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.

YES, I'VE BECOME A BIKE WANKER.

Photo Credit to Liam.

It has been a long time since I have had the inclination to get my thoughts down on "paper." Unfortunately, in the spring, I had a setback healthwise; as such, all my efforts have gone to resolving these niggles. Drop weight and exercise more were the orders of the day.  The first significant change had to be made to my schedule at work. Last year I was graciously offered a job that took me back to shift work after being away from it for many years. It seems the shift pattern contributes to my health issues in a negative way. I didn't envision returning to work in retirement, but it has been really fun and an awesome opportunity. The best part is I have rekindled some old friendships and forged some wonderful new ones as well.

As a result of the health concerns, I took a sabbatical, and I am working diligently on getting to a place where everyone concerned will see long-term and hopefully permanent positive changes when I return in the fall. Before these issues arose, we had planned on spending our summer holidays back in the Luberon at our village home. My poor health meant that we left Canada a little earlier than expected and have been here for three weeks now. The heat has been a massive shock to the system. Great for vignerons and those harvesting the lavender, but for us mere mortals, it's akin to wearing a sauna suit under a fur coat from about 5 a.m. onwards. You sweat just planning to take your first step in the morning.

In week one of this trip I was joined by a great friend from home who was keen to see the villages he had not yet visited and to enjoy a more relaxed Provencal getaway. His stay was short but really fun nonetheless. We saw some great local places just before the tourists arrived and coupled those visits with wonderful meals to end each day. I was truly sad to see him go.

Deanna & I decided earlier in the year to bring our bikes to France and leave them here. We seem to cycle more here than at home, and with my health and lifestyle goals, it seemed the right thing to do. However, it was not the easiest thing to accomplish. With electric bikes, there are numerous hurdles to jump over to satisfy airlines and shipping companies the batteries are safe to fly. Once you have cleared them all, you have to satisfy customs in France that you are not importing them for sale and therefore profit. If you fail to do so, you are on the hook for import duties and maybe so time in a dark & dank Marseille prison cell.

KLM was our freight airline. With help from my friend Mark, we packaged the bikes and delivered them to the airport. As I waved goodbye to them, I wasn't quite sure if I was watching many thousands of dollars worth of peddles and spokes depart for pastures unknown. If your suitcases can end up in Nigeria when your flight is to Halifax, I assumed the chances were excellent that a couple of Uber Eats delivery riders would be using them for work in Katmandu within the week.

Seven long days later, I received an email saying they had arrived in Marseille. The details of when and how to collect them were clear as mud, so what could go wrong? There was no possible chance of fitting them in our rental Renault Clio. So we drove our rental car to a commercial rental van office in Avignon. It didn't take long to get the lowdown on how to drive a six-speed hightop diesel freight van that was clearly overkill. Sometimes you just have to settle for what’s available.

I was to pilot this behemoth from Avignon to Marseilles on the A7, where the speed limit is 130 KMH, and the crosswinds are angry. I felt like Kermit driving the muppet bus from the get go. But along came Deanna (playing Fozzy) and Hamish, our black lab, which I failed to mention earlier is now also a world traveller (playing himself).

Three of us in the front cab could not even reach an escargot’s pace on the motorway. However, ninety minutes later, we arrived at the holding facility at the airport. An hour after that, I had expended all my French skills and calories trying to convince customs I wasn't a guy trying his best to sneak e-bikes into the country to flip them for profit. Once the bikes were loaded, we began the journey back to the village and then back to Avignon to drop the van and collect the Clio. At one point, I was convinced I could open the door and run beside the truck as we climbed up toward Aix-en-Provence from Marseille. But, again, lots of effort and help from Deanna and Mark back in Victoria, and we were back home wrenching these things back into one piece from their packing boxes. As we were finishing up, one of our French neighbours approached to have a look. He asked about the bikes and where they were built. I replied that my bike was an American brand, and Deanna's was made in Germany. He paused for thought and then told Deanna that she could now easily invade Poland. And so it appears "woke" or P.C. has not yet reached the hilltop villages of Provence!

In the two weeks following, we have enjoyed the company of one of our four sons. Liam is the last of our boys to visit France and has seemed to enjoy every minute of his time here. We have seen numerous local villages, the cities of Avignon, Marseille, St. Tropez, and Nimes. Liam has a good knowledge of wines and has thoroughly enjoyed stopping in at local vineyards to taste and buy his favourites.

He has decided to start his local wine collection and keep his bottles in our cave to be enjoyed and further curated during future visits. We are happy to oblige. Liam and I are heading for Paris in the morning. We will spend my birthday getting our steps in walking around the city of light until he returns to Canada. So tomorrow we are taking the high-speed train from Avignon to Garé de Lyon. I have not been to Paris since March, and for me, it is always an overwhelmingly inspirational place.

You are now up to speed. Again, I apologize for the lack of detail in this one; I promise to up my game in future posts. Just remember, as a newly committed cyclist, I am now one of those guys that hate motor vehicle operators:

1. I look down on those who don't cycle.

2. I feel morally superior to all of you who don't avail yourself of human propulsion for transport.

3. I am yet to adorn myself in head-to-toe lycra, but I am still stylishly outfitted for urban and rural bike travel. Don’t think sock-head hipster on a fixie.

4. And most importantly, I hold this hugely hypocritic stance only when it pleases me and never when I am behind the wheel of my own rental Renault Clio.

In these circumstances, Deanna and Hamish can attest that I often exhibit the nastiest outbursts of tourette’s. I routinely have to scream "BIKE WANKERS" out of the car window as these Lycra clad TDF wannabes ride two abreast just to slow our roll along these beautiful narrow provencâl back roads.

Please keep in touch by leaving a comment, I love to hear from you.

Live well!

Mark

p.s. Most included photos were taken with the Leica Q2.

Photo Credit Liam

LUNCH AT LA PETITE HISTOIRE.

Gargas brings the location, and the two-man band in front and back of the house provides the experience. Today's visit was my second to La Petite Histoire. The first occasion was a couple of years ago with Dale on the heels of our Turkey and Isreal trip. That was for dinner, and I was presented with a tomahawk steak bigger than my arm. Dale had a similarly sized octopus tentacle.

Today was for lunch, as the title indicates, and there were several option combinations that you can see on the menu in the photograph above. My meal was tremendous, and I am already looking forward to my next visit as a result. You will notice a chocolate number at the end. I had to. My face was so sore from yesterday. I had a cheeky beer and an incredible espresso to round out the 2 hours I spent with the happy, professional staff who double as co-owners. I would recommend a visit without any hesitation.

Live well!

Mark

p.s. All the images below were captured with the Leica Q2.

Ravioli

Beef with chorizo risotto and red wine demi glaze.

Chocolate Tarte

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!

I HAD A SNEAKY FEELING I WOULD END UP IN AN ASYLUM ONE DAY.

Rather than self-medicate, because we all know that's not ok! I decided to go and see what life in an asylum was all about. Most of you are now thinking to yourself; it's long overdue. Well, hold on a minute, in my former life, I had to visit these facilities somewhat often to speak to those who may have done something naughty to someone else. But my adventure today is not one of those asylums for “mischievous” folk. This one is in Saint-Remy-de-Provence, and it was home to Vincent van Gogh for quite some time. Vincent suffered with his mental health (thus the missing ear), mainly due to the underlying problems that were exacerbated by a shit ton of Absinthe consumption.

Absinthe was, to most, a very slippery slope. But, from what I gather, it affected those who took part in a wee dram (or 10) in ways that mimic today's street drugs. Vincent seemed to be a big fan, and as such, he stumbled from time to time. Vincent's brother Theo was very close to him and decided the best way he could help was to fund Vincent's hopeful recovery at Saint Remy.

Treatment was not cheap, but the facilities were thought of as well run and successful for the time. For fear of sounding like a broken record, I left home at 8 a.m. My journey was supposed to take 46 minutes, and it wasn't far off that. If not for a few tractors pulling trailers full of cantaloupes in front of me, I would have been spot on.

I had never been to Saint-Remy-de-Provence before, and even though I had done a quick search for the historic bits around the town, I was not prepared. The city is stunning. Another gem that, if not for van Gogh, I would have probably never visited. I arrived about 20 minutes before the market day officially kicked off. There were so many stalls with such a variance of goods I was taken back. There are some massive market days near us, but this one in Saint Remy takes the cake.

I wanted to be in time to wander the grounds outside the walls. Still, with enough time to be in line for my ticket as the doors opened at 9:30. You can park in the shade of the plane trees adjacent to the 20 foot stone walls surrounding the facility. The asylum is still operating as such, and the noises I heard while wandering in the olive grove indicated business as usual. Currently, the wing that once was home to Vincent has been annexed off as a museum of sorts, and the remainder is still staffed and operating like any other mental health hospital.

I was all alone as the gates opened to the museum. I was confused as to why given the gravity of the place and beauty that surrounds it. I supposed a hundred years ago that you would have rarely born witness to a lineup to get into an asylum.

The ticket cost six euros, and after showing my pass Sanitaire to prove vaccination, I was in and walking towards the imposing building at the end of a beautiful tree-lined lane. You are treated to many reproductions of Vincent's paintings hanging on the garden walls as you meander along. They are hung perfectly in amongst a veritable cornucopia of local flowering plants. Many of these plants are seen in the paintings on show.

Some intermixed sculptures provide juxtaposition. After taking it all in, you come to the chapel. It is of considerable age but in beautiful condition. The origins of this place come from the Catholic church, as this was a monastery for many years. I try to stop and appreciate the architecture in every case such as this. Once inside the chapel, even a devout atheist may be moved. I spent some time inside until my little voice said, you better move on into the asylum to take in Vicent's room, the view from that room and the remaining facilities before more tourists arrive.

A young man working in the building gave me directions, and I climbed up the stairs to the second floor. There, on the left, was the tortured master's quarters. The room is laid out as it was in his day. The view from his window is supposed to play a small role in "A Starry Night " and many others.

I was there alone, and alone I stayed for just over 20 minutes. I sat in the room, trying to absorb the enormity of the opportunity and the experience. I suppose the right word is surreal. When I eventually heard voices on the floor below, I stood up and wandered across the hall to look at the other facilities. You will recognize in the photograph below that if you were not acting appropriately at bath time, you may be placed in the tub and then have the board resembling medieval stocks set over you. In addition, several burly staff may have to take a seat on that board until you had finished your required ablutions.

I'm unsure if my 18'" neck would have allowed my head to rest above the board. Nightmares are absolutely coming my way. Still no sign of other visitors, so I slowed my roll and read every bit of information I could on the walls. Eventually, it was time to go out into the walled (prison-like) garden to see the grounds and more of the places Vincent used for inspiration.

It never got old, and I had no reason to leave. If the prices were right perhaps, I could check-in. Maybe Blue Cross would assist with the bill payments. All things to ponder while I sat in van Gogh's garden. Eventually, one or two visitors appeared. I took that as a sign not to be greedy and make my way back to the gates like an escaping lunatic.

The unhinged screams from next door at the real deal continued as I walked across the road to the tiny Citroen I currently drive. What a wonderful morning. For me, of course, not so much for the tormented next door. Maybe a move to the asylum isn't what it is all cracked up to be. Not as I imagined while sitting alone in Vincent's room. It's for people that need some help to keep both their ears attached. Perhaps not for me. I know what you're saying under your breath! Bye for now.

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

p.s. All the images below were captured with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q2.

MY FIFTH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES, IT’S NICE TO HAVE NICE NEIGHBOURS!

Thank you for stopping by. If this isn't your first visit, thank you very much for returning to the Luberon. But, if this is your first time, then what you will find here is a snapshot (pardon the pun) of where I go and what I see as I settle into life here in the south of France.

I write in a chair on the top floor of our home in front of a large open window. The view is an expansive one that takes in the entirety of the north side of the Luberon valley. It is much later tonight than I would usually be up. So, from time to time I stop typing and peer out to the North, gaze at both the stars and the village lights of Gordes and Roussillon in the distance.

In this episode, I have focused on one of our neighbouring villages to the Southwest. Menerbes was named in honour of Minerva, Roman goddess, daughter of Jupiter. Menerbes, like many other villages in the area, traces its roots back to Romans times. But, like many other local villages, it seemed to really establish itself in the middle ages due to the crusades and the resulting influx of Carmelites. They built many of the priories and abbeys in the surrounding area.

History states that Ménerbes and its citadel was the site of a significant battle between Huguenots and Catholics called the siege de Ménerbes, which lasted from 1573 to 1578. This period was known as the French war of Religions. Protestants intentionally aggravated Pope Pius the 5th by settling 150 soldiers in Ménerbes, led by Scipione de Valvoire, Gaspard Pape de Saint-Auban.

As time marched on, Menerbes has become better known for the finer things in life. Many artists and poets have called this place home for years. In the latter half of the last century, Picasso's girlfriend (Dora Maar) would take long sabbaticals from Antibes and came here to rest in Menerbes to use her camera as inspiration for her painting. The British novelist Peter Mayle was the latest celebrated author in the area, but sadly he is no longer with us. If you have never had the opportunity to read Peter's books about his life in France but more specifically, his life in and around Menerbes and Bonnieux, please give "A year in Provence" or "A good year" a thorough read.

Couple his words to the following images, and I'm sure you will soon be transported to the sights, smells and tastes of this region. For those who have had the privilege to read his books, you will be keenly aware that his work reflects life in this valley and how he and his wife renovated their home, learned the language and wove themselves into the fabric of the valley. I am a massive fan of all his collection. Mr. Mayle was singularly responsible for igniting a tourist frenzy here, much to many people's chagrin; however, it goes to show the power of his storytelling.

The Brown Foundation Fellows Program based at Dora Maar's former home in Menerbes provides residencies of one to three months for mid-career professionals in the arts and humanities to develop and grow their craft.

I like Menerbes. It is unique in this valley. The home prices in the real estate agent's windows reflect that. The people here are happy, and it seems impossible to feel unwelcome. You are really spoiled for choice in Menerbes. If you feel like a Michelin star meal or just a coffee, simply follow your nose. This village must have one of the highest ratios of restaurants and cafes with spectacular views from a terrace in France. I am yet to visit in the evening, so I can't begin to imagine which restaurant to recommend. Still, I have had coffee on several stunning patios that have all been unbelievably smooth and exceptional in quality. Yesterday morning I happened to notice a well-healed gentleman enjoying a pastis while overlooking the valley to the east at around 8 o'clock. I am not judging; it was obviously 5 o'clock somewhere.

Please leave a comment; I love to read them!

Live well,

Mark

p.s. All my images below were captured with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q-2.

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