SIX MONTHS A YEAR STARTS NOW!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live well!

M.

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

NOT FOR THE LACTOSE INTOLLERANT.

Behold, dear friends, the captivating chronicles of an audacious cheese voyager, not interested in products from the land of the free and home of the Whopper, but from places where cheese is considered indulgent rather than a questionable product from a laboratory. Picture it: a realm where cheese originates from pampered bovine creatures and organically mountain-raised goats, not from dubious aerosol cans.

Provence, a sun-kissed paradise nestled in the south of France, is the ultimate sanctuary for those who appreciate the artistry of milk alchemy. Our adventure commences in the village of Bonnieux, an understated hilltop village, where the intoxicating aroma of cheese dances through the air in competition only with the fields of surrounding lavender. The strong odours draw you into its irresistible, savoury embrace like bits of baguette into a super gooey fondue. Undaunted, when I arrive back after some time in exile on Canada’s left coast, I always choose a local signature cheese, Banon, an oddity that might seem extraterrestrial to the less experienced in this region.

As the shopkeeper passes over this fascinatingly wrapped orb of dairy delight, she does so with an unmistakable Gallic smirk, a non-verbal "You're not a disciple of the church of Cheez Whiz, are you?" My reassuring smile speaks volumes: "Rest assured, madame, I am not a sinner from the parish of Velveeta."

As if the unique Banon experience isn’t enough, next comes the quintessentially Provencal tradition of market day, a sensory extravaganza where one can truly explore the incredible variety of local cheese. Amidst the clatter and chatter of locals, stalls overflow with artisanal cheeses, each lovingly crafted and beckoning you to try.

Navigating the bustling marketplace, you're like a kid in a fromagerie, with every cheese more enticing than the last. There's the robust Pélardon, the subtle Crottin de Chavignol, the full-bodied Cabécou, the tangy Tomme de Chèvre, and the delicate Pouligny-Saint-Pierre – that’s just the goat cheese. Then, there's the marvel of sheep cheese – the sweet and nutty Ossau-Iraty, the earthy Roquefort, and the beautifully complex Brocciu from nearby Corsica. Lastly, for the bovine enthusiasts, there's the soft and creamy Boursin and the ever-sophisticated Brie de Meaux. It’s a veritable United Nations of cheese, all nestled within the vibrant French tapestry of a Provencal market day.

Brimming with new purchases, we retreat to our little home just 30 meters down the street, a haven just far enough from the guided tours and the (why so angry?) Belgians. Here, amidst the tranquillity, I indulge in my first wedge of Banon. Its taste is a symphony of flavours, delightfully creamy with a tart undertone, powerful enough to reduce even the staunchest Kraft cheddar die-hard to tears.

Over the years, I have ventured through an odyssey of cheeses. There's the titan Roquefort, an intimidating heavyweight capable of sending your taste buds into a tailspin. Then there's the ethereal Camembert, softer than a whisper yet carrying a cornucopia of flavours, and don’t forget Comtè. What about the various goat cheeses, so fresh they practically gambol on your tongue?

During this never-ending journey, my thoughts often wander to those innocent souls who’ve yet to look beyond the confines of processed cheese slices or perhaps even the Costco mega block of Cracker Barrel. Those unsuspecting masses, wandering from place to place with stops at the souvenir shops (obligatory t-shirt purchase), blissfully unaware of the culinary delights they're missing. It's a moment of creamy reflection, akin to the realization that some people believe reality TV is, well, reality.

At the termination of every local market day, my whicker shopping bag bursts at the seams, and I realize I am undergoing a further existential gastronomic evolution. I am no longer a mere self-declared cheese buyer with imposter syndrome but a true connoisseur of the curd. Will friends grasp the profound depth of my assuredly slow but considered metamorphosis? Or will they just stop and ask, "Mark, FFS, why are you carrying around so much cheese in that bag? Are you mental?”

So, to you, dear friends, I say: embrace your inner adventurer and set your course for Provence. Try the most formidable, nose-twitching cheese you can find. Perhaps, invite those unaccustomed friends, the ones who have experienced "culture" through a shore excursion or a trailer park in Arizona. Watch as they inevitably succumb to the irresistible allure of French cheese. And when that day dawns, with a well-aged wine and a knowing smile, say, “I told you so.” Because you, mon ami, are the cheese whisperer. You’ve influenced hearts and minds. Shoulders back, stand tall. Go out there, head held high, and smash it! Maybe one day you’ll trade in that desk for a market stall laden with fromage…

A big thank you for dropping by Walkacrossitall. Please leave a comment if you have a spare moment.

All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q2 and SL2-S with the 24-90mm lens.

Live Well!

Mark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live well!

M.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live Well!

M.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live Well.

M.

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

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

TO ABSENT FRIENDS!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To absent friends!

Live well!

Mark

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

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

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

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

MY 9TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. BEAUTIFUL MAUBEC AND HAVE YOU READ THE NEWS TODAY?

MAUBEC VILLAGE

I got up early this morning because the forecast predicted clear skies and a cloud inversion down in the valley. I grabbed the camera and tripod and climbed to the top of the village with high hopes. Unfortunately, hopes dashed quite quickly upon arrival at the Haute Eglise. The fog was thick, and it looked like hours before it would clear. By that time, I would have sadly missed the spectacular light of sunrise.

I quickly decided what needed to be done was to minimize my to-do list before the New Year arrived. As of this morning, my top two on the list were to pay my municipal taxes and my home insurance. Taxes are collected at the government office in Apt, and my Allianz insurance broker is in a small town 20 minutes away in the opposite direction. So I tried the taxes first and arrived early enough to be first in line when the miserable-looking middle-aged lady unlocked the door and grunted, what do you want (en Francais)?

Less than 60 seconds later, I was ushered from the office because I did not have the one document that miserable Marie required to make this transaction possible today. So I skipped back to the psycho mobile AKA the "RENAULT MEGANE" and began the short journey home to Bonnieux to see if the notaire that looked after the sale of our place had the form La Miserable grunted for.

Job done & a big thanks to Quenton's legal secretary. It seemed like the best thing to do then was not return from where I just left, but instead to pay Nathalie a visit at Allianz. Fifteen minutes later, my TD Visa was racking up a few more Aeroplan points. So now what? Maubec is on the way home. I should drop by and wander the village, stop for an espresso and read La Provence. La Provence is the primary newspaper for the region and is published and printed in Marseille. Marseille is the second biggest city in France, so I was expecting the worst as I thumbed through today’s crime section.

As expected it was terrible. Way worse than I had predicted. We who spend most of our time in the southwest corner of British Columbia are used to reading about gangland murders, junkies robbing everything that moves or stands still. Thefts from unsuspecting homes & yards of everyday tax paying homeowners. Pensioners are being thrown to the ground for their purses. But in Provence, it gets way worse. I won't even try to paraphrase the article I read this morning over coffee, but sufficed to say it's not pretty. Take a deep breath. If you are squeamish, perhaps today is not the day to continue this blog.

Words do fail me. I hope Logotto recovers from the trauma of this most horrific experience. I also hope that those who can stomach today's crime blotter will later enjoy the photos of Maubec. She's a peach!

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

All photos were captured with the Leica Q2.

If you were able to get though that. Here are some photos of this morning’s coffee spot!

HE ASKED WHY I WAS PHOTOGRAPHING HIS HEDGE.

LA CANTANTE!

JUST A SINGLE FAMILY HOME.

THE VILLAGE GREEN.

MY DOOR FETISH.

COME JULY THIS FIELD WILL BE VIVID PURPLE.

ONE DAY I WILL OWN ONE OF THOSE!

A SEA OF GREEN.

READY FOR VINES….

YOU SHALL NOT PASS!

AUREL & SIMIANE-LA-ROTANDE IN SHADES OF GREY.

No words, just moods. A different perspective on Provence.

Please leave a comment if you have a moment.

All images captured by the Leica Q2

Live well!

Mark

Taken by me on 2021-09-14

Taken by Henri Cartier-Bresson in 1969

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 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