Goodbye Venterol. Thursday 17th September, 2009.

I had a heavy heart as we closed the door to our little French village home in Venterol. What an experience this had been. So many times we had wandered the streets of small villages, hearing dulled voices from deep inside the walls of the village homes, I had always wondered who lived there and what it was like inside. Now I know, they are people like you and I, mostly living simple and uncomplicated lives. More often than not they have a deep respect for, and an intimate connection to the land and the things it offers them.

AJ and I ate our last breakfast on our beloved terrace. The hills and the valley below were covered in white mist and all was quiet around us, we too were quiet. Our lives stood still for a brief moment as we drank in the changes that each new day delivered. We reflected on our time in France, sharing our happy memories, memories that money could never buy, the best ones were mostly of the simple things just like the moment we were in.

JR and I shed a tear or two as the bags were loaded into the car and we paused for a photo at the front door that was peeling with old paint. Tomorrow would be our last day in France and with the turn of the key in the door at Venterol, our last home-exchange in France, a country we have grown to love.

We drove the autoroute to Marseille. We had a perfect run and drove straight to the Europcar depo at the airport without one wrong turn. We handed back the keys and not 50 metres away was the shuttle bus taking us directly to Gare St Charles, beside which, we had booked a hotel room just for tonight allowing us to catch our 6.30 train in the morning.

We were checked into our cheap and cheerful hotel, Hotel Windsor which I would not hesitate to recommend. Cheap as chips and clean as clean and run by the most lovely family, middle eastern I think. We had hauled the remnants from the fridge for a picnic lunch and after we stopped to buy a baguette or two, we settled in for a great picnic in front of Marseille's Hotel de Ville.

The Tourism Office were wonderful giving us passes to the open top bus to allow us to become acquainted with the city. The busy port is the focus of the city but my favourite part was the bus ride along the coastline of blue water as far as the eye could see, it was lovely. We hopped off the bus at an old fishing village where it seemed time had stood still. Little boats bobbed in the clear water and locals sun bathed along the water’s edge.

We wandered the old town but could not find its heart although according to the map we were right in it, it just lacked something and to my eye was not beautiful, some of the newer architecture was unsightly and did not seem to fit a city like Marseille, but there it was anyway.
I had tried to book into the restaurant that chef from La Mirande had recommended for Bouillabaisse but it was fully booked, a solution was found and I ended up dining at another, owned by a Chef who is the president of the Bouillabaisse charter, where restaurants must adhere to making this very special fish soup using only traditional methods of both cooking and serving, to enable them to be part a part of. It was a unique experience with much pomp and ceremony, beginning with the croutons, raw garlic cloves to rub on them and a pimento and garlic spiced rouille to smear on top. Once this is done you float the laden croutons in the soup and enjoy. The soup finished, the six varieties of fish are cut up in front of you and blanketed in more of the same soup. It is a huge endeavour to eat a Bouillabaisse to completion, I was nowhere near completion. Chef visited my table for a chat educating me on the traditions of this special dish.

My boys are not great lovers of seafood and at 58 euro a pop (double it for Aussie dollars), they both enjoyed a more casual dinner of pizza, coke and beer a few doors away. Before they left, JR and I visited the Bouillabaisse kitchen to take some photos, it was good of chef to accommodate us like he did, he was very generous and spoiled us with many treats, even though the boys weren’t dining in the restaurant, they were given small courses of summer truffle shaved on croutons and drizzled with balsamic glaze, and little glasses of potato and truffle soup. My meal finished with more little courses, all were a delight. My evening ended with a silver tray of delicate petit fours of anise macaroons, strawberry tartlets and fruit jellies.

The grand finale was the centrepiece on my table catching alight. There I was sitting on my own, trying not to make a scene and be the noisy Aussie in the room, it was impossible. As the fire spread and the flames leapt higher, I had no choice but to yell for help. It came quickly and I escaped my Bouillabaisse experience unsinged. What a laugh and yet another funny predicament to add to the others we have accumulated on our year of adventure.