I THINK I’VE FOUND NARNIA.

Embarking on a journey from the beautiful and tranquil region of Vaucluse, where the landscape seems to have been sculpted by the rough-skinned hands and loving heart of a Renaissance artist, to the charming provincal town of Uzès is akin to stepping on to a vividly painted Van Gogh canvass. A canvas where history doesn't just whisper; it pours you a glass of cold, crisp local Rose and sits beside you to spend some quality time.

As a retired wanderer and not the kind that regularly escapes from a care home but the kind that hails from the wild, wet west coast of Canada, the idea of walking through the ancient streets of Uzès in the soft embrace of the warm golden sun on an early spring morning, with nary a tourist in sight, makes me extremely happy. There's something utterly delightful in the thought of meandering alone through history, my steps the only sound apart from the distant chime of church bells and the occasional disgruntled French cat, disturbed from its sun-soaked slumber by my size 13 Birkenstocks.

Uzès, a town that seems to have been gently nestled into the French countryside by a benevolent giant, is rich with history that feels almost palpable as you walk its ancient streets and alleys. Founded in Roman times, the town is a feast for those hungry to glimpse the past. It’s as if each cobblestone is a breadcrumb leading back through time, and I, a Canadian and larger version of Hansel, am more than happy to follow, in the hope that they have fallen from a gigantic pain au chocolate & preferably without the subsequent witch issues.

At the heart of Uzès is the Place aux Herbes, a square serving as the town’s living room, bordered by arched pathways and lined with trees that have seen more history than we can fathom. The morning market here is a symphony of colors, smells, and sounds, a place where the local dialect is as thick as the daube they sell. To walk through it alone is to be a shadow, observing life in its most vibrant form without the need to partake.

The town's churches, such as the Cathedral Saint-Théodorit, with its Italian Renaissance-style bell tower, are monuments to faith and artistry. Venturing inside, the cool, hushed interior feels like a sanctuary from time itself. It’s easy to imagine the generations that have come here seeking solace or salvation, their whispers adding to the layers of history. As someone who has weathered the storms of the Pacific, standing in such a testament to endurance is both humbling and uplifting.

Accommodation in Uzès, particularly if one is looking for a touch of luxury, is like choosing which historical epoch you’d like to dream in. The 4- and 5-star options are as varied as they are splendid. One could opt for the Hotel Entraigues, located in the city center, where modern amenities blend seamlessly with ancient architecture, offering a rooftop view that competes only with the gastronomical delights served beneath it. It’s a place where one can feel like a king, albeit a king who thoroughly enjoys free Wi-Fi and espresso machines in his room.

Or perhaps the La Maison d'Uzès, a sumptuous boutique hotel that whispers tales of centuries past through its elegantly restored rooms. Waking up here is like being cradled in history, with the added benefit of an outstanding breakfast that could easily turn a morning person out of the most nocturnal creature.

Walking through Uzès alone, especially on a wonderous warm spring morning, allows one to appreciate the town’s beauty and serenity without the bustling crowds. The solitude amplifies the architecture's beauty, the heritage's majesty, and the gentle flow of daily life. It’s a reminder that sometimes, to connect with a place truly, we must experience it on its terms and in its quiet moments.

As a guy who has left behind the perpetual motion of the Western world for the serene cadence of retirement, Uzès offers not just a journey through space but also through time. It’s a place where one can stroll without purpose, lost in thought yet fully present. The lack of tourists is not just a boon but a blessing, allowing the soul of the town to shine through unobstructed.

In conclusion, as I, a humble Canadian with a newfound zest for life and a pension for adventure, wander through Uzès, I am reminded of the beauty of solitude and the rich tapestry of history surrounding us. This journey from Vaucluse to Uzès is not just a travelogue; it's a pilgrimage to the heart of tranquility, a lesson in the art of being alone without being lonely. And as for the humor that bubbles up like a spring in this ancient town, it's found in the realization that, after years of seeking company, the best conversations are often the ones we have with history, nature, and ourselves.

If you ever venture in this direction, I hope you don’t miss this place and have the same experience I now insist on having regularly. All the images in this post were captured with the new Leica SL3 and several new lenses (drop by my gear page if you are interested). Please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments box below the last image; I would love to hear from you if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

BATTA BING, BATTA BOOM!

Palermo. Where the traffic flows like molasses in a Siberian winter, and the cacophony of car horns serves as the city's unofficial anthem. I arrived at Falcone Borsellino Airport with the usual mix of trepidation and misplaced optimism that accompanies most of my travel adventures. The optimism, as usual, was the first casualty.

Stepping outside, I was greeted not by a welcoming committee but by an assault on the senses. The air was thick, not with anticipation, but with the unmistakable aroma of exhaust fumes, creatively seasoned with a hint of garbage. It seemed the refuse collectors of Palermo were either on strike or had taken a collective vow of non-interference. On the bright side, our driver for the journey to the AirBnB was a lovely man named Dario. He drove an older Volvo wagon that he referred to as a Swedish limousine.

The traffic in Palermo is not so much a system of transportation as it is a kind of vehicular ballet - a ballet where everyone has decided to freestyle simultaneously. Cars, scooters, and the occasional daredevil pedestrian weave and dodge with a kind of reckless abandon that would leave a health and safety officer weeping. I watched in awe as a Vespa, laden with a family of four and what appeared to be the weekly shopping, navigated a roundabout in a move that defied several laws of physics.

Then there’s the graffiti. In some cities, graffiti is a scourge, a blight on the urban landscape. In Palermo, it's more of a municipal art project with an open invitation. Every available surface is covered in a tapestry of spray paint, a vibrant, chaotic narrative that tells a thousand stories, none of which I could decipher.

Amidst this chaos, the Sicilians. Ah, the Sicilians. They move through their city with a kind of spastic grace, unfazed by the bedlam around them. They argue with a passion that suggests life-or-death stakes, though I suspect the topics are more along the lines of football and the proper way to prepare pasta. The volume of these public debates is something to behold. It seems that in Palermo, whoever is loudest is right, a rule of thumb that explains quite a lot about the local politics.

The street markets of Palermo are an experience unto themselves. They are less markets and more frontline combat zones where one battles for fresh produce and octopus. The air is rich with the smell of fish, spices, and the sharp tang of Sicilian cheese. Stall owners hawk their wares with the kind of aggressive enthusiasm that would make a Wall Street trader blink. I bought two arancini and a massive cannoli that I'm pretty sure involved signing away a minor portion of my soul.

But, oh, the architecture. Palermo hides its beauty like a secret, tucked away behind the veneer of urban chaos. The buildings are a hodgepodge of styles, each more grandiose than the last as if they were trying to outdo each other in a beauty pageant. Baroque churches sit comfortably next to Arab-Norman palaces, a testament to Sicily's layered history. It's a place where you can walk from one era into another in a few steps, provided you don't get run over by a scooter in the process.

And then there's the fashion. Sicilians dress with an effortless style that I could never hope to emulate. Men in impeccably tailored suits ride battered scooters, their elegance undiminished by the helmet under their arm. Women glide through the streets in outfits that seem to defy Vancouver and Toronto's “fashion” trends, looking as if they've just stepped off a Milanese catwalk rather than a crowded Palermo bus.

As I navigated the streets, dodging cars and scooters, inhaling the intoxicating mix of exhaust and arancini, I couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration. Palermo is not a city for the faint-hearted. It's a city with a vibrant, messy, chaotic pulse. It's a city that lives loudly and unapologetically. It's a place of contradictions, where beauty and chaos live side by side, and where every day is a dance with the unpredictable or Luigi and Fat Tony if you haven’t paid your protection money for the month.

In Palermo, I found a city that wears its heart on its sleeve, graffiti-tagged and garbage-strewn though that sleeve may be. It's a city that challenges you, shouts in your face and then winks at you, daring you not to fall in love with its maddening charm. As I left, weaving my way back through the ballet of traffic to the airport with Dario, I realized that I had indeed fallen for this chaotic, beautiful, maddening place. Palermo, you're a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, and I can't wait to return.

I hope you enjoy the images of Palermo below. Please leave a comment or thought in the comment box at the bottom of the page. I appreciate reading what you think.

Live well,

M.

All images were captured with a Leica M10-R and various lenses.