, with a twinkle in his eye that should have warned me of the impending danger to my wallet.

This, dear reader, was no mere merchant of grape-based beverages; this was a maestro of persuasion, a virtuoso of the vineyard, who could probably sell ice to Eskimos or, more aptly, water to fish. His cave was several levels above Aladdin's and a cave of vinicultural treasures, each bottle more seductively labeled than the last, whispering promises of unparalleled delight.

With the skill of a seasoned conductor, he guided me through the symphony of his cellar, my camera clicking away, each shot capturing the amber glow of bottles that seemed to contain not just wine, but liquid history. It was only when he began to describe the wines, with a passion that bordered on the religious, that I realized I was no longer just a photographer, but a pilgrim at the altar of Bacchus.

Fifteen minutes had passed – or so he claimed, though I suspect time moves differently within the hallowed confines of a wine cave – when he presented me with a bottle. "This," he proclaimed, "is not just wine. This is an experience." The price, he assured me, was merely a numerical reflection of the celestial joy contained within.

And so, dear reader, with a sense of inevitability that would have made Greek tragedians nod in solemn agreement, I left the cave lighter of wallet but heavier of heart, clutching the most expensive bottle I have ever purchased. It was a transaction that defied logic, propelled by a blend of skilled salesmanship and the intoxicating atmosphere of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

As I emerged into the sunlight, I couldn't help but marvel at the cleverness of the cave owner, who had transformed a simple invitation to take photos into a masterclass in the art of the upsell. I had come in search of memories and left with a tangible, if pricey, token of my visit. In the end, I suppose, that's the true magic of Châteauneuf-du-Pape: the ability to turn even the most guarded of travellers into willing devotees at the church of the grape.

But what truly sets Châteauneuf-du-Pape apart, aside from its ability to make your bank account weep, is the sheer beauty of the place. It's as if the village itself has been marinated in fine wine, with every stone and cobble exuding a sense of timeless charm. The locals move with the kind of unhurried grace that suggests they've all reached some higher state of contentment, or perhaps they're just perpetually tipsy.

In conclusion, my journey from the Luberon Valley to Châteauneuf-du-Pape was more than just a test of my driving skills and liver's endurance. It was a pilgrimage to the heart of wine country, a place where history, culture, and viticulture come together as seamlessly as a well-balanced blend. So, if you ever find yourself in this corner of France, do yourself a favour and raise a glass to the popes who, in their infinite wisdom, decided that what the world really needed was a little more wine. Cheers, or as the locals might say, santé!

Live Well!

M.

p.s.

**No driving under the influence of intoxicants took place in the research for this post**

All of the images were captured with the Leica Q3. Thank you, Marc and Vinnie, at the Leica Boutique in Marseille. Any post-processing was done in Lightroom.

Please leave me your thoughts or comments in the box below the last image if you have a moment. I do love to hear from you.

Arles in Winter: Where Van Gogh Meets Viennoiserie.

Arles. The jewel of Provence, where the Rhône gently kisses the Mediterranean, and where, on a particularly crisp winter morning, I found myself parked adjacent to two long and narrow river cruise boats, both were tied up north facing at the dock. I sat wondering if my car was closer to Van Gogh's bedroom or the nearest patisserie. In its infinite wisdom, the sun had decided to grace those of us up with the birds, casting a golden hue over the town that even the most skilled Instagram filter couldn't replicate.

The streets of Arles at this hour are a curious mix of the sleepy and the over-caffeinated. Artists, those brave souls, are already out with their sketch pads, capturing the light that once inspired Van Gogh to, well, let's say, get overly enthusiastic with his self-portraits. I strolled along the quay, my breath no longer visible in the air, a reminder that while the calendar insisted it was winter, the temperature, hovering in the high teens, seemed to have missed the memo.

In the heart of the town, the scent of freshly baked croissants waged a fierce battle with the aroma of strong coffee. The local boulangeries, those temples of butter and flour, were opening their doors, emitting a warmth that seemed to beckon every soul in Arles. I watched as people, clearly more accustomed to the early hours around here than I, made their pilgrimage for their morning sustenance. There's something almost religious about the first bite of a croissant in a French bakery; it's like a sacrament but flakier.

As I wandered, I stumbled upon the Roman-built coliseum, or as I like to call it, the 'Arena of the Absurdly Old'. It's remarkable to think that this structure has been standing since 90 AD, hosting everything from gladiator battles to, more recently, tourists with selfie sticks. It's a testament to Roman engineering and modern-day marketing. I half expected a centurion to pop out offering guided tours, but it was just a man in a slightly less impressive uniform selling postcards.

The boutiques in Arles are a delightful distraction. Each one is unique, like snowflakes, if snowflakes were made of lavender soap and hand-painted ceramics. I wandered into one, pretending for a moment that I was the kind of person who could nonchalantly buy a €200 scarf without blinking. Sensing my internal struggle, the shopkeeper smiled and said, "It's okay, I too dream of being outrageously wealthy."

Lunchtime in Arles is an experience in itself. The cafes and bistros come alive, their tables spilling onto the sidewalks. I chose a spot in the sun, the kind of place where you can sit with a glass of local wine and pretend to write a novel. The menu was a delightful parade of Provençal classics – ratatouille, bouillabaisse, and something involving snails that I wasn't brave enough to try. The food, much like the town itself, is unpretentious yet sophisticated, like a farmer in a tuxedo. All that to say, after that tooing and froing, I decided to have an espresso and wait to have lunch later in the day.

The streets took on a more leisurely pace as the late morning pressed on. The artists had packed up, their morning's work done, replaced by couples strolling hand in hand and so many dogs, each looking like it had just stepped out of a French film about existentialism and baguettes.

As the sun descended, casting long shadows across the ancient stones, I found myself back at the river. The cruise boats were being prepared for their next voyage by a small Army (more appropriately, Navy) of young men working very hard to make everything ship shape and Bristol fashion. As I drove from the dockyard parking lot along the Rhone to Avignon, I counted my lucky stars. You see, the last time I was here, it was pre-covid, and the river cruises were packed with relentlessly embarking throngs of tourists rolling down the gangways to invade the city as the Romans had thousands of years previous. In reality what I observed back in the summer of 2019, were hundreds of new-age Romans, or as my friend Jaquie puts it, the “salad dodgers”, stumble down the gang plank onto terra firma. As I got further & further out of town, I couldn’t stop thinking about the absurdity of trying to capture the essence of a place like Arles in a few hours or even a 3,000-word blog post.

In the end, Arles is a town that doesn't just sit in the landscape; it is the landscape. It's a place where history and modernity dance a slow waltz, every corner holds a story, and every pastry shop is a potential love affair. As I neared home, I mused that Van Gogh had it right all along – sometimes, the most ordinary places are the most extraordinary, especially when viewed through the lens of a winter morning sun.

SIX MONTHS A YEAR STARTS NOW!

Bonnieux, my adopted home away from home. If you have never heard of it, don't fret – neither had I, until a twist of fate and a slightly misguided sense of adventure (or was it a mid-life crisis?) landed me here. This hilltop Provençal village that seems to have been designed by a particularly nostalgic set of gods with a penchant for puzzles and steep inclines.

You see, Bonnieux isn't just a village; it's a full-blown aerobic workout. I've lost more weight walking to the bakery here than I ever have in a gym at home. The place is perched – and I use that term with the total weight of its gravity-defying implications – on a craggy hill in the Luberon, offering views that stretch endlessly until they bump into some other quaint village or an olive grove that's been around since Julius Caesar was in short pants.

The history? Oh, it's rich. Bonnieux was a big deal when the Popes were in Avignon, probably because they needed a scenic retreat from all that divine responsibility. The old church at the top of the village is so ancient that I half expect to bump into Crusaders or Knights Templar comparing GPS coordinates. And let's not forget the Roman bridges and roads. The Romans, those eternal show-offs, left behind the Pont Julien – a bridge still standing after two thousand years. I'm convinced it’s due to sheer stubbornness.

Fast forward a few centuries, and Bonnieux, like every self-respecting medieval French village, got itself embroiled in the religious wars. Catholics and Protestants squabbling over God's fine print led to some rather spirited town meetings, I imagine. This historical mishmash has given the village an architectural diversity that's an absolute nightmare for anyone trying to pick a coherent colour scheme for their window shutters.

Then came the agricultural revolution, with cherries and olives becoming the stars of the show. The terraced landscapes here are a testament to what you can achieve with a bit of land, many stones, and a complete disregard for your back’s well-being.

The 20th century saw Bonnieux, like a retired movie star, fade a bit into the background. But then, as if in a plot twist, it found itself rediscovered, like an old vinyl record in a hipster's hemp shoulder bag from a “vintage shop.” Artists and writers, presumably tired of Parisian traffic and existential angst, decided Bonnieux was the place to be. Cue the restoration of historic buildings and the revival of those agricultural traditions, now considered quaint.

Today, as a part-time resident and full-time observer, I watch with amusement and a touch of pride as Bonnieux parades its history with the casual elegance of a catwalk model. The streets here don't just wind; they meander with purpose as if to tell you, "Slow down, you're missing the point."

Culturally, the village is a kaleidoscope. It's inspired more paintings and books than a village this size rightfully should. Walking through its lanes, you half expect to stumble upon an art easel at every corner or a writer musing under every tree.

So, why Bonnieux? Why did I, an admittedly eccentric apprentice writer who loves the quirky and the absurd, choose to plant roots here? It's simple. Bonnieux isn't just a place; it's a character in its own right, with a story that keeps unfolding in the most unpredictable ways. It's the kind of place where history isn't just remembered; it's lived in, laughed in, and occasionally tripped over.

In conclusion, come to Bonnieux if you're ever in Provence, looking for a village that combines breathtaking views with a workout regime fit for a Roman legionnaire. Just remember to bring good shoes and a sense of humour. You'll need both.

Don’t get any bright ideas and decide upon arrival that this place would also suit you down to the ground. Don’t let me catch you entering one of the three local real estate agents. I moved here to escape you, so find your own village. No hurry, sit; I can still pour you a glass of Rosè while you study your map!

As always, please leave your thoughts or any comments below. I do look forward to hearing from you.

Live well!

M.

All images were captured with the Leica SL2-S camera and 24-90mm lens.

Wandering Nice with my Leica Q2: Stories in Every Frame

When people think of France, Paris often steals the spotlight. But for those in the know, Nice, nestled on the stunning French Riviera, is a gem waiting to be discovered. And what better companion to have on this adventure than my trusty little travel camera (Leica Q2)?

Before diving into the wonders of Nice, I must mention my trusty travel companion. The Leica Q2. This camera is akin to a magic wand, encompassing immense power in a sleek design. Its intuitive nature made capturing moments on the go feel seamless. The Q2 was a silent observer, capturing the essence of Nice without intruding upon its natural rhythm. I have several other camera choices, but when I want to move about without drawing attention to myself with a camera that has the capability to capture images from 28mm to 75mm in a small package, the Q2 is the obvious choice.

Nice: A Palette of Pastel Dreams. The city itself seemed to be painted with a dreamy brush, often awash in pastel colours. Pastel-pink façades juxtaposed against soft lavender skies and streets lined with sun-bleached yellow buildings felt like walking through an artist's masterpiece. The sun setting over Nice transformed the city, with coral oranges and muted purples reflecting off windows and the serene waters. Every nook and cranny whispered stories, and the Leica Q2 ensured each tale was told in its full pastel glory.

A Dive into Gatorade Blue. Beyond the shores, the Mediterranean beckoned with its alluring shade of blue – reminiscent of a fresh bottle of Gatorade. This vibrant blue seemed unreal, almost like the sea had absorbed the very essence of the sky. Diving in, I felt enveloped by this refreshing hue, and above, the sun created a dappled dance of light on the water's surface. It wasn't just about swimming; it was about immersing oneself in a liquid canvas, and the Leica was there to chronicle every splash, every ripple.

Faces of Nice: Meeting a Legionnaire. Nice is teeming with life and characters. People who have seen seasons change, who have tales hidden behind every smile, every wrinkle. And sometimes, as a photographer, you chance upon someone who makes you stop and wonder. I came across a gentleman one morning on the Promenade des Anglais, a striking figure in a sea of tourists. Dressed impeccably, his demeanour hinted at a past full of discipline and pride. The sharpness of his attire contrasted with the weathered lines on his face, and I couldn’t resist capturing him in a frame. Later, curiosity got the better of me, and I returned the following morning, hoping he would be there. I felt compelled to introduce myself and hopefully learn a little about the man who stood out from the crowd. As we spoke, I learned a little bit about his military service. Though he was guarded about the specifics, his posture and pride hinted at a possible association with the French Foreign Legion. The Legion! A group shrouded in mystery and romanticism. I couldn't help but consider his evident battle scars with the tales of valour and romance that have surrounded the Legion for years. Perhaps I have come closest to meeting a real-life Beau Geste.

Nice through the Lens of my Leica Q2. In Nice, the interplay of light, people, and architecture creates a canvas that changes with the moments, and my Q2 was there to ensure I didn’t miss a single image. Its ability to render colours, from the azure blues seas to the pastel shades of Nice’s streets, was consistently astounding. And if you're like me, wanting to immortalize those moments, there's no better tool for the job than a camera like the Leica Q2. For in the end, travel is as much about the stories we bring back as it is about the places we visit.

Nice is the definition of a beautiful and opulent colour palette. My hope is that these qualities will someday attract you to visit the French Riviera. I am personally most happy when I wander from place to place with my favourite travel camera. Nice is one of those very few destinations that ensures that my Leica Q2 will never be called upon to capture a monochrome image.

Thanks for dropping by Walkacrossitall! I am always grateful for you sharing your precious time.

Live Well!

Mark

IT’S BEEN 7000 YEARS!

The humble olive! A fruit (yes, my friend, it's a fruit, not a vegetable) as mysterious and complicated as your recently divorced friend’s relationship status on Zuckerberg’s evil Facething. The olive's history is so entwined with human civilization it's practically writing its own book of never-ending history.

First off, the olive tree's origin: a tale as convoluted as an overcooked French ratatouille. Some say olives first graced the earth in the Eastern Mediterranean (Greece) around 7,000 years ago. Others argue its ancestors were gallivanting around Asia Minor. What's certain is that the olive tree has seen more history than the kitchen walls of my favorite falafel shop in the Muslim quarter of old Jerusalem.

Let's travel to ancient Greece, shall we? They used olive oil like it was going out of style (or, more accurately, coming into style). A hot bath with olive oil? Check. A dollop of oil in their food? Of course! Anointing themselves to look all shiny and godlike? You bet! Even their athletes were slathered in it, making them glisten like greased lightning.

Oh, but we're not done! Let's not overlook the brilliant Italians who used the olive as an opportunity to create something to serve with bread. The audacity! Who would've thought that pressing the life out of an olive could result in a culinary masterpiece? "Extra Virgin" and nothing else.

We can’t ignore the Spanish, who took one look at olives and thought, "Let's put this in everything!" They've cultivated an art form out of olive growing and turned their countryside into an olive oasis. A landscape dotted with olive trees as far as the eye can see.

Now, if you thought the olive's talents were restricted to food and skincare, brace yourself for its foray into home décor. Yes, that rustic-looking charcuterie board you just bought for an obscene amount of money? “Probably” made from olive wood. Those kitchen utensils that have a certain je ne sais quoi? Olive wood again! That fancy pipe you're using to smoke whatever with? We Canadians have a government that now encourages our “best and brightest” stoners to get in on a piece of their very own olive wood action. Yep, olive wood; it's as if these trees are begging us to use every part of them.

Think of an olive as a compact little universe of flavor. Each one is like a plot twist in your favorite TV show. Will it be bitter? Will it be sweet? Will it be stuffed with something inexplicable, like blue cheese or garlic? The suspense is real!

But alas, dear olive, what's the use of all this fame and fortune if you end up pitted and jammed into a jar, only to be retrieved during cocktail hour? The irony is palpable. A fruit with such a rich history reduced to a mere hors d'oeuvre. It's like finding the Mona Lisa on a postage stamp.

But wait, there’s more (Shamwow reference time) I've neglected the pièce de résistance of our olive odyssey: the Provençal olive market vendors! Oh, these marvelous men, masters of the olive, orchestrators of oil, tantalizers of tapenades. Dressed in their rustic ensembles (or jeans and t-shirts), they lure you into their stalls with smiles as oily as their wares and charm that could melt a pat of French butter on a freezing winter’s day.

In the bustling markets of Provence, you'll find an extravaganza of olive delights. Want an olive mix that combines the best of both worlds (or, in this case, the best of all worlds)? They've got you covered. From the sweet Picholine to the robust Tanche, each blend plays with your senses. The tapenades? Oh, don't get me started! These are not mere spreads; these are symphonies in a bowl. Whether it's a mixture of olives with capers, anchovies, and herbs or a delightful concoction of sundried tomatoes, garlic, and perhaps a whisper of truffle oil, each taste is an escape to the sunny hills of Southern France. It's a love affair between your taste buds and a Mediterranean breeze, prepared for your trip home in a “safety-first” plastic container guaranteed to prevent spillage 83% of the time.

So, the next time you visit your local supermarket, spare a thought for the olives in aisle three. Behind those glass jars lies a world of intrigue, passion, and culinary excellence. Embrace the contradictions, the unexpected surprises, and the unmistakable taste of the olive. After all, isn't that what life's all about?

Raise a glass to olives, dear readers. Or better yet, raise a martini adorned with one. It's the least we can do for a fruit that's been with us through thick and thin, through salads and sandwiches, through victories and defeats.

(Note: All images were captured with the self-confidence of someone who “thinks” he knows something about olives and his Leica Q2.)

Feel free to comment below if you, like me, find yourself inexplicably drawn to the world of olives. Or if you just like martinis. Either way, your thoughts are welcome and very much appreciated!

Live well!

Cheers…

M.

OTHER PEOPLE’S SHIT!

Ah, France! The land of love, fine wine, and pastries to kill a diet at twenty paces. But more than that, France is also the land of Brocantes - glorious gatherings of what I like to call "other people's SHIT." My wife calls it treasure hunting. I call it a relentless pursuit of tetanus.

The Brocante adventure begins bright and early with "Le Bargain Hunter" emerging from their habitat, armed with a coffee-stained checklist and an overpowering aroma of desperation and Gauloises cigarettes. These fine folks, whose fashion sense could best be described as "Walmart chic," have truly mastered the art of chain smoking in confined spaces and giving zero F#cks.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for a bargain, but my wife's love for Brocantes is something else entirely. It's a passionate, feverish love, like a French romance novel but with more dust and rust. I've seen her bargain with carpet sellers and pottery market traders with the intensity of a French general storming the beaches (ah, the subtleties of French military history, n'est-ce pas?), and all for what? A slightly chipped vase that probably once contained the ashes of someone's Uncle Henri.

Oh, the people! Let's talk about them. They're the true spectacle. One must admire the dedication of those who arrive even before the rusty gates swing open, like seagulls on the scent of yesterday's rock-hard baguettes. They peer through cracks, sizing up the loot, their faces twisted into masks of greed and anticipation. Bargain hunting or horror movie audition? You decide.

The Brocante sellers are a breed apart. They know the regulars; they've seen it all. Their smiles are as genuine as the "antique" Rolex watches they sell. If you're a newbie, be warned, these people can smell your innocence, and they'll charge you double for the privilege of taking home a slightly off-kilter chair that's been through the French Revolution (and not in a museum).

And then there's the stuff. Ah, the stuff. Tables groaning under the weight of mismatched tea sets, creepy porcelain dolls that seem to follow you with their eyes, and paintings of cats playing poker. My wife calls it character. I call it a reason to get therapy.

You see, I love my wife, and I have the mismatched furniture to prove it. Our second-floor living room is now a shrine to the Brocante gods, each piece with its unique quirk and questionable history. Our house is like a museum; only instead of "please don't touch" signs, there are price tags I'd rather forget.

And as for situational awareness? Forget it! It's a battlefield out there. People jostling, pushing, pulling, with no regard for personal space or social niceties. The French are known for their sophistication, but at the Brocante, it's every madame and monsieur for themselves. The only rule is that there are no rules, except perhaps the unspoken one: if you sneeze, you've bought it.

In the end, you'll leave the Brocante with a car full of someone else's memories, a wallet significantly lighter, and the satisfied smile of someone who knows they've bested you. Your wife will be on cloud nine, planning the next adventure into the world of tarnished treasures, and you'll be wondering if it's too early for a glass of Rosé.

So, dear reader, if you ever find yourself in France, by all means, visit the Eiffel Tower, take a cruise down the Seine, but don't miss the true French experience, the Brocante. Embrace the chaos, the dust, and the dubious bargains. If you're lucky, you might even find a treasure or two. Or, like me, you'll simply learn to smile, nod, and appreciate the eccentric beauty in the things – and people – that no one else wants.

This is simply life in France when you are trying to furnish a very old home. C’est la vie. I trust you have enjoyed this midweek check-in.

All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q2.

I hope you have a moment to comment below!

Live well.

M.

NOT FOR THE LACTOSE INTOLLERANT.

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.

CLIMBING BACK ON THE CHEVAL.

Embracing the charm of Provence was as easy as slipping back into my old linen shirt; this region practically serenades us with its azure skies, warm sunshine, and a chorus of cicadas that sounds suspiciously like Edith Piaf singing "La Vie en Rose" as she wanders through the vines.

These loonie-sized (Canadianism) tree insects are the ones who serenade the valleys of Provence, their melody echoing through the olive groves and lavender fields, a soundtrack to our escape from the monotonous humdrum of the daily grind. With a healthy appetite for the joie de vivre that the South of France promised, we settled in on an epicurean adventure in the wonderous Luberon Valley, our refuge from the seemingly dystopian reality of Trudeau’s folly.

Nestled in the ample lap of the Luberon mountains, this (thankfully) overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make us forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the copious amounts of local rosé.

As we journey through the region, every winding turn of the rustic country roads teases our senses with a new spectacle - a tableau vivant of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant vineyards to the rocky cliffs, everything bathed in the golden Provencal sun. We half expected Julia Child to pop out from behind a vine to hitch a ride in our Renault. Once settled in the back seat, she could begin narrating our journey into the culinary wilderness.

On this latest visit, our first spectacle of the Luberon Valley was a quaint local produce market with such an array of colors and scents that even a seasoned gourmand (aka Fat Bastard) like me could explore with childlike wonder. We walked past stalls of ripe tomatoes and fragrant herbs, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of market vendors, providing the perfect soundtrack to our gastronomic documentary.

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History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Romans once tread here, proudly leaving their mark on the pristine landscape. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered ruins and ancient vineyards, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.

Our 30th wedding anniversary dinner was at a charming little restaurant known as L’Arome, tucked away in a cobblestone alley of our little village. The chef, a jovial man with a mustache that would make Hercule Poirot green with envy, served us a meal that was nothing short of a symphony on a plate. The local wine flowed like the nearby Sorgue River, and the laughter and conversation echoed around the terrace like a well-rehearsed orchestra.

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Now, don’t let Provence’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of Paris, but that’s akin to comparing a fine Bordeaux with a rather introspective Coors Light or “NASCAR nectar”. And here's a thought, could it be that Provence intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep the hordes of tourists at bay? Maybe, maybe not. But one thing's for sure, the triumphant crème brûlée at the local dingy dive bar is even top-class. You would be a fool not to travel with the Michelin Guide, but as always, trust in your own senses and follow your nose!

As I bid you farewell once again from this pocket of tranquillity, our hearts and minds continue to fill with warm and vivid memories. A trip to Provence might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapters in our lives. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Provence being Provence. It's a place that offers a symphony of nature, a pinch of history, a dash of culture, and a good chunk of serenity. Just bring your camera. My intention going forward is to post on Sundays and Wednesdays. I hope you enjoy and continue to be ever so slightly entertained.

Please leave a comment if you have a moment.

Live Well!

Mark

p.s. All images were captured with the Leica SL2-S / 24-90mm lens and the Leica Q2.

NARBONNE, THEY TOLD US TO BEWARE THE HORRORS OF A FRENCH PROTEST.

At some point early this week, a renewed desire to explore took hold of us, and we decided to revisit Narbonne. This, an otherwise lovely medieval town previously tainted by the winter of our discontent. My last visit here was in January 2020, one month before Covid set in. In addition to the fear of catching the plague, the weather was atrocious and certainly not what you would expect from this Mediterranean jewel , no matter what time of year. No more snow, no icy winds - this time, Narbonne greeted us with open arms and a welcoming glow from a glorious sun. The call of the South of France was hard to resist, particularly given the promise of the ancient city's history and famed gastronomic delights.

Like a shy maiden hidden behind the veil of our experience, Narbonne revealed herself under the bright summer sun. As we navigated the streets and canals, we quickly realized parking was as rare as finding a family size bag of ketchup chips and a 2L bottle of cream soda. However, with dogged determination we managed to land a little spot not too far from our lodging, a quaint, unassuming hotel that we stumbled upon on hotels.com. We were greeted with a generous glass of Rosé and an exquisite charcuterie board - both unplanned but warmly welcomed refreshments - atop the hotel’s sun-drenched rooftop. The radiant heat, the tantalizing flavors, and the soul-soothing breeze all worked their magic to banish our travel fatigue.

Once our spirits were rejuvenated, we wandered to the town's pulsating heart, ready to uncover Narbonne's myriad of treasures. We strolled through the picturesque streets as the architecture whispered tales of a time long past. Narbonne, you see, has a rich history dating back to the Romans, who used it as a crucial trading port. Vestiges of this period can be seen on the Via Domitia, the oldest Roman road in France, uncovered right in the city's center.

For the history buffs out there, Narbonne's Archaeological Museum is a must-visit. It is bursting with artifacts and exhibits that speak volumes about Narbonne’s history from prehistoric times to the Middle Ages. Here, your senses are taken on a journey through time. The cathedral, a marvel of Gothic architecture, another gem, seems to stand as a testament to the city's former ecclesiastical glory.

Narbonne is not just for history lovers. The Halles de Narbonne, an indoor market, is a culinary paradise where local produce, meats, cheeses, and wines from the region reign supreme. Each vendor is an expert in their craft, offering tips on the perfect cheese for your palate or the ideal wine to accompany your baguette.

In the evening, the city becomes even more magical. Its streets, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, are lined with lively cafés and restaurants, each offering its slice of the famed French cuisine. The aroma of freshly prepared meals wafts through the air, the sound of clinking glasses echoes around, and the sight of people enjoying their repast makes for a very enticing scene.

In hindsight, it feels like Narbonne was waiting for this second chance, and it has indeed won us over with its charm and energy. Yes, there's plenty of history, but there's also vibrancy, a lively food scene, and a welcoming atmosphere. Here's a toast to giving places a second chance and to the enduring allure of Narbonne!

Oh, and how can I forget? Amidst all the charm and history, Narbonne decided to spice up our visit with a dash of contemporary French political theatre - a good old-fashioned protest against retirement reform. You've got to hand it to the French; they do know how to throw a protest! Even in this serene, historically rich town, the winds of dissent were blowing.

Just as we were enjoying a lovely cold glass or two of Monaco and an Aperol Spritz in a picturesque cafe by the canal, a sea of placards, banners, and passionate locals filled the streets, marching, singing, and waving baguettes (a nice touch of French resistance, wouldn't you say?). The retirees were out in full force, shaking their walking sticks and chanting slogans. I half expected a chorus line of seniors to start a can-can routine in the middle of the square. And you know what? Despite the disruption, the restaurant continued to serve, and the wine flowed - because it's France!

There was a brilliant moment where one particularly feisty grandmother, armed with nothing but a fiercely worded sign and a fiery spirit, managed to bring the march to a halt just to adjust her beret. Let me tell you; if there's anything more French than protesting your government while sipping a glass of red, it's making sure your beret is perfectly angled while doing so. This city, ladies and gentlemen, has a sense of style, history, cuisine, and a flair for the dramatic. Narbonne - the city that never fails to impress!

I hope these few words and photographs inspired just a little bit of interest in visiting this area. Please leave a comment if you have some time; I really enjoy hearing from you.

Live well!

M.

MY 10TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.

Discovering the Timeless Charm of Saignon: this Quaint Provençal Village is definitely a must if you ever decide to visit the Luberon Valley. Nestled in the heart of the region, Saignon is a picturesque village that seems untouched by the hands of time. Steeped in history, this charming place has been gracing the Provençal landscape since the Roman era. It has seen the rise and fall of empires, the comings and goings of royalty, and the evolution of France itself. Fast forward to the present day, Saignon continues to be a delightful destination, offering an authentic Provençal experience for those seeking a serene and idyllic getaway.

Getting to Saignon is a breeze, as this enchanting village is just a short drive away from the larger town of Apt. From Apt, hop on the D943 and follow the signs to Saignon. As you wind through the scenic countryside, you'll be captivated by the sight of centuries-old stone houses, lush vineyards, and verdant fields of lavender. Upon arriving in Saignon, prepare to be enchanted by the village's narrow cobblestone streets, charming squares, and friendly locals.

Saignon's close-knit community consists mainly of around 1,000 residents, who are known for their warm hospitality and dedication to preserving the village's rich heritage. Many locals are engaged in traditional occupations such as agriculture, with a focus on wine and olive production, as well as artisan crafts and small family-run businesses. The village's homes are emblematic of Provençal architecture, featuring time-honored stone buildings with colorful shutters and terracotta-tiled roofs, creating an enchanting atmosphere that perfectly complements the village's historic charm.

Once you've settled in, take the time to explore the village's rich culinary scene. For a mouthwatering Provençal meal, head into any of the local cafes or restaurants you walk by. In any one of them you'll enjoy delicious dishes crafted from fresh, local ingredients with friendly warm and attentive service. After a satisfying meal, set out to discover Saignon's historical gems. Be sure to visit the 12th-century Church of Notre-Dame-de-Pitié and the picturesque Rocher de Bellevue, where you can take in panoramic views of the Luberon valley. Wander the quaint streets and don't miss the beautifully preserved stone fountains that add to the village's magical ambiance. From ancient Roman ruins to the heartwarming charm of its residents, Saignon truly has something for everyone. I do look forward to reading about your thoughts in the comments section below.

Live Well!

M.

p.s. All of these images were captured with the Leica SL2-S and both the 21mm and 90mm F2 APO lenses.

BUT MOM, WHAT IF I WANNA BE A DIGITAL NOMAD?

As an admirer of all things art, the Chateau La Coste, situated just a little to the north of Aix-en-Provence, is truly a feast for the senses. The estate is a fusion of contemporary architecture and art, all surrounded by the stunning vineyards of Provence. Every corner you turn is a new discovery, with sculptures from artists such as Louise Bourgeois and Alexander Calder dotting the landscape. The buildings themselves are also works of art, designed by some of the most renowned architects in the world, such as Jean Nouvel and Tadao Ando. The grounds are a living canvas, and exploring them feels like a journey into a dream world.

But the Chateau La Coste is not just about art. The estate is also home to a world-class winery and several outstanding restaurants. The wine produced here is a reflection of the land and the people who make it, with each bottle a testament to the unique terroir of Provence. The vineyards are tended with care and attention, and the resulting wines are a celebration of the region's rich history and culture. Whether you are a connoisseur or simply someone who enjoys a good glass of wine, the Chateau La Coste has something for everyone.

The restaurant we chose today is named after the above mentioned architect Tadao Ando. It is a stunningly modern location born out of sculpture. We were greeted by a slender staff member who was clad in black from turtleneck to Hermès loafer. He asked for our reservation details and then requested we follow him. You would think by now that I would remember to take a seat in the chair that most obscures my gaze from the surrounding diners. My recurring problem is that I still cannot switch off in public and as such incessantly watch and listen to everyone and everything around me. It is a curse of a past career and something I need to rectify ASAP if I am to enjoy my time left on this planet.

Just my luck, today we had table neighbours who were not going to help my situation at all. A party of three. Two overly coddled “Gen Z global citizens", and their seemingly estranged and uninterested Italian mother. For what seemed like well over the first half an hour, we were witness to unrelenting whining and snivelling about how hard it is to maintain bank accounts in the US, UK, and Italy all at one time. Additionally, they needed help retaining a shady immigration lawyer to help them get a recent application accepted for the relatively new phenomenon of certain countries in the world who offer a GOLDEN visa.

The estranged mother, with the weathered face of a thousand sandstorms and a million Benson & Hedges, kept quiet and smoked more cigarettes to dull the pain. I should actually explain that mom did a valiant job at enduring the selfishness and conversation hijacking. There did come the point, though, where everything changed. At that moment, the 20-something girl announced that her mother would have to pay for this lovely lunch and dig a little deeper. There was a pregnant pause. I could sense it coming. And then, just like the British soldiers in the movie A Bridge too Far,. She, too, went a bridge too far. “Mom, I need more money. What if I wanna be a digital nomad?” Things changed at that point. Mom got up and walked out of our sight. The coddled remained to guess which one of their international bank accounts had enough money to pay the hefty bill. Mom never returned. The spoiled little fekkers could still be there as I write this, working in the vines or washing kitchen pots. Either would suffice. 1 - 0 storm-face!

Once again, I thank you for dropping by. And an absolutely huge thank you to our new friend Anna for suggesting we visit the Chateau. Magical moments indeed. We are in Anna’s debt! Today's images were captured with the Leica Q2.

Live Well!

M.

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SMALL TOWN IN THE WORLD!

According to Travel & Leisure magazine, in 2023, Gordes is considered the world’s most beautiful small town. Right off the bat, I have to tell you we do not live here, so we have little room to boast. But, and this is a big but, when we open our bedroom shutters in the morning, we do stare directly at Gordes across the Luberon valley. In many ways, I owe Gordes a big thank you for playing a massive role in bringing me to this valley in the first place. It was, in fact, Gordes and the village that we currently call home that forced our hand.

I may have mentioned this several times in the past. Still, without stumbling over a movie written by my literary hero, directed by Ridley Scott, starring Russell Crowe and filmed almost entirely in both villages, this would have never happened. That movie is called “A Good Year.” Some, like me, have watched and re-watched it countless times to admire the scenery through the lens of masterful cinematographers. Conversely, some folks didn’t enjoy it very much. Now, I will be the first to say that if you lust after movies about transforming robots, car theft or Keanu Reeves jumping through the space-time continuum to safely evade bullets, you should absolutely give a Good Year a miss.

This is what Gordes really is. Gordes is surely the most captivating hilltop village in Provence, with a rich and intriguing history. Dating back to the Roman era, Gordes was once a significant center for agricultural production and commerce in the region. Over the centuries, the village has seen its fair share of conflicts and upheavals, including wars and invasions. Today, Gordes is a charming destination that attracts visitors from all over the world with its stunning architecture, quaint cobbled streets, and breathtaking views of the Luberon mountains. As a travel photographer, I find myself drawn to the village's unique beauty and fascinating history, and I never tire of capturing its essence through the lens of my Leica.

As I sit here writing, the mistral winds are blowing a gale and it is time for us to close the shutters to both stop the chilly drafts as well as protect the windows. I can’t begin to describe how ferociously the wind can gust here. As legend has it, the mistrals are the cause for many locals to plunge into the depths of despair during the winter months when the winds last for weeks. For those who recover, the knowledge that warmth and calm are soon to restore life to normal in the Luberon, is all they can ask.

Thank you so much for dropping by and I look forward to hearing from you in the comments below.

Live Well!

M.

p.s. All of these photos were captured with both the Leica Q2 Ghost and SL2-S.

GET A LOOK AT THESE KNOCKERS.

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I want to apologise immediately if you clicked on this post assuming you were going to see something completely different. You probably assumed that this post would be directed more towards those starved for news of this season’s Mediterranean swimwear fashion trends. Perhaps some images captured beachside while wandering along the Promenade des Anglais. Nope, not this time. No-one more than I loves a couple of dozen pictures of well cared for and proudly displayed knockers. To some, these bits of old brass are nothing more than inanimate objects. I see the patina of several bygone eras, and try to imagine the conversations that took place at each of these doors over so many years. Why not try embracing my passion for some of the prettiest knockers in Provence!

The history of old French brass door knockers traces its roots back to the medieval period when castles and large manor houses started using these ornamental yet functional devices. Crafted with intricate designs, these door knockers often reflected the architectural styles prevalent during various periods such as Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque. French artisans used their skill and creativity to forge unique designs, often inspired by mythology, heraldry, and nature. These exquisite brass door knockers not only served as a way to announce a visitor's arrival but also became a symbol of wealth, prestige, and artistic prowess.

The use of old French brass door knockers transcended their primary function, evolving into a form of art that embellished the entrance of a home. Given the high-quality craftsmanship and the durable nature of brass, many of these door knockers have withstood the test of time. Today, they are highly sought-after by collectors and enthusiasts of vintage decorative objects. The old French brass door knockers, with their undeniable charm and intricate detailing, continue to captivate the imaginations of both historians and artists alike, ensuring their lasting legacy as a testament to the mastery of the artisans who created them.

For those who are interested, and I know that is very few, the following images were captured with a Leica Q2 Ghost. I trust you will enjoy staring at these knockers, I know I do!

Live Well!

M.

p.s. What knocker is your favourite? Leave the number below with your thoughts in the comments section below.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live Well.

M.

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

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

TO ABSENT FRIENDS!

Today started out like most in the Luberon. Up too early, a double espresso, and then the big decision. Do we wander down to the Boules Court? Do we really want to hang our TRX trainer and resistance bands on the iron vine trellis for an old folks workout? Or do we scrap that nonsense, jump on the bikes, and peddle to Lacoste? When we arrive there, we can have a light breakfast or “petit déjeuner” consisting of baguette, salted butter, lavender honey and local preserves. That simple start to the day always arrives alongside a Spanish orange juice from our Valencian brothers, a second espresso, and a wonderful smile.

The location for this regular excursion is Cafe France. Their terrace clings to the granite cliffside 40 meters above the street below and provides a vista of the valley that’s second to none. Our server has become quite familiar with this ritual and always makes us feel very welcome when we arrive sweaty and a little short of breath. Sometimes minutes can turn into hours sitting there gazing towards the rising sun.

I have been separated from photography for most of this trip. Usually, it's my happy place and serves as the best tool to take me out of myself. Moments of clarity & peace manifest themselves when I focus, compose and consider nothing but what stands before me.

The camera’s viewfinder provides a very affective therapy that can't be replicated, and today was a great reminder to include it in my day more often.

Lacoste is a place for a total immersion in the arts. Art students, artists in residence and locals with flair and creativity. As you wander the cobbles, you can glance in studio windows, stroll through sculpture, and lose yourself in a world that I've always fancied but never had the opportunity to embrace. Life gets in the way, and it never strikes you when you are young that you can earn a living being creative.

I envy the Savanah College of Art and Design students who learn, develop and create here during their "year abroad." It appears from the outside to be a fantastic way to be educated. The importance of recognizing a well rounded education is more than just growing as an academic and an artist. The value of being a traveler completes the trifecta and could be the cornerstone of a life well lived.

It was eerily quiet here this morning. What curiously permeated today's visit was the feeling of oneness. The feeling that today, those inside these castle walls are living a solitary existence. Today was an alone day. I stopped to consider this under the shade of a large and well situated olive tree for a while. Olive trees are a godsend when temperatures push past 36 degrees in the morning.

Sometimes no matter where you are. No matter how beautiful your surroundings. No matter how satisfied you are with your lot in life, it can be still hard to live it alone. So whether it's an old man occupying one chair of three, a cat with a sill all to himself, or a sculpture standing or even flying in solitude, sometimes it can be better to have the company of a friend.

I consider myself very lucky, as I live this privileged life with my best friend of 31 years. For that I am truly grateful. Yet, I raise a glass to those who are alone as well as those they miss. I hope that just like my last photo of this series, a friend is never too far away when you really need a hug.

To absent friends!

Live well!

Mark

If you have some time please leave a comment . I love to hear from you.

P.S. There are over seven billion people on this planet. I only like 13 of them. Maybe that’s ok too? :)

All of these images were captured with a Leica M10-R