Walkacrossitall 18/02/2024 Walkacrossitall 18/02/2024

AN EVENING OF STREET PHOTOGRAPHY IN MARSEILLE WITH THE NEW LEICA Q3.

Leica Cameras for Travel.

This post is a little off-piste. After receiving a lovely invitation to join a group of talented local photographers in Marseille, I accepted and spent a wonderful sun-drenched evening walking around an area not on the tourist trail. These are a few of my favourite images from that memorable adventure. I hope that you will find interest in the composition. The second group of black and white photos should be seen to have the natural grit that I had assumed would come with time spent in this neighborhood.

These photos were captured with the Leica Q3 in the .dng (RAW) format. Some were later processed into monochrome with Lightroom Classic.

Live well!

Please leave your thoughts in the comment box below the last image if you have a moment.

MONOCHROME IMAGES.

Walkacrossitall 31/01/2024 Walkacrossitall 31/01/2024

Arles in Winter: Where Van Gogh Meets Viennoiserie.

Leica Cameras for Travel.

Arles. The jewel of Provence, where the Rhône gently kisses the Mediterranean, and where, on a particularly crisp winter morning, I found myself parked adjacent to two long and narrow river cruise boats, both were tied up north facing at the dock. I sat wondering if my car was closer to Van Gogh's bedroom or the nearest patisserie. In its infinite wisdom, the sun had decided to grace those of us up with the birds, casting a golden hue over the town that even the most skilled Instagram filter couldn't replicate.

The streets of Arles at this hour are a curious mix of the sleepy and the over-caffeinated. Artists, those brave souls, are already out with their sketch pads, capturing the light that once inspired Van Gogh to, well, let's say, get overly enthusiastic with his self-portraits. I strolled along the quay, my breath no longer visible in the air, a reminder that while the calendar insisted it was winter, the temperature, hovering in the high teens, seemed to have missed the memo.

In the heart of the town, the scent of freshly baked croissants waged a fierce battle with the aroma of strong coffee. The local boulangeries, those temples of butter and flour, were opening their doors, emitting a warmth that seemed to beckon every soul in Arles. I watched as people, clearly more accustomed to the early hours around here than I, made their pilgrimage for their morning sustenance. There's something almost religious about the first bite of a croissant in a French bakery; it's like a sacrament but flakier.

As I wandered, I stumbled upon the Roman-built coliseum, or as I like to call it, the 'Arena of the Absurdly Old'. It's remarkable to think that this structure has been standing since 90 AD, hosting everything from gladiator battles to, more recently, tourists with selfie sticks. It's a testament to Roman engineering and modern-day marketing. I half expected a centurion to pop out offering guided tours, but it was just a man in a slightly less impressive uniform selling postcards.

The boutiques in Arles are a delightful distraction. Each one is unique, like snowflakes, if snowflakes were made of lavender soap and hand-painted ceramics. I wandered into one, pretending for a moment that I was the kind of person who could nonchalantly buy a €200 scarf without blinking. Sensing my internal struggle, the shopkeeper smiled and said, "It's okay, I too dream of being outrageously wealthy."

Lunchtime in Arles is an experience in itself. The cafes and bistros come alive, their tables spilling onto the sidewalks. I chose a spot in the sun, the kind of place where you can sit with a glass of local wine and pretend to write a novel. The menu was a delightful parade of Provençal classics – ratatouille, bouillabaisse, and something involving snails that I wasn't brave enough to try. The food, much like the town itself, is unpretentious yet sophisticated, like a farmer in a tuxedo. All that to say, after that tooing and froing, I decided to have an espresso and wait to have lunch later in the day.

The streets took on a more leisurely pace as the late morning pressed on. The artists had packed up, their morning's work done, replaced by couples strolling hand in hand and so many dogs, each looking like it had just stepped out of a French film about existentialism and baguettes.

As the sun descended, casting long shadows across the ancient stones, I found myself back at the river. The cruise boats were being prepared for their next voyage by a small Army (more appropriately, Navy) of young men working very hard to make everything ship shape and Bristol fashion. As I drove from the dockyard parking lot along the Rhone to Avignon, I counted my lucky stars. You see, the last time I was here, it was pre-covid, and the river cruises were packed with relentlessly embarking throngs of tourists rolling down the gangways to invade the city as the Romans had thousands of years previous. In reality what I observed back in the summer of 2019, were hundreds of new-age Romans, or as my friend Jaquie puts it, the “salad dodgers”, stumble down the gang plank onto terra firma. As I got further & further out of town, I couldn’t stop thinking about the absurdity of trying to capture the essence of a place like Arles in a few hours or even a 3,000-word blog post.

In the end, Arles is a town that doesn't just sit in the landscape; it is the landscape. It's a place where history and modernity dance a slow waltz, every corner holds a story, and every pastry shop is a potential love affair. As I neared home, I mused that Van Gogh had it right all along – sometimes, the most ordinary places are the most extraordinary, especially when viewed through the lens of a winter morning sun.

Walkacrossitall 09/08/2023 Walkacrossitall 09/08/2023

OTHER PEOPLE’S SHIT!

Leica Cameras for travel.

Ah, France! The land of love, fine wine, and pastries to kill a diet at twenty paces. But more than that, France is also the land of Brocantes - glorious gatherings of what I like to call "other people's SHIT." My wife calls it treasure hunting. I call it a relentless pursuit of tetanus.

The Brocante adventure begins bright and early with "Le Bargain Hunter" emerging from their habitat, armed with a coffee-stained checklist and an overpowering aroma of desperation and Gauloises cigarettes. These fine folks, whose fashion sense could best be described as "Walmart chic," have truly mastered the art of chain smoking in confined spaces and giving zero F#cks.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for a bargain, but my wife's love for Brocantes is something else entirely. It's a passionate, feverish love, like a French romance novel but with more dust and rust. I've seen her bargain with carpet sellers and pottery market traders with the intensity of a French general storming the beaches (ah, the subtleties of French military history, n'est-ce pas?), and all for what? A slightly chipped vase that probably once contained the ashes of someone's Uncle Henri.

Oh, the people! Let's talk about them. They're the true spectacle. One must admire the dedication of those who arrive even before the rusty gates swing open, like seagulls on the scent of yesterday's rock-hard baguettes. They peer through cracks, sizing up the loot, their faces twisted into masks of greed and anticipation. Bargain hunting or horror movie audition? You decide.

The Brocante sellers are a breed apart. They know the regulars; they've seen it all. Their smiles are as genuine as the "antique" Rolex watches they sell. If you're a newbie, be warned, these people can smell your innocence, and they'll charge you double for the privilege of taking home a slightly off-kilter chair that's been through the French Revolution (and not in a museum).

And then there's the stuff. Ah, the stuff. Tables groaning under the weight of mismatched tea sets, creepy porcelain dolls that seem to follow you with their eyes, and paintings of cats playing poker. My wife calls it character. I call it a reason to get therapy.

You see, I love my wife, and I have the mismatched furniture to prove it. Our second-floor living room is now a shrine to the Brocante gods, each piece with its unique quirk and questionable history. Our house is like a museum; only instead of "please don't touch" signs, there are price tags I'd rather forget.

And as for situational awareness? Forget it! It's a battlefield out there. People jostling, pushing, pulling, with no regard for personal space or social niceties. The French are known for their sophistication, but at the Brocante, it's every madame and monsieur for themselves. The only rule is that there are no rules, except perhaps the unspoken one: if you sneeze, you've bought it.

In the end, you'll leave the Brocante with a car full of someone else's memories, a wallet significantly lighter, and the satisfied smile of someone who knows they've bested you. Your wife will be on cloud nine, planning the next adventure into the world of tarnished treasures, and you'll be wondering if it's too early for a glass of Rosé.

So, dear reader, if you ever find yourself in France, by all means, visit the Eiffel Tower, take a cruise down the Seine, but don't miss the true French experience, the Brocante. Embrace the chaos, the dust, and the dubious bargains. If you're lucky, you might even find a treasure or two. Or, like me, you'll simply learn to smile, nod, and appreciate the eccentric beauty in the things – and people – that no one else wants.

This is simply life in France when you are trying to furnish a very old home. C’est la vie. I trust you have enjoyed this midweek check-in.

All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q2.

I hope you have a moment to comment below!

Live well.

Walkacrossitall 06/08/2023 Walkacrossitall 06/08/2023

NOT FOR THE LACTOSE INTOLLERANT.

Leica Cameras For Travel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live Well!

Mark

Walkacrossitall 30/07/2023 Walkacrossitall 30/07/2023

CLIMBING BACK ON THE CHEVAL.

Leica Cameras For Travel

Embracing the charm of Provence was as easy as slipping back into my old linen shirt; this region practically serenades us with its azure skies, warm sunshine, and a chorus of cicadas that sounds suspiciously like Edith Piaf singing "La Vie en Rose" as she wanders through the vines.

These loonie-sized (Canadianism) tree insects are the ones who serenade the valleys of Provence, their melody echoing through the olive groves and lavender fields, a soundtrack to our escape from the monotonous humdrum of the daily grind. With a healthy appetite for the joie de vivre that the South of France promised, we settled in on an epicurean adventure in the wonderous Luberon Valley, our refuge from the seemingly dystopian reality of Trudeau’s folly.

Nestled in the ample lap of the Luberon mountains, this (thankfully) overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make us forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the copious amounts of local rosé.

As we journey through the region, every winding turn of the rustic country roads teases our senses with a new spectacle - a tableau vivant of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant vineyards to the rocky cliffs, everything bathed in the golden Provencal sun. We half expected Julia Child to pop out from behind a vine to hitch a ride in our Renault. Once settled in the back seat, she could begin narrating our journey into the culinary wilderness.

On this latest visit, our first spectacle of the Luberon Valley was a quaint local produce market with such an array of colors and scents that even a seasoned gourmand (aka Fat Bastard) like me could explore with childlike wonder. We walked past stalls of ripe tomatoes and fragrant herbs, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of market vendors, providing the perfect soundtrack to our gastronomic documentary.

History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Romans once tread here, proudly leaving their mark on the pristine landscape. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered ruins and ancient vineyards, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.

Our 30th wedding anniversary dinner was at a charming little restaurant known as L’Arome, tucked away in a cobblestone alley of our little village. The chef, a jovial man with a mustache that would make Hercule Poirot green with envy, served us a meal that was nothing short of a symphony on a plate. The local wine flowed like the nearby Sorgue River, and the laughter and conversation echoed around the terrace like a well-rehearsed orchestra.

Now, don’t let Provence’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of Paris, but that’s akin to comparing a fine Bordeaux with a rather introspective Coors Light or “NASCAR nectar”. And here's a thought, could it be that Provence intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep the hordes of tourists at bay? Maybe, maybe not. But one thing's for sure, the triumphant crème brûlée at the local dingy dive bar is even top-class. You would be a fool not to travel with the Michelin Guide, but as always, trust in your own senses and follow your nose!

As I bid you farewell once again from this pocket of tranquillity, our hearts and minds continue to fill with warm and vivid memories. A trip to Provence might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapters in our lives. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Provence being Provence. 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. My intention going forward is to post on Sundays and Wednesdays. I hope you enjoy and continue to be ever so slightly entertained.

Please leave a comment if you have a moment.

Live Well!

Mark

p.s. All images were captured with the Leica SL2-S / 24-90mm lens and the Leica Q2.

Walkacrossitall 04/04/2023 Walkacrossitall 04/04/2023

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!

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

Walkacrossitall 30/03/2023 Walkacrossitall 30/03/2023

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.

Walkacrossitall 29/03/2023 Walkacrossitall 29/03/2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live Well!

Walkacrossitall 27/03/2023 Walkacrossitall 27/03/2023

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!

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

Walkacrossitall 25/03/2023 Walkacrossitall 25/03/2023

GET A LOOK AT THESE KNOCKERS.

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!

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

Walkacrossitall 15/07/2022 Walkacrossitall 15/07/2022

YES, I'VE BECOME A BIKE WANKER.

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:

I look down on those who don't cycle.
I feel morally superior to all of you who don't avail yourself of human propulsion for transport.
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.
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.

Walkacrossitall 27/03/2022 Walkacrossitall 27/03/2022

AN UNDERGROUND LAIR TO REMEMBER.

A couple of days ago, we returned to a place that is fast becoming one of our favourite stops for a quick shot of culture. As we all know, culture comes in many forms, but in this particular case, it comes in the form of visual art. Margaret Wolfe Hungerford once said, "art is in the eye of the beholder." Along with past visits to such awe inspiring places as the Accademia, the Uffizi, the L’ouvre, the Tate Modern and the Rijksmuseum, we are beholding to this art.

We love to frequent this venue when we are near Avignon, not just for the exhibits but, frankly, the experience of just being in such an amazing and unique environment. I will provide web links for hows and whys at the end of this post, but for now, I will try to do it some justice from my point of view.

Carrières des Lumières was a once-thriving stone quarry in the village of Les Baux-de-Provence. By the hundreds of thousands, people flock here to visit the village and the ruins of its hilltop chateau built in the 12th and 13th centuries. We were tipped off to this wonder about 7 years ago and are now indebted to those that shared it with us. It can be a challenge to find parking upon arrival, but patience and persistence usually win the day. The whole reason to make an effort to drive the serpentining narrow roads and hunt for parking becomes immediately apparent after your ticket is scanned and you are welcomed into this art lovers Aladin's cave.

You can line up at the door to buy tickets with so many others or purchase them online and arrive and enter without waiting. On your first visit, it is hard to comprehend the scale of this place. Not often have I used the word cavernous for its intended purpose, yet I feel I have it bang on this time. Moving past the entrance into this vast dark space can feel daunting, and I was just a little hesitant on my first visit. However, when the exhibition begins and the music paired with perfection plays, you are cast away to another dimension. It is your choice to find a place to sit or wander to your heart's content. Over the years, we have enjoyed Van Gogh, Kandinsky, Cezanne, & Klein exhibitions, to name a few. Enjoy the collection not once but twice. Maybe take a break for an espresso or glass of wine at the underground cafe and then return to enjoy it again. This experience will live with you, so make sure you get as much of it as possible. I hope there is a time when you get a chance to visit Carrières des Lumières. I would really like to be the one you remember fondly for the tip!

Please leave a comment if you have a moment; I am always happy to hear from you.

Live well!

Mark

Link to the venue. https://www.carrieres-lumieres.com/en

Walkacrossitall 22/03/2022 Walkacrossitall 22/03/2022

A LUBERON LUNCH.

I have been back in the south of France for nearly a week now. Uncharacteristically, at no time since I arrived have I even thought about taking a camera out from my bag. This trip has been different. This trip has been more about regular meetings with our interior designer and driving from nearby village to nearby village to tour and consider some of her most recent commissions.

A wonderful byproduct of these little adventures has been the opportunity to sample some of the most wonderful local lunchtime cuisine. Each meal has been clearly prepared by a highly skilled and experienced gastronomic professional. As with every Provençal restaurant, the experience begins when you are greeted at the door by the front of house staff. Their smiles, courteousness and impecable manners are exactly what you hope for every time you dine out, no matter where or when. It’s always best to choose your meal by what is suggested by table staff. It seems only a fool (and I have been a fool many times in the past) would fail to accept a suggestion that ensures only the freshest and most in season choices find their way to your table. I hope to find time for my camera later in the week, but for now I leave you with the memories of a late lunch or two.

Going forward, we have a couple of lovely day trips planned. Then on Thursday we take our leave from Bonnieux and travel north from Avignon by train for 36 hours of jam packed fun in Paris. Until then, I wish for your week to be as full and enjoyable as ours hopes to be.
Please leave a short comment if you get a chance. I am very happy to hear from people far and wide!

Live well!

Mark.

Walkacrossitall 05/01/2022 Walkacrossitall 05/01/2022

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

THE TOP CHURCH THROUGH THE TREES.

THE BAT CAVE HAS NEVER LOOKED SO SCRUFFY.

Walkacrossitall 31/12/2021 Walkacrossitall 31/12/2021

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.

Walkacrossitall 30/12/2021 Walkacrossitall 30/12/2021

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.

Walkacrossitall 29/12/2021 Walkacrossitall 29/12/2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

All photos were captured with the Leica Q2.

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

HE ASKED WHY I WAS PHOTOGRAPHING HIS HEDGE.

COME JULY THIS FIELD WILL BE VIVID PURPLE.

Walkacrossitall 26/12/2021 Walkacrossitall 26/12/2021

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

Walkacrossitall 17/09/2021 Walkacrossitall 17/09/2021

LUNCH AT LA PETITE HISTOIRE.

Gargas brings the location, and the two-man band in front and back of the house provides the experience. Today's visit was my second to La Petite Histoire. The first occasion was a couple of years ago with Dale on the heels of our Turkey and Isreal trip. That was for dinner, and I was presented with a tomahawk steak bigger than my arm. Dale had a similarly sized octopus tentacle.

Today was for lunch, as the title indicates, and there were several option combinations that you can see on the menu in the photograph above. My meal was tremendous, and I am already looking forward to my next visit as a result. You will notice a chocolate number at the end. I had to. My face was so sore from yesterday. I had a cheeky beer and an incredible espresso to round out the 2 hours I spent with the happy, professional staff who double as co-owners. I would recommend a visit without any hesitation.

Live well!

Mark

p.s. All the images below were captured with the Leica Q2.