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.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. AIR CANADA STYLE.

Vancouver Island. The name itself conjures images of rugged, rainforested landscapes and coastline so dramatically beautiful that it stops your very breath. It's the sort of place where one expects the unexpected, where nature still holds a firm grip on the sensibilities of the people. However, nestled in our cozy little home, with the relentless patter of rain providing a background symphony, I was grappling with a wilderness of a different kind: the impenetrable thicket of customer service at Air Canada.

Now, dear reader, you must understand something. It is the run up to the Christmas season, a time renowned for miracles happening in the most unexpected places. Yet, it appeared that the Air Canada Aeroplan ticketing office was immune to any form of holiday magic or, indeed, basic telecommunications efficiency.

It’s time once again for us to retreat to our Provencal hilltop. The task was simple, or so it seemed. Book a flight from Vancouver to Paris. A routine activity that “Chantel the ticket agent”, & the first voice of promise on the other end of the line after a 90-minute serenade of hold music that could only be described as the least successful tracks from the 1980s, managed to complicate beyond reason.

"Oh, the flights are very busy at this time of year," Chantel imparted, in a tone suggesting I had just asked to be transported to the moon in a pedal-powered spacecraft piloted by Neil Armstrong and Tom “Maverick” Cruise. I pictured her there, in a cubicle decorated with motivational posters about reaching for the stars, utterly oblivious to the fact that her lack of helpfulness was rapidly ensuring I wouldn't even leave the ground.

Just as we seemed to be getting somewhere, somewhere being a relative term when one has repeated their Aeroplan number sixteen times, the line went dead. Not just dead, but 'ceased to be, joined the choir of the invisible' dead. I stared at the phone, the silent betrayer in my hand, contemplating the cosmic unfairness of it all.

I embarked on the Sisyphean task of redialing, navigating the automated menu with diminishing patience and rising dread. This time, it was Marie Veronique (her name may have been) who answered, her voice carrying the unmistakable tone of someone who had been steeped too long in customer complaints and cheap office coffee monitored closely by “Terry Tate” the office linebacker”. If you wish to take a quick peak into what that environment looks like, please click the link below for some real life examples!

Mr T. Tate

Now, you might imagine that being a high-tier frequent flyer with Air Canada would afford some cushioning from the abrasive indifference of understaffed customer service during the run up to the holiday season. You would be wrong. So profoundly, achingly wrong. Marie Veronique, with the casual disinterest of a cat watching the wrong documentary, informed me that not only were there no convenient flights, but she also seemed to imply this shortage was somehow my fault.

The hours waned, my mobile phone threatening to overheat, and my ear was developing a distinct cramp that I was certain hadn't been there earlier that morning. The rain seemed to be letting up outside, but the stormy frustration indoors was reaching its peak.

It's humbling, isn't it? Here you are, a seasoned traveler with more air miles than Santa Claus, being subtly patronized over the phone by two individuals who hold the fragile thread of your holiday plans between their fingers, ready to snap it with no more than a bored sigh.

By the time I had rebooked – on a flight with more stopovers than a presidential campaign trail and at the approximate cost of a small diamond – I realized something profound. Chantel and Marie Veronique (not their real names), in all their infuriating un-helpfulness, had done more than just ruin my afternoon. They'd provided a stark reminder: no matter how grand one's status, we are all but mere mortals in the face of customer service's capricious gods.

And so, dear reader, as you embark on your holiday travels, remember this: pack patience, for it will be tested, long before you need to decide on which toothbrush to take. This process had taken way too long and my will to live. I felt drowsy and was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I sensed I was nodding off.

The journey continued, as most do, with a misguided sense of optimism that perhaps the worst was behind us. How quaint that notion was. We arrived at the airport, bags laden with the kind of necessary items one needs to survive a trip that included layovers long enough to ponder the meaning of life. There, at the departure gate, we were to be greeted by Francis – though "greeted" is perhaps an overstatement.

Francis, you see, had the distinct air of a man who had wanted to be anywhere else on the planet other than dealing with the likes of travel-weary, question-armed passengers. He didn’t so much check our boarding passes as he did begrudgingly acknowledge their existence, offering the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes, or frankly, any part of his face.

But the real treat, the pièce de résistance, was yet to come. The Maple Leaf lounges, oh, the sanctuaries for the weary and privileged traveler, enclaves of comfort and care. Or so one would think. At Vancouver, and later in Montreal, it became abundantly clear that "sanctuary" had been redefined to mean a place where apathy reigns supreme, and the snacks have seen fresher days.

The staff, evidently following what must be a comprehensive training program in nonchalance, barely registered our presence, much less our status. It's a talent, really, to be so consistently disinterested, and they were virtuosos. One might wonder, in moments like this, where the hefty fees and taxes one pays go. Surely not into the staffing budget, or indeed into any aspect of the customer experience.

No, one could muse, those funds are perhaps funneled directly into the essential aviation fuel that keeps this great airline aloft – or possibly into federal tax dollars providing luxurious accommodations for the likes of Prime minister Trudeau on his whimsical jaunts to visit the Aga Khan. Or perhaps a massive west coast beach house used as a retreat for windy walks and skipping stones across the tidal pools of Tofino’s beaches with Melanie Joly (too soon)? One of life’s great mysteries, indeed.

And yet, as our journey finally, mercifully, continued towards its Parisian conclusion, a revelation dawned, casting a warm, if slightly resigned glow over the entire experience. A soliloquy of sorts bubbled to the surface, a ponderous voiceover to the slapstick comedy of errors this adventure had been.

Oh, Air Canada, with your indefatigable ability to deflate the buoyant spirits of even your most loyal passengers, how do you stay afloat? It's simple, really. Your secret weapon: the existence of competition so remarkably below par that next to them, you appear a shining beacon of adequacy. Yes, WestJet, we glance in your direction with a knowing nod.

For it matters not how you are treated in the warm, indifferent embrace of Air Canada. The alternative could indeed be worse. And so, we continue, gluttons for punishment, or perhaps just hostages to geography, loyal in our disgruntled way. Because no matter how high one's status, in the grand game of Canadian airlines, we're all just playing in the minor leagues, hoping for a call to the show that, we suspect, will never come.

But here's the rub, the twist in the tale, the unexpected morsel of hope in our traveler's buffet of despair: from the time we arrived at the airport it had all been a dream. A concoction of the sleeping brain, a mirage of misadventures that hadn't actually transpired — just yet. My eyes flickered open, phone still nestled against my ear, hold music quietly serenading me, as reality dawned with the softness of a feather yet the shock of cold water. There I was, still anchored firmly, if not somewhat deflatedly, in my living room, not a single bag packed, not a single apathetic employee endured.

The ordeal with Chantel and Marie Veronique had indeed happened and was a certified reality, a dance with bureaucratic absurdity that no amount of wishful thinking could erase. Still, the future, oh that sweet unwritten symphony, remained a slate upon which no nightmare had etched its signature. What lay ahead could still be the smooth sail we hope for in the deepest reservoirs of our travel-addled hearts. Yet, I feel that everything that I dreamed was simply just time reliving itself based on the hundreds of similar negative interactions I have endured over years of travel around the world with A.C..

The beauty of this revelation, dear reader, is the succulent suspense it brings. Here we stand, at the precipice of possibilities, the brink of adventures untold. What Paris holds, what Provence promises, remains shrouded in the mists of Tomorrow. Could it be that the universe, in its infinite jest, has tucked away an upturn in our fortunes, a serendipitous twist waiting to erupt from the ashes of our airline-induced despair?

So, I invite you, no, I implore you, to join me on this journey of hopeful redemption. Stay tuned, for the road winds ever on, and in its curves, we might just uncover vistas of joy to dwarf the valleys of tribulations we've trudged through. Let us stride forth, hand in weary hand, towards that shimmering possibility that the path from Paris to Provence, sprinkled with the gold dust of French allure, can soothe the sting of any customer service scuffle, can heal the wounds inflicted by the talons of travel's trials.

Because, in that hopeful, perhaps naive heart of the traveler, lies the eternal optimism that the journey — unpredictable, tempestuous, and beguiling — will, in its final turn, make everything splendidly, breathtakingly better. After all, isn't that what keeps us exploring, even when the world seems bent on sending us in circles? Ah, to travel is to live, live through the chaos, and emerge, perhaps slightly ruffled, but undeniably alive in the tale that awaits its telling.

I hope you have enjoyed this post, different as it may be. Please leave a comment, as feedback is the best opportunity to learn from mistakes and make positive change. Said Air Canada customer service never!

Live Well!

Mark

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live Well!

M.

GET A LOOK AT THESE KNOCKERS.

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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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AN UNDERGROUND LAIR TO REMEMBER.

A couple of days ago, we returned to a place that is fast becoming one of our favourite stops for a quick shot of culture. As we all know, culture comes in many forms, but in this particular case, it comes in the form of visual art. Margaret Wolfe Hungerford once said, "art is in the eye of the beholder."  Along with past visits to such awe inspiring places as the Accademia, the Uffizi, the L’ouvre, the Tate Modern and the Rijksmuseum, we are beholding to this art.

We love to frequent this venue when we are near Avignon, not just for the exhibits but, frankly, the experience of just being in such an amazing and unique environment. I will provide web links for hows and whys at the end of this post, but for now, I will try to do it some justice from my point of view.  

Carrières des Lumières was a once-thriving stone quarry in the village of Les Baux-de-Provence. By the hundreds of thousands, people flock here to visit the village and the ruins of its hilltop chateau built in the 12th and 13th centuries. We were tipped off to this wonder about 7 years ago and are now indebted to those that shared it with us. It can be a challenge to find parking upon arrival, but patience and persistence usually win the day. The whole reason to make an effort to drive the serpentining narrow roads and hunt for parking becomes immediately apparent after your ticket is scanned and you are welcomed into this art lovers Aladin's cave.

You can line up at the door to buy tickets with so many others or purchase them online and arrive and enter without waiting. On your first visit, it is hard to comprehend the scale of this place. Not often have I used the word cavernous for its intended purpose, yet I feel I have it bang on this time.  Moving past the entrance into this vast dark space can feel daunting, and I was just a little hesitant on my first visit. However, when the exhibition begins and the music paired with perfection plays, you are cast away to another dimension. It is your choice to find a place to sit or wander to your heart's content. Over the years, we have enjoyed Van Gogh, Kandinsky, Cezanne, & Klein exhibitions, to name a few. Enjoy the collection not once but twice. Maybe take a break for an espresso or glass of wine at the underground cafe and then return to enjoy it again. This experience will live with you, so make sure you get as much of it as possible. I hope there is a time when you get a chance to visit Carrières des Lumières.  I would really like to be the one you remember fondly for the tip!

Please leave a comment if you have a moment; I am always happy to hear from you.

Live well!

Mark

Link to the venue. https://www.carrieres-lumieres.com/en

A LUBERON LUNCH.

I have been back in the south of France for nearly a week now. Uncharacteristically, at no time since I arrived have I even thought about taking a camera out from my bag. This trip has been different. This trip has been more about regular meetings with our interior designer and driving from nearby village to nearby village to tour and consider some of her most recent commissions. 

A wonderful byproduct of these little adventures has been the opportunity to sample some of the most wonderful local lunchtime cuisine. Each meal has been clearly prepared by a highly skilled and experienced gastronomic professional.  As with every Provençal restaurant, the experience begins when you are greeted at the door by the front of house staff. Their smiles, courteousness and impecable manners are exactly what you hope for every time you dine out, no matter where or when.  It’s always best to choose your meal by what is suggested by table staff. It seems only a fool (and I have been a fool many times in the past) would fail to accept a suggestion that ensures only the freshest and most in season choices find their way to your table. I hope to find time for my camera later in the week, but for now I leave you with the memories of a late lunch or two. 

Going forward, we have a couple of lovely day trips planned. Then on Thursday we take our leave from Bonnieux and travel north from Avignon by train for 36 hours of jam packed fun in Paris. Until then, I wish for your week to be as full and enjoyable as ours hopes to be.
Please leave a short comment if you get a chance. I am very happy to hear from people far and wide!

Live well!

Mark.

BACK IN BLACK AND WHITE (BONNIEUX)

This has not been easy. We planned a family Christmas here in France several months ago. We watched for flights and made sure to create itineraries that worked for all six of us. There was no such thing as Omicron when we were all booked and the arrangements were made. Life was as normal as it could be in November. Even though the two year long Covid nightmare was still haunting us, there was no reason to cancel what we imagined to be a perfect way to meet and enjoy the trappings of an understated provencal Noël.

And then the latest and greatest variant was thrust among us. We were left in limbo to see how things would evolve and what that was going to mean for those of us in Canada with plans to travel to France. Each of our sons had different work and school commitments, and with those came pressures around being covid free upon return to Canada. All of these issues needed to be addressed, but I also felt the importance of getting over here to check on the house and make sure all was well. I know that seems frivolous to some, and I could have probably assumed, given the place is well over 250 years old, it was probably going to be just fine. I had not been back to France since the end of September, so the distance and the change in seasons kept me worrying that something with the house could have gone wrong. I have not slept well for the last couple of weeks, tossing and turning & thinking that putting off this visit was tantamount to throwing away our retirement investment.

So off I went. I stood in line at YVR to get my must-have antigen test. Next, I spent a few hours in the Air Canada lounge. Then, I boarded my Lufthansa flight to Munich where I ate, drank & slept like a baby for the entire duration. My connector to Marseille was not for six hours after I arrived in Germany, so I wandered duty-free and then took up residence in the Lufthansa business lounge. There, I ate and drank a little bit more of every German food and wine on offer. It was lovely and I am now a huge fan of Spätzle.

My flight to Marseille was late leaving Munich but with a good tailwind over the Alps we arrived almost on time. I ran to passport control (they never asked for my covid passport or negative antigen test) and then I hustled to Avis to pick up my Renault Megane. For those of you that followed my adventures on this blog last summer, rest assured that I am going to need to see about my psychiatric condition ASAP. It was just 15 minutes until Christmas day became official, and three smiling Avis employees were waiting for me to pick up my keys before they closed. They all yelled Joyeux Noël Mr. Catto as I ran in the door, and that was an awesome greeting after such a long trip.

I loaded the car and set off with the Sat Nav screaming at me in French. I had a couple of small redirects along the way, but overall it was a fantastic festive and pretty drive through several small villages on my way to Bonnieux. To be the only car on the very narrow mountain roads was a new experience for me. The summer is drastically different around here. But it was one in the morning on Christmas day, and I was nearly home.

https://youtu.be/EvDxSW8mzvU (Journey’s soundtrack)

As I arrived in our village, I was treated to lovely silver decorations strung across the village lanes from the rooftops. There was no mistaking the season and what it clearly means to the locals.

The house was freezing when I got the shutters and front door open. I made my way through every room, turning on the new electric heaters we had installed in the new year but never had the reason to turn them on last summer. It has taken nearly two full days to warm this old stone village house, but now I am toasty and enjoying the place to the fullest. Yesterday was slim pickings for any kind of food. Thank god for France's most civilized of laws ensuring that every french citizen can not be deprived of their baguettes etc on any day of the year. I confirmed that the local Boulangerie was open for 3 hours on Christmas morning. A massive carb coma ensued, and it has taken me well over 24 hours and a ton of exercise to ward off the effects of pain au chocolat.

I slept well on Christmas night, and this morning, I was woken by the phone. After a workout, and a quick shower I jumped in the car to find out if the Sunday farmers market in nearby Coustellet was still going on, given the holiday. The sun was shining, and the diesel fumes from the Renault were vaguely familiar and marginally intoxicating. Fifteen minutes later, I was pleasantly surprised to find several farmers selling their produce in the local market parking lot. I hit the goat cheese stand like a Mac truck and left with quite a selection. As I wandered to the next stall for some Mediterranean treats, I failed to see that the lady's stall awning was about 5'11", and as I am 6'2', the ensuing head gash stopped bleeding around 15 minutes later.

I shook off the concussion as best as I could and then moved on to the nearby Super U grocery store for some bits for dinner. I am now safely home, and the fridge is no longer empty. I went out with my camera for a few hours this morning and and then again later this evening and as a result put on a few thousand steps. The weather was fantastic, and the coffee at Cafe Bonalis was even better. I made a reservation there for tomorrow night at 7:30. The menu outside convinced me that truffle and duck ravioli followed by tiramisu could be the OMAD of the week. I wish Deanna, Mac, Angus, Liam and Allistair were here. Unfortunately, FaceTime will just have to do over the remainder of these holidays.

Provencal life is still good!

Live well and leave a comment if you have a moment.

Mark

TODAY’S LUNCH IN GOULT.

I used to ask myself why it is easier to find rocking horse poo than fast food in France. More on that later. Yesterday in a moment of madness I wrongly assumed that I could saunter in to a well reviewed local restaurant and get a seat. Not a chance.

However, being persistent in combination with a fleeting moment of brilliance, I made a reservation to return today. I arrived at 11:45 and just before the rush at La Terrasse in Goult.

Today’s formule consisted of two choices for each course. For the entree, I decided on the Salmon Tartare. My plat du jour was Chicken Roti and for afters a dark chocolate concoction that nearly caused me to tear up. I rarely eat a meal where every ingredient is distinguishable. From refreshing tartare in lime juice to rich and hearty jus with perfectly prepared chicken and roast vegetables.

This is a bold statement, but this was one of the most memorable meals of my life. I am seriously more interested in finding rocking horse poo now, no matter how long I have for lunch. Truly outstanding. I will be back on Saturday.

Please leave a comment if you have time. 

Live well!

Mark

All images captured with an Iphone XR (Old School)!

I finally did it! A two hour lunch. I am officially Provencal…

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 SECOND EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.

Yesterday saw us vanquish the DIY list and begin to really enjoy our new old house and the village we call home. We were fortunate to grab an early coffee at home before wandering approximately 50 meters down the lane to the wonderful annual antique fair. Place Gambetta played host to 40 plus vendors and all of their wares. Everything from French Army officers swords in scabbards to wonderful children’s toys and everything in between. Our big purchase was a hanging mirror for the basement bathroom. I would describe it as having a nautical bent. It was the right size and shape and we aren’t too far to the Med as the crow flies if anyone questions our taste. We really enjoyed wandering from stall to stall. Its common place to see everyone still wearing facemarks at these events in France. No-one questions it and to be truthful it makes me feel just a little safer.

Today has been wonderful. Given our lack of chores at home we decided to grab an early espresso from Frederic at Cafe St. Antione and while enjoying the view from our table we hatched a plan to make this an adventure. This morning we will drive about 15 minutes across the valley to the Northeast and visit St. Saturnin Les Apt. This village began its life in the 11th century with the construction of the castle above the now dammed lake you see above. The castle provided the safety and peace of mind that people of that period required to go about their day. Things stayed like that for several hundred years before the confines of the ramparts could no longer accommodate the expanding population and locals began to build their new homes further down the hill where present day S.S.L.A currently sits in all its glory. As in prior posts I will now show you some images of the village with hopes that you can sense the vibe and soak up the morning sun from wherever in the world you are.

Those readers who don’t mind a bit of the old Tour de France on TV will immediately recognise the four most important race jerseys adorned on the local windmill.. No doubt helicopters covering the race would have captured this effort by villagers to showcase St. Saturnin Les Apt as the race was in full swing a couple of weeks ago. The village itself wants for nothing and in fact punches well above its weight with the local amenities it has, including a small hospital as well as municipal sports facilities combining a beautiful pool with courts for all sports. Each staple business the French require in a village is also to be found here. Sometimes these shops can even be found in duplicate. This windfall brings with it both choice and healthy competition to the game. Butchers, bakers, and restaurants are thick on the ground and that is fantastic for all who live here as well as those visiting from near or far.

Not unlike our last village stop in Goult, the locals here in St. Saturnin Les Apt are also house proud and it shows as you wander the narrow streets. Whether it be the ornate front doors or the color schemes chosen to make their house just a little different to the neighbours, it is all done with taste and considerable thought.

Our walk through the narrow streets and back lanes of St. Saturnin Les Apt was worth every step and it has become quite special to me over the last few hours.

When we eventually grew tired and our feet needed a rest we took at seat a local hotel and ordered a coffee to get us through the remainder of the morning. The young man that served us was very well presented and multi lingual as most young people seem to be here.

My biggest regret is not applying myself when I had the opportunity to master a second language at school. That being said, I am enjoying learning online. Then comes putting it into practice at shops or with neighbours on a daily basis.

Since the travel bug bit hard 20 years ago I have constantly tried to improve my language skills. I never assume that English is spoken everywhere I travel.

I have made a point to never wittingly act like a clown while abroad. Now this spectacle comes to town and could change all that for good. All I want to do is run away with it and be the biggest clown I can possibly be.

It’s either clown or mime. Mime’s are cool too, no? Mimes aren’t annoying and weird are they? It’s a tough decision. Both are French institutions.

Sadly, in reality neither can happen. The first rule in getting a long stay resident visa in France is to declare in front of a notary that you promise never to take up employment here. Yes, those are the tears of a frustrated and unfulfilled clown you hear falling on the keyboard of my laptop.

I hope you have enjoyed this small glimpse of another one of our neighbouring villages. It was our pleasure to wander around it this morning and I hope you enjoy the images that hopefully go some distance to show you what could be on offer when you visit. Please leave a comment if you have any suggestions or would like to see and read more of the same from different venues throughout the Luberon Valley.

Live well!

Mark

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

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