WHAT RHYMES WITH ORANGE?

A few days ago, I did what I often do over a cup of tea in the morning. That is infact to open up a map on the dining room table and mull over the options for a day of travel and adventure. A paper map, if you will. A paper map to most people today would probably cause them to cock their heads to the right with a look of bewilderment. Who in today’s tech-dominated app-based world uses such an inferior tool? Well, I do. I step back in time every day because I love a little bit of old school. After a short period of deliberation, I chose to visit Orange. Orange is just over an hour’s drive north of my home. A journey not just of mere miles but a leap through layers of time, seasoned liberally with that peculiar French flair for making even a simple road trip feel like a passage through a living museum, where every stone and corner bakery has a story to tell, often with a slight disdain for the English-speaking visitor. But let us not get ahead of ourselves.

Our adventure begins in the Luberon, that part of France where during most of the year, the sun douses the landscape in a light so perfect, photographers wonder why they bother anywhere else. The Luberon, with its vineyards and ancient hilltop villages, is the sort of place that doesn't just whisper but sings its invitation to wander and explore. It is here we start, with a Romanian-built SUV, a map, and a sense of expectation so palpable it could be bottled and sold as 'Eau de Adventure.'’

As I mentioned earlier, the drive to Orange is not long, but in France, distance is measured not in miles but in distractions. There's always a village that wasn't on your map, a vineyard that beckons with the promise of a perfect bottle, or a view so stunning you're obliged to stop, stare, and open your camera bag. French roads are a conspiracy against direct travel, which I wholeheartedly approve of.

Arriving in Orange on market day is like stepping into a painting by a French impressionist artist who is so good at capturing light and life. The sun is indeed out, casting a gentle warmth that makes the early March chill scamper away, sort of embarrassed at its own impotence. The market sprawls with a confidence that only centuries of tradition can bestow. Stalls burst with colors, smells, and sounds, sending frantic messages to your brain, causing utter delight.

The food, It's a symphony, a ballet, a high-wire act of flavors and aromas. Cheeses that wink at you with the promise of untold delights, olives that have soaked up the essence of the Mediterranean sun, bread that crackles with the sound of a perfect French morning. And the fruits, so fresh they seem surprised to find themselves out of the orchard. It's all here, a feast for the senses, where the biggest challenge is not what to buy but moreover how to stop buying.

But Orange is not just a market. No, that would be like saying the Louvre is just a museum. The Roman amphitheater looms with an imposing grace, a relic of a time when entertainment meant something a tad more visceral than scrolling through Netflix. Its ancient stones hold the echo of a thousand cheers, a monument to human ingenuity and our enduring love of spectacle. Walking its tiers, you can't help but feel a connection to those ancient spectators, a shared thrill that transcends time. It's humbling, and yet, curiously uplifting.

Wandering the streets and alleys of Orange is an exercise in time travel. Each corner turned reveals another layer of history, another story waiting to be discovered. Buildings wear their age with a dignified elegance, their facades telling tales of generations past. And through it all, the city's daily life flows with an easy rhythm, a reminder that while we marvel at the past, the present has its own charms.

The market, with its riot of colors, its cacophony of sounds, and its dizzying array of scents, is the heart of it all. Here, food, housewares, and clothing mix in a cheerful jumble, a testament to the French ability to elevate shopping to a form of high art. It's not just commerce; it's a celebration of life's daily pleasures and how.

The day passed in a blur, a delightful assault on the senses that left me exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure. As the shadows lengthen and the market packs away, there's a sense of having been part of something special, a communal experience that binds you to this place and its people.

And so, as I bid adieu to Orange, with its ancient stones and lively markets, its food that sings, and its history that whispers, I can carry memories of a day well spent. It's the kind of experience that makes me want to return, explore those streets and alleys again, lose myself in the market's embrace, and feel that connection to the past once more.

I hope that you enjoyed this trip to Orange. As always, if you have a moment, please leave your thoughts or comments in the box below the last image on this post.

Live well!

M.

All images included in this post were captured with the Leica Q3 in raw (.DNG) and processed with Lightroom Classic, a testament to the enduring power of light and lens to capture the essence of travel.

MY 11TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.

The Luberon Valley is a place so quaint and picturesque that even the local goats are Instafamous. It was from this very valley, this fine morning, that I embarked on a journey so filled with promise and potential liver damage that even Ernest Hemingway might have thought twice. My destination? The illustrious and immaculately tidy village of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a name that rolls off the tongue with the same complexity and satisfaction as a full-bodied glass of its namesake wine.

Now, for those unacquainted with the joys of navigating the French countryside, let me assure you, it's an experience akin to finding oneself in a real-life game of Mario Kart, minus the helpful floating question boxes (or so the kids used to tell me). The roads twist and turn with the kind of reckless abandon usually reserved for soap opera plotlines, ensuring that any journey is as much about survival as it is about sightseeing.

But let's not dwell on the near-death experiences and instead focus on the destination. Châteauneuf-du-Pape, or as I like to call it, "The Village That Wine Built." This place is so steeped in viticulture that even the feral cats seem to have a discerning palate for a good vintage. The village itself is a marvel of stone buildings that look as though they've been plucked straight from a medieval fairytale, complete with a castle that seems to frown down at the modern world from its lofty perch.

Ah, the castle. Or what's left of it, anyway. The Château de Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a name so nice they named it twice, sort of. This once-majestic fortress now serves as a reminder that even in the world of wine, not everything ages gracefully. Its history is as rich and complex as a well-aged Grenache, having played host to several popes during that curious period when Avignon fancied itself the center of the Christian world. It's said that the popes, in their infinite wisdom, decided that what the papacy really needed was a good vineyard because nothing says divine authority like a robust wine list.

And so, Châteauneuf-du-Pape became the go-to destination for holy men with a penchant for the grape. The village's reputation grew, much like its vines, until it became synonymous with some of the finest wines known to humanity. Or at least, make it known to those humans who can afford it. The irony, of course, is that the popes were probably too busy being pious to enjoy the fruits of their labour truly, but that's the Catholic Church for you – always thinking of the future.

Surrounding the village is the Côtes du Rhône wine-growing area, a region so fertile and productive that you half expect the vines to start planting themselves. Here, wine is more than just a beverage; it's a way of life. The locals speak of terroir with the same reverence that others might reserve for holy scripture, and to be fair, after a few glasses, you too might start seeing the divine in a well-crafted Syrah.

Wine experts and enthusiasts from around the globe wax lyrical about Châteauneuf-du-Pape, using terms like "bouquet" and "finish" with the kind of casual expertise that makes mere mortals feel hopelessly uncultured. These wines are the celebrities of the oenophile world, complete with their own entourages of adoring fans and eye-watering price tags. It's a place where the phrase "let's have just one more glass" can lead to life decisions that seem much less wise in the cold, sober light of day.

In the midst of this vinous Valhalla, a particularly clever wine cave owner, spotting the wide-eyed wonder with which I beheld his domain, beckoned me closer with the promise of capturing this oenological oasis through my camera lens. "For memories," he said, with a twinkle in his eye that should have warned me of the impending danger to my wallet.

This, dear reader, was no mere merchant of grape-based beverages; this was a maestro of persuasion, a virtuoso of the vineyard, who could probably sell ice to Eskimos or, more aptly, water to fish. His cave was several levels above Aladdin's and a cave of vinicultural treasures, each bottle more seductively labeled than the last, whispering promises of unparalleled delight.

With the skill of a seasoned conductor, he guided me through the symphony of his cellar, my camera clicking away, each shot capturing the amber glow of bottles that seemed to contain not just wine, but liquid history. It was only when he began to describe the wines, with a passion that bordered on the religious, that I realized I was no longer just a photographer, but a pilgrim at the altar of Bacchus.

Fifteen minutes had passed – or so he claimed, though I suspect time moves differently within the hallowed confines of a wine cave – when he presented me with a bottle. "This," he proclaimed, "is not just wine. This is an experience." The price, he assured me, was merely a numerical reflection of the celestial joy contained within.

And so, dear reader, with a sense of inevitability that would have made Greek tragedians nod in solemn agreement, I left the cave lighter of wallet but heavier of heart, clutching the most expensive bottle I have ever purchased. It was a transaction that defied logic, propelled by a blend of skilled salesmanship and the intoxicating atmosphere of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

As I emerged into the sunlight, I couldn't help but marvel at the cleverness of the cave owner, who had transformed a simple invitation to take photos into a masterclass in the art of the upsell. I had come in search of memories and left with a tangible, if pricey, token of my visit. In the end, I suppose, that's the true magic of Châteauneuf-du-Pape: the ability to turn even the most guarded of travellers into willing devotees at the church of the grape.

But what truly sets Châteauneuf-du-Pape apart, aside from its ability to make your bank account weep, is the sheer beauty of the place. It's as if the village itself has been marinated in fine wine, with every stone and cobble exuding a sense of timeless charm. The locals move with the kind of unhurried grace that suggests they've all reached some higher state of contentment, or perhaps they're just perpetually tipsy.

In conclusion, my journey from the Luberon Valley to Châteauneuf-du-Pape was more than just a test of my driving skills and liver's endurance. It was a pilgrimage to the heart of wine country, a place where history, culture, and viticulture come together as seamlessly as a well-balanced blend. So, if you ever find yourself in this corner of France, do yourself a favour and raise a glass to the popes who, in their infinite wisdom, decided that what the world really needed was a little more wine. Cheers, or as the locals might say, santé!

Live Well!

M.

p.s.

**No driving under the influence of intoxicants took place in the research for this post**

All of the images were captured with the Leica Q3. Thank you, Marc and Vinnie, at the Leica Boutique in Marseille. Any post-processing was done in Lightroom.

Please leave me your thoughts or comments in the box below the last image if you have a moment. I do love to hear from you.