IT’S BEEN 7000 YEARS!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live well!

Cheers…

M.

ADJUSTMENT THROUGH ART.

As promised, today is Wednesday, and I am keeping my word to cobble together some thoughts and observations twice a week while I travel again this summer. Slipping into the rhythm of Provence is akin to mastering the art of watercolour painting - it's elusive, delicate, and if you're too hasty, you might just blur the lines. My initial days here in the valley were a whirlwind of trying to capture every hue and every shade, a futile attempt to encapsulate the essence of Provence into a single summer's canvas. But Provence, with its timeless wisdom and laid-back allure, gently guided our brush strokes. The thing is that I know better. I have to keep the notion that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I actually live here for a good portion of the year now. I need to adjust to “mellow” faster. A work in progress. I blame my haste over the last week on wanting to host my brother to the best of my ability. It is his first time in this region, and I felt as though we needed to “walkacrossitall” as soon as we arrived in Marseille from Barcelona.

Provence doesn't merely suggest tranquillity and enjoyment; it insists on it, like a seasoned artist insisting on the perfect blend of colours. It has taken me a full week to finally understand the language of the cicadas, the whisper of the Mistral, and the rhythm of the sun-dappled vineyards. We have just recently learned to breathe deeply, to let the scent of lavender fill our lungs and the taste of rosé linger on our tongues. We have learned to let go, to let Provence seep into our canvas and our souls until we are no longer otherwise consumed but a part of the vibrant tapestry itself.

The Luberon Valley, with its warm hues and vibrant landscapes, is a masterpiece unto itself. It doesn't need comparisons or benchmarks; it simply is. Our local boulangerie, with its golden baguettes and flaky croissants, was a revelation in itself. Thank you for opening your doors every morning at 6:30. Thank you for your perfect espresso and pain au chocolat. Both of these indulgences are my mood altering drugs.

As you may have read in earlier posts, I am a sucker for art. And even more so when I can get out of the heat to enjoy it. The transition from the languid lifestyle of Provence to the vibrant world of Dutch art was as seamless as a Van Gogh brushstroke. The underground gallery in Carrières de Lumières, nestled in the heart of Les Baux-de-Provence, was our gateway into this mesmerizing world once again. I think I have been to this venue at least half a dozen times now. The cool, dimly lit caverns were a stark contrast to the sun-drenched landscapes outside, but they held treasures of their own. I apologise now for writing about this wonderous place on more than one ocasion.

The Dutch masters, from the portrait artists of the Golden Age to the impressionists like Van Gogh, came alive on the rough-hewn walls of the quarry. Their works, projected in larger-than-life dimensions, enveloped us in a world of vibrant colours and evocative imagery. We found ourselves lost in the intricate details of Rembrandt's portraits, the play of light and shadow in Vermeer's interiors, and the swirling skies of Van Gogh's landscapes.

The gallery was a time machine, transporting us back through 400 years of art history. We walked through the streets of 17th-century Amsterdam, stood in the middle of a sunflower field under the Provencal sun, and gazed at the starry night over the Rhone - all within the span of a couple of hours. It was a sensory overload but in the best possible way.

As we emerged from the gallery, blinking in the bright sunlight, we carried with us a newfound appreciation for the Dutch masters and their contribution to the world of art. And as we sipped our Heineken (Dutch beer with Dutch art, why not?) at the gallery café, we couldn't help but marvel at the magic of Provence - a place that seamlessly blends the tranquillity of nature with the vibrancy of culture.

The scent of lavender and Provencal herbs permeated the air, a fragrant reminder of the region's rich agricultural heritage. The fields of lavender, stretching as far as the eye can see, are a sight to behold. The remnants of the recently harvested vibrant purple blooms swayed gently in the breeze, creating a mesmerizing tableau that was as soothing to the eyes as the scent was to the senses.

The local market in Saint Remy was alive with vendors of Provencal herbs - thyme, rosemary, basil, and of course, lavender. Each stall was a delight, the air around it heavy with the scent of fresh herbs. We spent hours exploring, picking up bundles of herbs, fresh produce, and the occasional bottle of local rosé. I think these next two locals should be giving a masterclass on how to enjoy every second on this planet!

Just bring your camera, and perhaps, a sketchbook.

Please leave a comment if you have a moment.

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

Live Well!

M.

Images from the exhibit follow.

Todd Inlet, Vancouver Island.

Ditching the hustle and bustle of Victoria was easy; the city practically begged us to leave with a vibrant display of blue skies, sunshine, and the cast of zombies from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller Video” waving to us in our rear view mirrors.

These are they who wander Victoria’s streets in an attempt to adversely effect & disrupt both young and old. With a healthy disdain for the current situation downtown, we embarked on an odyssey to the illustrious Todd Inlet to escape our seemingly dystopian post-apocalyptic city.

Hiding under the ample bosom of the Gowlland Tod Provincial Park, this overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make you forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the patchy cell reception.

As we journeyed north, every winding turn of the bucolic treed roads teased our senses with a new spectacle - an extravaganza of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant forests to the rocky cliffs, everything was drenched in morning sun. We half expected David Attenborough to pop out from behind a tree and begin narrating our journey into the wilderness.

The first spectacle of Todd Inlet was a gentle trail with such well-thought accessibility that even a wheezing porker like me could explore with ease. We walked past meadows and wetlands, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of unseen birds and insects, providing the perfect soundtrack to our nature-infused documentary.

History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Vancouver Portland Cement Company once stood here, proudly spewing smoke and industry into the pristine air. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered buildings and rusty machinery, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.

Soon after arrival, early morning, said goodbye to golden hour, and as sure as the earth is flat (kidding!), the rising sun graced Todd Inlet with a postcard-worthy spectacle. The Inlet was awash in a melange of hues that could make any half-decent landscape photographer weep with joy or weep for forgetting their tripod and long telephoto lens at home (for the 5th time in a row). Meanwhile, Butchart Gardens, nearby, erupted in a cacophony of diesel tour bus engines. These climate crisis deniers, packed with witless drones from the cruise ships, echoed around the inlet like an over-enthusiastic drum solo.

Now, don’t let Todd Inlet’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of the big city, but that’s akin to comparing apples with a relatively quiet, introspective pear. And here's a thought, could it be that Todd Inlet intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep M.J.’s MTV video dance troop away? Maybe, maybe not. Breakfast at the nearby Cafe Zanzibar was excellent, and thank you, Trip Advisor, for the gold medal tip.

As we bade farewell to this pocket of tranquillity and began the trek back to Victoria, our hearts filled with memories and our SD cards filled with photos (well, those of us who remembered their tripods and long lenses, anyway). A trip to Todd Inlet might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapter. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Todd being Todd. It's a place that offers a symphony of nature, a pinch of history, a dash of culture, and a good chunk of serenity. Just bring your camera.

Please leave a comment if you have moment.

All images captured with a Leica SL2-S and a 24-90mm lens.

Live Well!

M.

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.

Strolling through Pamplona with Hemingway's Ghost"

Hola, Amigos and photo enthusiasts. This week, we're taking a leisurely saunter through Pamplona, Spain - a city so steeped in history, charm, and adrenaline that even Ernest Hemingway couldn't resist its call. If you have followed along on these journeys for some time you will recall my fascination for E.H. So much so that I made Harry’s Bar in Venice more important to visit than Venice itself. So, now grab your red bandana, channel your inner matador, and let's follow in Papa's footsteps as we explore this captivating city.

Pamplona is famous for its annual Running of the Bulls, the San Fermín Festival. But, let's put a twist on it: what if we walked the route instead? With spring's delicate touch in the air, We found ourselves meandering along the narrow, cobblestone streets, retracing the path typically thundered upon by hooves and pounding hearts. As the crisp morning air brushed our cheeks, We couldn't help but wonder if Hemingway, too, had once walked this path, his pen itching to immortalize the wild energy of this ancient tradition.

As we strolled along, we could almost hear the echoes of Hemingway's typewriter clacking away, his tales of Pamplona inspiring readers for generations. "The Sun Also Rises," the novel that etched the city into literary history, painted a vivid picture of bullfights and drama, with the Plaza del Castillo as its pulsing heart. A visit to this bustling square and its quaint cafes is a must for any Hemingway fan, providing a glimpse into the world that enchanted the author so.

While Pamplona may be synonymous with bull runs and Hemingway's prose, this city is so much more. The enchanting Old Quarter, with its medieval walls and stunning Gothic cathedral, is a testament to the passage of time. We leisurely wandered through these streets, letting our imaginations conjure images of days gone by - knights on horseback, merchants hawking their wares, and of course, Hemingway nursing a drink, contemplating his next adventure.

So, as we wrap up our casual jaunt through the streets of Pamplona, we raise a glass to this remarkable city - where the spirit of Hemingway and the thrill of the bulls collide, leaving a lasting impression on all who visit. And as we toast, remember this: sometimes, the most profound experiences are born not from the rush of adrenaline, but from the quiet moments when we truly connect with the essence of a place.

Salud and Live well!

M.

All photos captured with the Leica Sl2-S and the Leica 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.

CHATEAU LA COSTE IN MONOCHROME, A PHOTO ESSAY.

Other than these words, An absolutely huge thank you to our new friend Anna for suggesting we visit the château. We are in Anna’s debt! There are no more words.

GET A LOOK AT THESE KNOCKERS.

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

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

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

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

Live Well!

M.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live Well.

M.

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

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

WALKING DOWN MEMORY LANE.

I must apologize now to those expecting this post to be splashed with the colours of Provence or some other fabulous picturesque destination. This time my journey has taken me back to where I started my career 30 long years ago. This post is a photo essay in retrospect.

The location for this collection of images is Carberry, Manitoba. Carberry is located about a two-hour drive east from Winnipeg, almost slap-bang in the middle of Canada. That may sound like an easy journey by car, but it becomes a little more of a chore when you begin the trip on Vancouver Island, some 2230 kilometres away.

In 1992 I arrived here in Carberry full of enthusiasm and naivety. I had recently sworn an oath to Queen and Country. My first “posting” (job) was to protect and serve the townsfolk and surrounding areas as best as possible. I was well trained and proud of my place in life.

Six months prior, I had never in my wildest dreams thought I would end up here or even that a place like this existed. Halfway through my training, I was told by a superior that I could expect to be working in British Columbia's Okanagan Valley after graduation. I would live the high life in a place known for vast lakes, fantastic skiing and beautiful vineyards.

Surprise, change of plan and Carberry it was. With all the best intentions, my time here started unpredictably. A small town with little going on was my initial impression.

I suppose for you British comedy film buffs out there, my time here started as it did for Sgt. Nicolas Angel in the movie Hot Fuzz. Slow and easy with smatterings of good humour. But, by 2 a.m. the following morning, I was pinned down in a snow bank, taking rifle fire from a farmhouse a short distance North from where I lay.

I won't bore you with the details but suffice to say, it was a long freezing cold night at a tumultuous incident. The outcome has stayed with me vividly all these years.

In fact, thirty years later this work has done its very best to desensitize me in every way imaginable. The challenges and responsibilities build with time and experience. So with many moves & transfers behind me, I thought it may have been the appropriate time to return to where it all began.

I wanted to capture some images of what it has become. But, as you will see as you scroll down, not much has changed, and it seems my memories have been preserved in a time capsule, never buried.

This is a typical prairie town with ordinary prairie townsfolk going about their lives. Some farm. Some work at the potato processing plant. Most drive half-ton trucks and smile at you when you cross paths.

My time was different here. It was a good idea to return. It has helped me to process a few things. It's not the only place I ever worked where the events of better left untold horrors effected me, but it was the first, so it left a mark.

As I wandered from place to place, it struck me that I might not be the only one that may live with life-changing memories related to this town. No more significant was this realisation than when I approached the stone chiseled list of war dead on the cenotaph. A place erected to honour the local men lost in a far-off land. So many from such a small town. Families were impacted forever by their loss. Prairie towns suffered hugely throughout both world wars. Young, strong men lost, never to return to their families again. In fact it is less than 10 minutes by car from here that 30,000 Commonwealth soldiers were trained for trench warfare throughout WWI. Camp Hughes was at one time the 2nd biggest place by population in this province behind the city of Winnipeg. Still today, trenches can be seen dotted on the horizons of ranch land west of town.

My journey has ended literally with a cathartic walk down memory lane. But, I am better for it and thankful for the opportunity. This place laid the foundations for an unbelievably fulfilling and exciting career. I have worked all over this country with some exceptional people. I came here thinking Carberry stole my innocence and it owed me something as a result. Now I realize, I owe Carberry.

Live well!

Mark.

Images captured with the Leica M10-R.

As always, please leave a comment if you have time. I enjoy hearing from you!

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

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

GET UP! GET OUT OF BED! THERE’S GONNA BE A CLOUD INVERSION!

This morning I invoked a recently learned life hack I heard on a podcast. Mel Robbins (NO, NOT TONY ROBBINS) said if you are having a hard time motivating yourself to do something, then you should use the 5 second rule. Simply put, just count down from 5. 5-4-3-2-1 and away you go. Your mind commits you at that point to what you want or need to accomplish. Whether you feel lazy or apprehensive, 5-4-3-2-1 tells your brain you have committed. Now this could be psycho-babble but I swear to god it works for me.

This morning at 7:30 it was pitch black outside but I had studied the weather for daybreak and noticed that there may be a decent chance of a cloud inversion in the valley. Sunrise was at 8:10 so I 5-4-3-2-1’d and got to my feet, cleaned up my act and grabbed the camera and tripod. After what happened a few days ago when the fog was thick and I ended up in Maubec, this morning was gonna be a different kettle of fish.

I got as high I could and watched the end of the blue hour give way to golden. I have committed to never let a day pass while I’m here without getting in my 10,000 or more steps. What better way to kick that off this morning than to climb 400 or so stone steps up to the highest point in the village. That slog got me up to the top church, and with that a bird’s eye view of the Luberon Valley. The inversion didn’t last for long but it gave way beautifully to the morning sun trying its hardest to warm stone walls and terracotta roof tiles. The church bells rang on cue for the top of the hour and all I needed was a light sweater given the ambient temperature.

When I came back down into the village below I walked home through the Friday market. Much smaller than during the summer months, but everything you could need was on hand in the way of fresh vegetables, meat, fish and cheese. Even my favourite carpet and pillow cover salesman was set up for business. He spotted me coming from a distance and was on me like white on rice to show off his new wares. What he really wanted to know was where Deanna was, because she loves to pay retail!

Tonight brings New Years eve but most of the local restaurants are closed. Good and bad really. For those that felt like an extremely good meal, must now take on those duties themselves. On the other hand, it becomes a great opportunity to enjoy your family with a special meal in front of the fire at home. As I am in the “all by my lonesome camp” on this trip, a night at an extremely good restaurant was what the doctor ordered. Oh well, a selection of local sausage and goat cheeses will suffice and obviously pair well with a spot of local red. I will more than likely be fast asleep hours before midnight ticks over to 2022 anyway. I am not sure what this afternoon will bring but it will require a ton of walking to get me over the daily line. Here are a few early morning images captured while up high searching for low cloud. Happy New Year from Bonnieux! All the best in 2022..

Live well.

Mark

Please leave a comment if you have time.

THIS IS RUSTREL. WAYFARERS ON!

I would love to wax lyrical about my morning in Rustrel, but I can’t be asked (to coin a British phrase). I am simply going to wish you well and gloat that it was 20 degrees C at lunch time today. Here are a few snaps taken while wandering the streets of this pretty little village on the edge of the Colorado mountains in the North Luberon Valley.

Cheers!

Mark

Cat seemed happy to sit and have his “environmental portrait” taken.

BACK IN BLACK AND WHITE (BONNIEUX)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Provencal life is still good!

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

Mark

TODAY’S LUNCH IN GOULT.

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

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

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

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

Please leave a comment if you have time. 

Live well!

Mark

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

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

NEVER SELECT PAY AS YOU GO!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please leave a comment if you have time!

Live well.

Mark

All images captured with the Leica Q2

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