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.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. AIR CANADA STYLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr T. Tate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live Well!

Mark

PINTXOS, NOT TAPAS...

I am delighted to share that we are here and enjoying the Basque Country of Northwest Spain. After leaving Andorra's small but beautiful Principality a few days ago, we made our way closer to the Atlantic coast. We decided to settle just a few kilometres from San Sebastien.

Today we spend a little time on traditional food. And, what goes better with local, traditional food than conventional, local beer and wine. So, this post is all about describing & discussing the beloved local tradition of Pintxos - a Basque version of tapas that are as delicious as they are unique.

The origins of Pintxos can be traced back to the Basque Country, where they have been a staple of the local cuisine for generations. "pintxo" means "spike" in Basque and refers to the toothpick that holds the ingredients together. These small bites are often served on a slice of bread and come in various flavours and combinations, such as grilled octopus & prawns, cured meats, olives, anchovies or cheese.

What makes Pintxos so unique is the way they are served. You can find them displayed on the counters of local bars, and diners are encouraged to help themselves to their favourites. The toothpicks are used to track how many Pintxos you've eaten, and you pay at the end of the meal based on how many toothpicks you've accumulated. It's a fun and interactive way to enjoy a meal with friends, and the local Basque ingredients make it even more special.

While tapas can be found throughout Spain, Pintxos is a unique and essential part of the Basque culinary experience. The flavours and ingredients reflect the regional culture, and the tradition of sharing food and conversation with friends is deeply ingrained in the local way of life. So if you find yourself exploring the Basque Country, be sure to indulge in the local tradition of Pintxos. Your taste buds will thank you, and you'll gain a new appreciation for the joy of small bites and big flavours. Cheers to good food and great adventures! I would be remiss if I didn't go on now to describe the local libations, as they are just as important to the culinary experience.

The Basque Country is famous for its Txakoli wine, a slightly sparkling white wine produced exclusively in the region. It's crisp and refreshing, with a light acidity that pairs perfectly with Pintxos. In recent years, the local winemakers have also started producing red wines and rosés, but Txakoli remains the most popular and iconic Basque wine.

If you're not a wine fan, fear not - the Basque Country also has a thriving craft beer scene. The local brews are often made with regional ingredients, such as hops from the nearby Pyrenees mountains. The most popular beer in the region is called Keler, a refreshing lager that pairs well with the bold flavours of Pintxos. But if you're feeling adventurous, try a local specialty like Basqueland Brewing or Laugar Brewery.

What makes Basque wine and beer so special is how they reflect the local culture and traditions. The Txakoli grapes are grown on terraced vineyards that have been used for hundreds of years, and the local breweries use traditional methods to create unique and flavorful beers. Drinking and dining in the Basque Country are not just about the taste - it's a way to connect with the local community and experience the region's rich history and culture. So raise a glass of Txakoli or Keler and toast to the joy of sharing good food and great company.

Thanks for stopping by, and I hope to read your comments if you have enjoyed the food on show.

Live well & Salud!

M

p.s. The following curated images were captured with both the Leica SL2-S and Q2.

MY 10TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.

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

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

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

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

Live Well!

M.

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

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SMALL TOWN IN THE WORLD!

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

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

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

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

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

Live Well!

M.

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

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.

ESCAPING THE HEAT OF PROVENCE IN THE DOLOMITES.

I should never complain about Provençal summer weather, given that springtime on Vancouver Island was akin to a time when Noah was shipbuilding, and the animals were lining up in twos to get a deck chair on his Ark

Yet, after enduring weeks of temperatures in the high 30s to mid 40s, I was gasping for just a little bit of cooling respite. The first place that popped to mind to find that relief was the Dolomites. Sure, you can get the same relief in the French Alps or Switzerland, but northern Italy and its Dolomites seemed to me like just what the doctor would order.

We loaded up the third consecutive rental car of the summer and set a course for a little town north of Vicenza called Bassano del Grappa. BDG is a beautiful place in the foothills of the Dolomites. The town’s wooden covered bridge which spans the Brenta river is a lovely and petite version of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence and the focal point of BDG.

We wandered about in the evening, both before and after dinner and again in the early morning before the locals began their day. This place is a gem. I would say that the majority of folks out walking were from the area, and everyone was happy to see and talk to Hamish.

Hamish is a well-adjusted K9 traveller at this stage, and as the trip went on, his experiences went from fantastic to surreal (wait for Venice). When we left BDL, we plotted a course to Bolzano with a mind to driving the Great Dolomite Road to Cortina. Cortina was a host of the winter Olympics in the late 50s and is proudly retaking the honour once again in 2026.

One of Europe's most scenic driving routes is the Grande Strada Delle Dolomiti, also known as the Great Dolomite Road. It is a breathtaking scenic drive that crosses three alpine passes (Falzarego, Pordoi and Karerpass, at the renowned Rosengarten), connecting the Bozen and Bolzano regions.

I won't embarrass myself trying to wordsmith a description of the mountain passes we drove over and through. Suffice to say there were 60 switchback hairpin turns, most often at a snail's pace. Alternatively, I hope that some of my images will take the place of a thousand (boring) words!

The Great Dolomite Road allowed us to set out a different plan. The question of the day was where to go next and how do we get there. I must admit, and I am sure if you have kept up with me over the months and years you know, Venice is always high on my list. Cortina is so close to the Veneto region that the question quickly transitioned from where next to why not.

Had Hamish ever been aboard a Vapatetto? Had Hamish ever travelled from Marco Polo airport to the Island of Murano on a private water taxi? Had Hamish ever eaten spaghetti pomodoro from a bowl tableside at an Osteria?

The answer to all of those questions was not yet and we will soon see. We were on our way to Parking Garage #1 at Marco Polo with that decision made. Our room was booked on the Island of Murano (as usual). In what seemed like the blink of an eye we were aboard Gino's water taxi. This leg of the journey happened solely because all dogs of any breed or size must be muzzled on a Vaporetto and oddly enough we don't own a muzzle. Hamish was happy, Deanna was delighted, I was poorer, and Gino was ecstatic because he was fleecing us 80 Euros for a 15-minute trip across the lagoon.

You can't dwell on the odd down when there are so many more ups. Soon after arriving, we checked into the hotel and then took a short nap before heading out for an evening walk to find a wonderful meal. As we enjoyed each bite, we discussed the plan of attack for the next morning. I volunteered to find a muzzle for Hamish. I thought if I got over to Venice early, I could wander before the crowds arrived. I packed my camera bag and did a little research on how to find a few places that had escaped me on several prior visits.

I'm sure I have mentioned more than once in the past that I am pretty taken with the works of Ernest Hemingway. So much so I have come to fixate on his many visits to Harry's Bar on the dockside of San Marco Square. I have tried several times in the past, but I could never satisfy the dress code. With those disappointments still fresh in my mind I resolved to be more prepared than Lord Baden Powell for my next attempt.

Six in the morning came quickly, and just a few minutes after waking, I was leaving the hotel. The dock is just a few steps away and I was soon aboard the Vaporetto and nearing "the big island." As we tied up alongside the hospital dock, I bolted for the back streets. The Rialto bridge was my first real stop, and after a few minutes on the top of the span, I moved on to the fish market. What an environment. What an electric feeling. I observed, photographed, and then moved back to the streets off the square. I could have stopped for a coffee, but I wanted to save all consumption of food and drink for Harry's.

An hour later, I was in and sitting at the bar discussing the genesis of the Bellini with the bartender over a fantastic Americano. I finally made it. I can get run over by a speeding gondola tomorrow and die a thoroughly happy man.

Well, that's it for now. I hope you enjoy the photographs and maybe think about including a few of these places on your next trip.

Please feel free to leave a comment if you have a moment.

Live Well!

Mark

The photographs taken on this trip were captured with the Leica M10-R and Q2.

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

THE VENETO.

Venice can be all things to everyone. Look past the sad, tired & sweaty faces. Look past those who think that immersive travel means making sure they get back to the Carnival cruise ship before the buffet closes. Train yourself to ignore the conversations about how much a coffee costs in Saint Mark’s Square. Cleanse your mind of the lemmings wearing audio guides while following blindly in single file behind the walking tour rep with that “shoot me now face”.

Then and only then you will see Venice for what is and not what Venetians fear it has become. In fact, if you focus you will see what the Venetians are desperately trying to restore and protect. This is definitely one of the most beautiful, awe inspiring and unique places on this planet. The people are striking. The sun warms your bones. The food is that of a hybrid, representative of the cultures that have traded, visited and settled at this seafaring crossroads for over a thousand years.

Never take the word of anyone who says it smells bad, it is too expensive, or you have to walk everywhere you want to go. Never trust the lazy. Never trust anyone who dismisses a genuine historical and geographic wonder because they went to the one in Las Vegas and “that was good enough”. No sir, these are the people you immediately ignore after you have sold them what they need. Tupperware, Mary Kay, a K-Tel Patty Stacker, a book by L. Ron Hubbard or swampland in Florida. It’s business not personal! Remember, if they wear camouflage to dinner at Red Lobster and remove “their tooth” before bed, take a wide birth. As a friend recently remarked, “Its all about gratitude” (Thanks Gary!). Be grateful for difference! Embrace change! If you expect where you travel to be the same as where you live, you may be wasting the money you could have spent on a staycation.

Arrive in Venice by train via Santa Lucia Station. Take a Vaperetto to your hotel. Do yourself a favour and stay on one of the islands in the lagoon. Stay on Burano or Murano. Sit canal side and drink an ice cold Peroni. Go to Harry’s bar and have a Bellini on a bar stool that Hemingway once wouldn’t give up until closing time. For more tips about how to leave Venice with no regrets and a return trip already in the planning stages, leave your email address below so you don’t miss the next blog post.

Live well!

Mark

ONLY MAD DOGS & ENGLISHMEN.

I am writing todays blog while hunkered down inside a fully shuttered Provençal village house. Outside, the wind is gusting at a swift measure of knots. This is my first really nasty “Mistral”. Rudyard Kipling was the man responsible for today’s title. It is the passage from his book “Kim” written in 1901 which refers to devils, madness and Englishmen that proved timeless. Kipling’s words later prompted Noël Coward to use them along with going out in the noon day sun as lyrics for his 1931 musical cabaret number. What is left to explain now is why I have stolen it for this tale of misadventure. The simple answer is, yesterday, this Englishman (by birth) felt like a wee bit of a physical challenge. So, just before noon, I put on my bright red wind breaker (more on that later) and left the house on foot bound for the village across the valley. There are several tracks that one can take to get from Bonnieux to Lacoste. Given yesterdays weather, I thought staying off the trails and sticking to the road might be best to keep out of ankle deep mud. Along with wearing the bright red jacket, staying out of the trees was the second life saving decision I made without even realizing it.

I may have mentioned in earlier blogs that it is wild boar hunting season in the Luberon. Unlike back home where the vast majority of hunting goes on far from any population or paved roads, here in France safety does not come first. First comes having enough wine for the after party. Second comes having enough diesel in the white Renault Kangoo mini-van for the hunter, his weapons and a first class lunch. Third and most importantly is having enough mad dogs to scent, chase, and run down these not so elusive Sanglier (wild boar). Now, when I say mad dogs, I don’t mean rabid or distempered, I mean really fucking angry. These dogs have seen how aggressive and offensive these boars can get and what kind of damage their tusks can do when the chips are down.

I was not even 100 meters along the road from Bonnieux when I was nearly run down by a speeding Kangoo. It was not more than 200 meters further when I was deafened by the packs of hunting dogs. I never quite laid eyes on them but they seemed to be moving in the same direction I was. Every 30 seconds or so their incessant barking became quite high pitched. Those changes were typically followed by one or more rifle shots and then moments of silence. The French hunters all wear bright orange. The wild boars are the colour of the bush and scrub. I was thankfully dressed like a shitty dollar store Santa in bright red. Next time I make fun of Donald T. I will have to remember his genius & consider using the orange spray tan myself. It certainly has prevented him from being shot in any wayward hunting accidents.

My return journey was near enough 17 kilometres. For all of it, save my time wandering in a very quiet and coffee free Lacoste, the dogs bayed and gun shots rang out through the valley. I do love Lacoste. The art college and its student galleries. The former home of both the Marquis de Sade and Pierre Cardin is a very cool place. Sadly, both cafes in Lacoste were closed for refurb and I was forced to turn back to Bonnieux through bandit country. This unfortunate decision had to be made much too soon and without even the whiff of a double espresso.

Just over an hour later I was home and stretching. I popped into Apt for a few groceries an hour or so later and returned to use the air fryer to prepare a dinner fit for a survivor. It’s not easy making it across miles of open country under fire. It is these kind of harrowing stories that fill the pages of dozens of books by former SAS commandos. The stuff of Chris Ryan or Andy McNab. I’ve always fancied the life of Ernest Hemmigway. I realize running with the bulls in Pamplona is not even close to briskly walking aside mad dogs in the Luberon, but you have to start somewhere. My last stolen quote from Kipling is as follows, “This is a brief life, but in its brevity it offers us some splendid moments, some meaningful adventures.”.

Please leave a comment if you have a moment.

Live well!

Mark

Here is a link to a recent article regarding hunting in France! https://www.rfi.fr/en/france/20211204-tribute-to-victims-of-hunting-accidents-as-french-senate-begins-inquiry

p.s. all images except the last two taken with the Leica Q2

BONNIEUX, FROM THE ROAD TO LACOSTE

THE TOP CHURCH THROUGH THE TREES.

THE BAT CAVE HAS NEVER LOOKED SO SCRUFFY.

IMAGE BORROWED FROM GOOGLE.

IMAGE BORROWED FROM GOOGLE

BACK IN BLACK AND WHITE (BONNIEUX)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Provencal life is still good!

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

Mark

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

TODAY’S LUNCH IN GOULT.

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

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

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

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

Please leave a comment if you have time. 

Live well!

Mark

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

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

NEVER SELECT PAY AS YOU GO!

Everyone is treated like a third-class citizen once or twice in a lifetime. Have you ever been made to feel like you just climbed out of a sewer because you needed a "Pay as you go" mobile phone top-up? If you haven’t but you are still intrigued, I suggest that you stroll into a French mobile phone shop sometime. I am in a pickle today. I have home wifi, but it is nice to have service in unfamiliar locations from time to time. What if you need a Tripadvisor suggestion for lunch or a route to a vineyard from Google Maps?

My data ran out this morning, so I thought it best to get into the nearest sizable town and darken the doors of the Orange boutique. Orange, along with SFR, are France's biggest mobile phone providers. Neither are great, but SFR would have to be on fire for me even to consider saving the staff from certain death. As a result of my first & only visit to SFR, I now know what it must be like to be a Hare Krishna or a Gypsy selling the lucky heather. Do you want to feel inadequate or in 2021 speak, marginalized? Then go to SFR. Only one of the four staff even lifted their heads from their own phones long enough to fuck me off when the shop was otherwise completely empty.

Orange was slightly less toxic, so they got my business for mobile phone service and home wifi. So there I was this morning at opening time waiting in line for help. I was not first and oddly not last as one of those octogenarians I was referring to in the last blog was behind me waiting to return his wifi router. We had a short conversation in French (I am getting better), and from that, I learned he lived in Lacoste and that his box was a piece of Merde.

My time had come, and the security guard waved me in during a break from playing a game on his phone. They have a Covid limit of 7 people in the boutique at one time. Security first I always say. I took a seat in line and waited for the woman in front of me to ask the "customer service rep" to explain each one of the three hundred phones on display's features before declaring she was not looking to upgrade her phone at this time. So is this all she had to do with her morning? A pox on her and her grapevines!

It was my turn. I stopped to shave before reaching the counter as it felt like an eternity had passed since I arrived. I never expect anyone to speak English in foreign climes. This is France, and I live here, so I should understand what is said to me and what is going on. It was just 90 seconds before the “customer service rep” was signing me up for a 20 Euro upgrade to my home WIFI account so that I may have my phone included with 5 GB of monthly mobile data. When the new contract arrived, I tried again to explain I did not want an "upgrade." I am pay as you go, and I am not in France year-round, so it makes no sense to increase my monthly tariff for home wifi etc.

We went around the mulberry / Orange bush (pardon the pun) for quite a while before she understood that I was just a poor old pay-as-you-go muppet and that she had just spent all that time trying to get a failed commission. So I am back to being sewer scum, and I need a top-up for a week. Sort of like Oliver Twist asking Fagin for more soup.

With a frown and a sigh, I was provided with my "Mobi Cartè" top-up. I was 25 Euros lighter and happy to get my statutory release from the Orange workhouse. I wandered the town, bought a Baguette for my Jambon Beurre and returned to Bonnieux for a picnic in Place Gambetta. Upon arrival at my favourite bench overlooking the valley to the north, my life was once again provencal.

Please leave a comment if you have time!

Live well.

Mark

All images captured with the Leica Q2

Never complain about having to drive a Charger! These made in Romania Dacia Dusters are 1/3rd as big and powered by Gypsy dust!

MY 8TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. OUR CLOSEST NEIGHBOURS TO THE SOUTH.

Even though I have driven through both of these villages countless times since I arrived in Provence, I had yet to stop, park, and wander. Both towns are on a route clearly marked as a road that will provide access to some of the most outstanding Castles and medieval architecture in the south of France.

The first on the list today is the village of Lourmarin. There is a spectacular chateau that dominates the skyline no matter which direction you approach from. This chateau is in fantastic condition and lived in by local nobility. Not only can you wander around outside its walls, but if you arrive at the correct times, you can tour the inside as well.

For several years now, the chateau has been used as a venue for classical concerts all the way to modern-day music festivals and most everything in between. This clearly indicates a place that appeals to an extensive age range. From a Chopin recital with a chilled flute of champagne in the garden to an electronic trance concert with ecstasy tabs in a field (I would assume).

The history of this village dates back at least a thousand years and was probably a Neolithic campsite before that. A fortress was first built at the current site in the 12th century. It was rebuilt by Foulques d'Agoult in the 15th century on the foundations of the earlier castle. It was restored in 1920. In 1545 the town was burned down because its population was predominantly Protestant. I did my research before arrival. That homework certainly provided a different scope of understanding as I wandered about trying to put into perspective the where's and whys from both a visitor's and neighbour's perspective.

Lourmarin has a luxury vibe about it. Not unlike Menerbes, which I visited several weeks ago now. My senses were placed on overload as I took an opportunity to drop in to dozens of artisan galleries and boutiques. The sights, sounds and smells were fabulous. Each seemed to compliment the other so that as if by magic, I felt relaxed, content and generally in my happy place.

The village is easy to wander because it is one of the very few I have visited this year that was built on flat ground and well below the ramparts and fortifications of the chateau. I arrived just after sunrise, I expected to enjoy a physical challenge before the temperature made it uncomfortable. The terrain guaranteed I could have stayed in bed for a couple more hours and still not felt any effects of the heat.

Before leaving Lourmarin, I stopped for a beautiful espresso, and people watched for a while. As time pushed on, it seemed as though I was witnessing a 1960's straw fedora convention. One in six men (tourists not locals) that crossed my bow seemed to fancy themselves as Rat Pack impersonators. Before you think I am confusing these hats with their Panama cousins, I am not! I take issue with this. It's clearly a bugbear of mine. Those hats are to be accompanied by 60's style well tailored suits and pencil-thin ties. They are not, repeat, not to be worn with sandals, board shorts and muscle shirts no matter how good or bad shape you are in. Don't, just don't! You look ridiculous. Buy a ball cap for christ's sake. Buy a stetson, buy a bucket hat. Switch on man, switch on!

More narrative below!

Cucuron is the next village along from Lourmarin as you travel southeast. I must admit that we have had a couple of lovely meals here at L’etang in the past, but the remainder of Cucuron needed to be explored as well. Arriving at noon precludes the opportunity to visit any shops or museums as it is lunchtime. Most everyone knows time stands still in France at lunch. The only places open will be serving food. No matter if your appetite says just a nibble or the local's preferred combination of the "formule" (entrèe, plat du jour and dessert or frommage).

You will sit and enjoy whatever your choice may be, and you will sit for at least an hour and a half to ensure digestion and satiety. You will most likely begin with a glass of Pastis, followed by a Monaco and then a good bottle of local plonk with your meat, poultry, or fish choice. No one leaves the table until the obligatory espresso is finished and restful smiles are on faces.

This lifestyle seems to contribute to the life span of locals because the percentage of octogenarians or older is very high. Sitting on benches, walking their dogs, chatting with neighbours, all the while chain-smoking yellow-papered cigarettes. I am actually getting used to the smell and don't nearly despise it as much as I once did. Perhaps these local darts are in fact an ingredient in their elixir of life??

I don't plan on starting this very expensive habit, but it seems to compliment the Mediterranean diet and remaining active. I am almost 100% sure that none of these local seniors needed to go to the gym before work in their day and similarly would never even think to utter the word yoga. If you go into business in Provence, don't choose to be a funeral director. A distinct lack of work and the inability to charge more for XXL caskets will keep you from a comfortable retirement.

I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to Cucuron. The quiet cafe culture is dotted all over the village. It provides even more opportunity to lower my blood pressure and centre my chi (I looked it up and now know what it means). I hope this episode finds you in your happy place?

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

All the images in this blog were captured with the Leica M10-R.

MY 7TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.

Ansouis was built in the 10th century! Many of you weren't even born then. Does Ansouis suck? The answer is a resounding no! No, it doesn't suck. I can guarantee that when I am 1100 years old, I won't look or smell this good, and neither will you! This village of just over a thousand people (not in the winter) is a gem in the Southern Luberon. On the approach to Ansouis, you predict the future. You predict the kind of morning you are going to have. You predict what you’ll see as you wander the streets and alleys of one of France's “Beau Villages”.  

Sure, Ansouis is old, but regardless of age it looks in better condition than 99% of the pink stucco castles built in the 1990s in Richmond, Surrey or Gordon Head. Sorry for assuming most readers live in British Columbia. What do they say about assumptions? A quick check of Squarespace's analytics tool tells me that readers visit this site from all corners of the globe. Lately, readers in places such as the Seychelles, Uganda, Singapore, Switzerland and New Zealand to name but a few have stopped by to have a look. I do appreciate all of your precious time!

Once parked and geared up, I left the most recent rental (A silver Renault Captur, no psychiatrist's note required) all locked up and began my walk to the castle and later the abbey. Once again, I was taken by the feeling inside the castle’s chapel. The colours were incredibly warm. I remained alone while wandering the nave. To be fair, I was alone most of the morning. The tourists are all gone. School is back, and local villages are turning like the leaves. Cafe's, bars and restaurants are shortening their hours. However, skeleton crews remain to continue providing outstanding food and drink for the locals. There are no worries that you will be overlooked or forgotten. I thoroughly enjoyed my double espresso at the Anouis "Sports Bar" while resting my feet. I can't say that I understand how they came to name it the Sports Bar? All of my fellow patrons looked far from participating in any sport other than the chain-smoking 15 meter dash.

I like the colours here. I like the warm stone hues. I like the quiet. I like Ansouis. It doesn't suck!!!

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Cheers,

Mark

The following photographs were taken with my Leica M10-R and Leica Q2.

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 SIXTH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. BUOUX AND SAIGNON ARE SMALL BUT MIGHTY.

The phrase “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing'” has been used with purpose since the 18th century. It is attributed to Alexander Pope where it was found in his An Essay on Criticism,

Buoux is not too far from Bonnieux. Google maps say 9KM and should take around 16 minutes in the car. I love morning light, so I set off just after 7 a.m. so I could guarantee to be on the ground well in advance of sunrise . Even though as the crow flies, it's not too far from the relatively shallow and wide valley that I wake up to every morning. Buoux and, moreover, Fort du Buoux sit in a tight space sandwiched between very tall, imposing & sheer rock formations.

I thought the best plan of attack was to drive through Buoux to the Fort and get the hike out of the way before it got hot.. I knew that I would have enough time to stop in Buoux on my way back to wander around the village. The parking lot for visitors at the Fort was empty. However very well signed with a ton of great historical information to take in before setting out on the trail.

There are tall and quite ornate iron gates at the trailhead. Unfortunately, only the right gate was open, which for some unknown reason, caused a weird sensation as I walked under the arch & through. I got about 75 meters along the trail, and then I heard a very odd series of sounds. I am aware that there are not many wild animals in Provence except for the infamous boar. Having worked for Parks Canada during university, I have hiked many trails with signs of bear activity. Unfortunately, I do not have any experience of recognising the signs of wild boar.

I stopped for a moment to listen intently. The wind whistled through the trees, but the grunting subsided. I continued on quietly . The path was quickly beginning to climb and, with that becoming more and more challenging. Ten minutes later, I came to a unique site comprising massive granite overhangs and a sizeable rock garden that sat in its shadow. It was eery to be there alone (or maybe with a stalking a wild boar).

I moved on up the trail as the sun appeared and began to warm the valley floor. Several minutes later, I reached a point on the track where the direction changed, and the ruins of the Fort's turrets came into view. Sadly, It was at that point that my hike was over. The trail was boarded up, and barriers were in place to stop anyone from continuing up to the ruins. I tried to get an image from a distance, but it just wasn't what I was hoping for. I returned down the trail slowly, looking for details in the rock formations and how the light was casting shadows. I had a little success, but it was cathartic to have these woods to myself.

As I reached the trailhead back at the car park, I was startled again by the similar sounds that took me by surprise on the way up. I stopped in my tracks again and looked around with the intent to find the source. After about a minute, the next thing I heard from behind me was "Bonjour." I quickly turned to see an older disheveled looking man who was sitting on his haunches in the trees. I replied Bonjour. He didn't move, and I had no reason to continue a conversation. I made it to the car and headed back to Buoux. Not a typical morning in Provence (for me at least). I think that I have either met my first French hermit, or my first deserter from the French Foreign Legion. Bears, boars and summers in Canada’s alpine parks. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing! Today I would go as far as to say not so much dangerous as completely useless in Provence.

SAIGNON.

My stop in Saignon was all too brief. This village is quite small and that is very much part of it’s charm. Today, most uncharacteristically, Saignon was overrun by tourists. I have visited here countless times over the years and normally I have have wandered the streets alone. All of the places I wanted to photograph were busy, so to get what I wanted was going to be near to impossible on the day. It seems that Covid has been nothing but good for local business development in the village as several new cafes and restaurants have opened since the last time I was here. This is fantastic for those who have gambled and succeeded. I will return on another morning in September when things have returned to normal. Here are a few shots but I hope to create a gallery from Saignon when the time is right.

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live well!

Mark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please take the time to leave a comment.

Live well!

Mark

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