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.
Showing posts with label Provence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Provence. Show all posts
Monday, September 28, 2009
Pack Up Day. Wednesday 16th September, 2009.
The time rolls around quickly between one exchange and the next. Tomorrow we will leave our little rain-splashed Village of Venterol and drive to Marseille for one day before boarding the train for a 13 hour trip to Rome – Italy here we come!
I woke slowly this morning, trying to stay asleep for as long as I could, it didn’t work, once I was awake sleep was hard to find again. It had rained all night and this morning the raindrops fell on the roof full force. They sounded like they were landing on a blue, two dollar tarp, falling in loud splashes. Of course it was the terracotta tiles above the exposed beam ceiling not far above our heads that the rain fell on and not a blue, two dollar tarp.
It was time to shed some excess baggage to make moving day tomorrow a little easier on us, the last haul had been a difficult one and I don’t fancy facing the same challenges again, JR and AJ feel the same. JR bought three boxes from the post office for 140 odd euro to ensure their safe arrival back home. As I packed them up and secured them with rounds and rounds of masking tape, I had an impending feeling of doom that when we took them to the post office to send them on their way we would be told we had done something wrong and they would have to be pulled apart and the process would have to be started again. The administration here have us trembling in our boots whenever we have to dot our i’s and cross our t’s, it is near impossible to do things the way they are required and I wouldn’t be surprised if posting a box of junk to Oz was any different – why would it be? All ended up just fine and three boxes of research are safely on their way home as we speak - hopefully.
I woke slowly this morning, trying to stay asleep for as long as I could, it didn’t work, once I was awake sleep was hard to find again. It had rained all night and this morning the raindrops fell on the roof full force. They sounded like they were landing on a blue, two dollar tarp, falling in loud splashes. Of course it was the terracotta tiles above the exposed beam ceiling not far above our heads that the rain fell on and not a blue, two dollar tarp.
It was time to shed some excess baggage to make moving day tomorrow a little easier on us, the last haul had been a difficult one and I don’t fancy facing the same challenges again, JR and AJ feel the same. JR bought three boxes from the post office for 140 odd euro to ensure their safe arrival back home. As I packed them up and secured them with rounds and rounds of masking tape, I had an impending feeling of doom that when we took them to the post office to send them on their way we would be told we had done something wrong and they would have to be pulled apart and the process would have to be started again. The administration here have us trembling in our boots whenever we have to dot our i’s and cross our t’s, it is near impossible to do things the way they are required and I wouldn’t be surprised if posting a box of junk to Oz was any different – why would it be? All ended up just fine and three boxes of research are safely on their way home as we speak - hopefully.
The Harvest. Monday 14th Septtember, 2009.
As I sit on the terrace with my morning coffee I wonder why on some blue sky mornings there are so many sparrows in the sky and on others there are hardly any at all. Today the sky is filled with their little wings as they dart and dash all over. They tweet and twitter and I am sure if they could they would let out loud whoops of joy.
I cannot stay for long on my terrace this morning, surrounded by next door’s terracotta roof, the olive trees after that, and beyond, the rolling hills. Today is harvest day at Domaine Rocheville, the last family run, independent winery in Nyons, our neighbouring town. We arrived at 9am as arranged and there was not a soul in sight. We drove the steep slopes of the property, lucky we had walked the tracks a few days ago so the lay of the land was like an old friend and we knew where to look for the plots of laden vines. Even so, there was nothing but vines, olive trees and orchards. An hour had passed and by this time the shop at the Domain was open so we returned to ask where the pickers were. A quick call to the bosses mobile and all was sorted, they were just in the next field, the landscape is so undulating and complicated they were hard to see even with their two tractors, one in orangey red and the other in a sky blue but much darker.
There were nine pickers today, industriously working, snipping heavy bunches of swollen grapes from the vines, putting them into big black buckets, and when full, heaving them into the back of the trailers attached to the tractors. One of the tractors was manned by Grandad who is 80 and still takes part in the excitement of the grape harvest. Today there were three generations working the vines. They are a lovely family, the son, now at the helm, eats lunch with his Grandparents every day at the Domain. Today he begins with a carrot salad and diced, purple beetroot. Grandma opens the oven and fusses over her Grandson, serving him a dish of fennel and onion, and a hot tomato relish with golden quenelles which brings back fond memories from Lyon where quenelles are a speciality. We enjoy a quick aperitif, a red wine bottled from the family vat, just for their own use, Grandad offers around a jar of sweet almonds before dolling out his medication at the table, pouring his glass full of the red wine to wash it all down. We leave them to eat in peace.
We return home to eat too and all go back to the Domain at 5pm to catch the end of harvest for the day, it will finish in about fourteen days if there are no problems and no rain. On our return the sun was low and the workers were not as fast as they had been with the freshness of a new work day. It must be hard on their bodies, stooping, lifting all day, they are all happy though.
The tractors pull out of the field at 6.20 pm, filled with purple syrah grapes. The day is far from over, now the wine will be made. Back at the winery, each tractor is backed up to the ‘reception’ with a turning blade in the bottom. The fruit slides from the back of the truck and in swept into the shining blade; AJ finds this part most interesting and keeps wanting to be closer and in between the happenings. We are each given a glass of pure grape juice, “The 2009 vintage!” we are told. It is so pure and sweet you could taste the day’s sunshine within it, its pinky-purple colour was cloudy with just juiced character. From here the juice, skins and all are pumped into a huge vat, the juice is drained from the bottom of this and immediately pumped into another vat. It is blushed with a little red but is separated from the grape skins quickly as tonight we are making rose wine. This wine will be sold in spring 2010.
We thank father and son, Grandad has retired hours ago, his bones will be tired tonight. It’s about 7.30 and they will not be finished until about 9pm or so. It is a long day considering they began at 7am this morning. Such is life on the land. It is not just harvest time that is busy, because this farm produces all sorts of yummies, olives, grapes, cherries, apricots; it is always the season for harvesting, planting, pruning, maintenance, etc, so the work day is always 7am to 7pm.
JR is so happy he has been able to catch the grape harvest in Provence, AJ didn’t think much of the harvest process but enjoyed seeing the start of the wine production, he was allowed to climb the long ladder leading to the tops of the vats so he got to see it all and was right in the thick of things up there.
We sipped red wine from the Domain with our dinner tonight, two varieties of red which JR chose. AJ had a sip or two of both, comparing their nuances and discovering the force of red wine on his young palate. After dinner we sliced some aged Comte fromage for him to discover how it changed the taste of the wine. I think he will grow to appreciate good red wines just like his Dad.
I cannot stay for long on my terrace this morning, surrounded by next door’s terracotta roof, the olive trees after that, and beyond, the rolling hills. Today is harvest day at Domaine Rocheville, the last family run, independent winery in Nyons, our neighbouring town. We arrived at 9am as arranged and there was not a soul in sight. We drove the steep slopes of the property, lucky we had walked the tracks a few days ago so the lay of the land was like an old friend and we knew where to look for the plots of laden vines. Even so, there was nothing but vines, olive trees and orchards. An hour had passed and by this time the shop at the Domain was open so we returned to ask where the pickers were. A quick call to the bosses mobile and all was sorted, they were just in the next field, the landscape is so undulating and complicated they were hard to see even with their two tractors, one in orangey red and the other in a sky blue but much darker.
There were nine pickers today, industriously working, snipping heavy bunches of swollen grapes from the vines, putting them into big black buckets, and when full, heaving them into the back of the trailers attached to the tractors. One of the tractors was manned by Grandad who is 80 and still takes part in the excitement of the grape harvest. Today there were three generations working the vines. They are a lovely family, the son, now at the helm, eats lunch with his Grandparents every day at the Domain. Today he begins with a carrot salad and diced, purple beetroot. Grandma opens the oven and fusses over her Grandson, serving him a dish of fennel and onion, and a hot tomato relish with golden quenelles which brings back fond memories from Lyon where quenelles are a speciality. We enjoy a quick aperitif, a red wine bottled from the family vat, just for their own use, Grandad offers around a jar of sweet almonds before dolling out his medication at the table, pouring his glass full of the red wine to wash it all down. We leave them to eat in peace.
We return home to eat too and all go back to the Domain at 5pm to catch the end of harvest for the day, it will finish in about fourteen days if there are no problems and no rain. On our return the sun was low and the workers were not as fast as they had been with the freshness of a new work day. It must be hard on their bodies, stooping, lifting all day, they are all happy though.
The tractors pull out of the field at 6.20 pm, filled with purple syrah grapes. The day is far from over, now the wine will be made. Back at the winery, each tractor is backed up to the ‘reception’ with a turning blade in the bottom. The fruit slides from the back of the truck and in swept into the shining blade; AJ finds this part most interesting and keeps wanting to be closer and in between the happenings. We are each given a glass of pure grape juice, “The 2009 vintage!” we are told. It is so pure and sweet you could taste the day’s sunshine within it, its pinky-purple colour was cloudy with just juiced character. From here the juice, skins and all are pumped into a huge vat, the juice is drained from the bottom of this and immediately pumped into another vat. It is blushed with a little red but is separated from the grape skins quickly as tonight we are making rose wine. This wine will be sold in spring 2010.
We thank father and son, Grandad has retired hours ago, his bones will be tired tonight. It’s about 7.30 and they will not be finished until about 9pm or so. It is a long day considering they began at 7am this morning. Such is life on the land. It is not just harvest time that is busy, because this farm produces all sorts of yummies, olives, grapes, cherries, apricots; it is always the season for harvesting, planting, pruning, maintenance, etc, so the work day is always 7am to 7pm.
JR is so happy he has been able to catch the grape harvest in Provence, AJ didn’t think much of the harvest process but enjoyed seeing the start of the wine production, he was allowed to climb the long ladder leading to the tops of the vats so he got to see it all and was right in the thick of things up there.
We sipped red wine from the Domain with our dinner tonight, two varieties of red which JR chose. AJ had a sip or two of both, comparing their nuances and discovering the force of red wine on his young palate. After dinner we sliced some aged Comte fromage for him to discover how it changed the taste of the wine. I think he will grow to appreciate good red wines just like his Dad.
Discovering Dieulefit. Sunday 13th September, 2009.
There is nothing much really to have me recommend the village of Dieulefit to you, there are no major tourist attractions, nothing of note to share. But this little village had a few little treasures that would never be written about in a tourist brochure, you would never hear about them while visiting the Office du Tourism, so I thought I would share them with you.
My first discovery was a shop selling local ceramics, the kind you see so often in Provence. The shop was unique and was carved into the bottom of a hill, cave like – what am I talking about? It was a cave! To my surprise, at the back of the cave was another cave and it was filled with spring water, pure, clean spring water. My curiosity got the better of me and I asked the owner about it as I had never seen anything like it. Between her non-existent English and my un petit peu French, I managed to glean that the shop used to be an old leather tannery – I will have to find out more I think.
Rue du Bourg is the main street that snakes through the town and is just a delight to wander late on a Sunday afternoon when life is easy. The street is full of shops and homes, cheek by jowl, designed this way to provide maximum shade and to protect the properties from the heat and wind. Every facade was hung with the most beautiful assortment of shutters, some closed awaiting the night and others wide open hoping to catch the last rays of sun. Some building walls were neglected, their paint peeling in large whisps, others were tended and loved, painted in lovely soft pastels. The cobbles were light and the combination of things gave rue du Bourg a freshness you don’t often see in old villages. The doors and their knockers catch one’s eye too. Dieulefit is well worth a wander.
My first discovery was a shop selling local ceramics, the kind you see so often in Provence. The shop was unique and was carved into the bottom of a hill, cave like – what am I talking about? It was a cave! To my surprise, at the back of the cave was another cave and it was filled with spring water, pure, clean spring water. My curiosity got the better of me and I asked the owner about it as I had never seen anything like it. Between her non-existent English and my un petit peu French, I managed to glean that the shop used to be an old leather tannery – I will have to find out more I think.
Rue du Bourg is the main street that snakes through the town and is just a delight to wander late on a Sunday afternoon when life is easy. The street is full of shops and homes, cheek by jowl, designed this way to provide maximum shade and to protect the properties from the heat and wind. Every facade was hung with the most beautiful assortment of shutters, some closed awaiting the night and others wide open hoping to catch the last rays of sun. Some building walls were neglected, their paint peeling in large whisps, others were tended and loved, painted in lovely soft pastels. The cobbles were light and the combination of things gave rue du Bourg a freshness you don’t often see in old villages. The doors and their knockers catch one’s eye too. Dieulefit is well worth a wander.
Montelimar Nougat. Tuesday 8th September, 2009.
What a delicious interview I had at Musee du Nougat Arnaud Soubeyran in Montelimar this morning. We all sat at a round table sipping coffee, AJ was treated to a sublimely rich hot chocolate telling Eric who made it that it was ‘Tres bon, the best hot chocolate he had ever enjoyed’. We were given a tasting plate, a degustation of all the different products that Arnaud Soubeyran makes. Their nougat comes in all different guises; my favourite was the traditional Montelimar nougat which must adhere to strict guidelines to be named as such, and the walnut and fig nougat. Eric showed us through all of the manufacturing rooms. We saw how the Provencal speciality of callisons are made as well as traditional marshmallow in the softest range of colours – violet, pale lemon, pinks, white, mint green etc; there was something fun and childlike about the colours and each mouthful of marshmallow melted on the palate leaving a flavour filled puff of yumminess.
Seeing the production of nougat was lovely. We saw the sugar boiling in big, copper pots, the honey mixing, the nuts roasting, and the mix of all the final ingredients before it was transferred into a slab mould with old wooden paddles, and rolled with a 20kg rolling pin to expel the air and distribute the load of almonds and pistachios evenly. The end product was white as snow and was as shiny as white porcelain before the last layer of azyme paper was placed on top. We were each given a bag of goodies to enjoy. On the way home we dropped some, long mango flavoured marshmallow sticks into Julie and Charles's children.
After Montelimar we ventured off in the direction of a few of the Beau Villages of France. We passed through a village called Les Tourrettes which we thought was a hilarious name. Our first stop was Mirmande, a village of sculptors and painters. We sat at the edge of a pine forest where AJ climbed a pine tree and we enjoyed a beautiful picnic finishing with calissons and nougat which was a lovely sweet treat. Mirmande was beautiful, but lacking a bit of soul. There was a small exhibition of a local artist showing at Church Sainte-Foy which was nice. Butterflies flitted across our path at every turn, trees dangled with almost ripe apples, vegetable patches grew their seasonal bounty, and bunches of dark grapes hung enticingly from vines draped over doorways which overlooked surrounding hills and mountains. There were two neat rows of three hills which looked like perfect miniature pyramids covered in a solemn green blanket of forest.
We were heading back to the car; the boys were a few bends in the path behind me, I decided to play a little trick on AJ in relation to the masses of bees we had noticed hanging around Mirmande. I walked back towards them holding out the hair net I had been given to wear while watching the nougat fabrication this morning, saying, ‘Here guys, a lady is handing out these hair nets to protect us from the bees in the village and to stop them getting caught in our hair.’ JR twigged on and I pretended to pass him a hair net while he discreetly fished this morning’s hair net out of his bag, putting it immediately on his head. I passed AJ my hair net, looking on the ground around me pretending I had lost one. ‘Never mind’, I said, ‘I will catch the lady up the road and get another one off her for me to wear, she must have only given me two’. AJ took his time and diligently tucked his mane of long, golden locks under the elastic and proceeded to walk through the village looking the fool right beside his Dad. I was walking in front of them, head down and laughing my head off. I turned to snap a quick photo before laughing out loud and telling AJ it was all a joke. He agreed it was the best gotcha of all time.
Mirmande behind us, we meandered through the Foret de Marsanne. Gone were the rocky outcrops for a little while. After passing through the village of Marsanne the landscape gave way to a wide open plane with a backdrop of distant hills. The planes between Marsanne and the next village of Cleon-d’Andran were filled with crops, ripe tomatoes lay on the bare earth waiting to be gathered for market, the hum of a nearby tractor assured me they would not lie subject to the elements for long. Fields were coloured with a rust coloured crop, standing tall like corn. This was Sargo which is grown for animal feed.
Our final destination today was the medieval village of Le-Poet-Laval and it took my breath away. The rampart walls grew wild with ivy; the stone walls were its host to reach further and higher. Ripe figs hung from random trees waiting to be plucked, you would never have left them there Manuela! Upwards we trecked, investigating the wild nooks and crannies at every turn until we reached the stone chateau. Sometimes it is not just the village itself that woos you, but the happenings while you are there. We were given permission to visit the 12th century chateau and climb to the very top. We were voyeurs to the happenings of the village below, blanketed in the subtle scent of pine from the nearby forests, underneath us couples kissed while others sat enjoying an aperitif in the shade. The village was surrounded by orchards, forests, undulating hills, and terracotta rooftops, it was truly blissful. Local artist, Bernard Merle had an exhibition on display on the first two floors of the chateau. His work was so beautiful, it captured me, commanded my attention and I can honestly say I loved his paintings and would have loved to take one home. Our situation is such that we don’t have room enough for a spare pair of undies, so the purchase of a painting was out of the question. I will keep his card and the details of my favourite pieces and hope that one day, on return to our less ordinary lives, I may order one as a memento of a special place in time. The sweet notes of Bach and Mozart drifted on the air as the Orchestre de Chambre played in a tiny courtyard. The notes were heavenly and they transcended the village and into our hearts.
After diner eaten on the terrace back at home, I was looking through my photos and reliving the last few days, the special moments I hope never to forget. I was showing AJ a photo of him looking up at his Dad adoringly. AJ said, ‘I love having a Dad like him’. And that my friends, is what this year is all about, the simple life where seven words spoken from a child is more beautiful and wondrous than anything else on earth.
Seeing the production of nougat was lovely. We saw the sugar boiling in big, copper pots, the honey mixing, the nuts roasting, and the mix of all the final ingredients before it was transferred into a slab mould with old wooden paddles, and rolled with a 20kg rolling pin to expel the air and distribute the load of almonds and pistachios evenly. The end product was white as snow and was as shiny as white porcelain before the last layer of azyme paper was placed on top. We were each given a bag of goodies to enjoy. On the way home we dropped some, long mango flavoured marshmallow sticks into Julie and Charles's children.
After Montelimar we ventured off in the direction of a few of the Beau Villages of France. We passed through a village called Les Tourrettes which we thought was a hilarious name. Our first stop was Mirmande, a village of sculptors and painters. We sat at the edge of a pine forest where AJ climbed a pine tree and we enjoyed a beautiful picnic finishing with calissons and nougat which was a lovely sweet treat. Mirmande was beautiful, but lacking a bit of soul. There was a small exhibition of a local artist showing at Church Sainte-Foy which was nice. Butterflies flitted across our path at every turn, trees dangled with almost ripe apples, vegetable patches grew their seasonal bounty, and bunches of dark grapes hung enticingly from vines draped over doorways which overlooked surrounding hills and mountains. There were two neat rows of three hills which looked like perfect miniature pyramids covered in a solemn green blanket of forest.
We were heading back to the car; the boys were a few bends in the path behind me, I decided to play a little trick on AJ in relation to the masses of bees we had noticed hanging around Mirmande. I walked back towards them holding out the hair net I had been given to wear while watching the nougat fabrication this morning, saying, ‘Here guys, a lady is handing out these hair nets to protect us from the bees in the village and to stop them getting caught in our hair.’ JR twigged on and I pretended to pass him a hair net while he discreetly fished this morning’s hair net out of his bag, putting it immediately on his head. I passed AJ my hair net, looking on the ground around me pretending I had lost one. ‘Never mind’, I said, ‘I will catch the lady up the road and get another one off her for me to wear, she must have only given me two’. AJ took his time and diligently tucked his mane of long, golden locks under the elastic and proceeded to walk through the village looking the fool right beside his Dad. I was walking in front of them, head down and laughing my head off. I turned to snap a quick photo before laughing out loud and telling AJ it was all a joke. He agreed it was the best gotcha of all time.
Mirmande behind us, we meandered through the Foret de Marsanne. Gone were the rocky outcrops for a little while. After passing through the village of Marsanne the landscape gave way to a wide open plane with a backdrop of distant hills. The planes between Marsanne and the next village of Cleon-d’Andran were filled with crops, ripe tomatoes lay on the bare earth waiting to be gathered for market, the hum of a nearby tractor assured me they would not lie subject to the elements for long. Fields were coloured with a rust coloured crop, standing tall like corn. This was Sargo which is grown for animal feed.
Our final destination today was the medieval village of Le-Poet-Laval and it took my breath away. The rampart walls grew wild with ivy; the stone walls were its host to reach further and higher. Ripe figs hung from random trees waiting to be plucked, you would never have left them there Manuela! Upwards we trecked, investigating the wild nooks and crannies at every turn until we reached the stone chateau. Sometimes it is not just the village itself that woos you, but the happenings while you are there. We were given permission to visit the 12th century chateau and climb to the very top. We were voyeurs to the happenings of the village below, blanketed in the subtle scent of pine from the nearby forests, underneath us couples kissed while others sat enjoying an aperitif in the shade. The village was surrounded by orchards, forests, undulating hills, and terracotta rooftops, it was truly blissful. Local artist, Bernard Merle had an exhibition on display on the first two floors of the chateau. His work was so beautiful, it captured me, commanded my attention and I can honestly say I loved his paintings and would have loved to take one home. Our situation is such that we don’t have room enough for a spare pair of undies, so the purchase of a painting was out of the question. I will keep his card and the details of my favourite pieces and hope that one day, on return to our less ordinary lives, I may order one as a memento of a special place in time. The sweet notes of Bach and Mozart drifted on the air as the Orchestre de Chambre played in a tiny courtyard. The notes were heavenly and they transcended the village and into our hearts.
After diner eaten on the terrace back at home, I was looking through my photos and reliving the last few days, the special moments I hope never to forget. I was showing AJ a photo of him looking up at his Dad adoringly. AJ said, ‘I love having a Dad like him’. And that my friends, is what this year is all about, the simple life where seven words spoken from a child is more beautiful and wondrous than anything else on earth.
A Lazy Day. Sunday 6th September, 2009.
We had a movie day at home today, it was just what we needed after days on end spent tripping about. We put on a roast pork late in the afternoon, and a roasting dish filled with potatoes, sweet potato and my new Provencal discovery ‘potimarron’ which is a small, bright orange pumpkin and my new favourite roasted until its edges are blackened and caramelised. The lack of roasting pans forced me to be inventive and to cook the roast in a flan tin, it did a great job of it. The meat juices in the tin were dark and sticky and were the base for velvety gravy. AJ said, ‘I wish I had a fountain of gravy that could be taken everywhere’, aren’t kids great?
Later, in the dead of night, I stood on the terrace looking at the beautiful wrought iron bell tower lit with a yellow glow, AJ joined me and I remember thinking to myself - I love our bell tower.
Later, in the dead of night, I stood on the terrace looking at the beautiful wrought iron bell tower lit with a yellow glow, AJ joined me and I remember thinking to myself - I love our bell tower.
Villages of Vaucluse and the Sweet Scent of Lavender. Friday 4th September 2009.
I had a 10.30 interview and photo shoot booked with Distillerie Bleu Provence to watch one of the final distillings of lavender for the season. We were given access to the entire distillery and Clement, who was looking after us, was a wealth of knowledge and pretty easy on the eye too. We watched the entire process of how to extract the oil from lavendin, the farmer arrived with his truck laden with long, flower tipped stalks which were forked into the vases ready for steam to be forced through them alowing their precious oil to be extracted. It was a great visit and I learned so much. The things we are seeing behind the scenes of this year are amazing and I am so thankful.
I would recommend anyone visiting Provence to spend an afternoon discovering the secrets of Vaison la Romaine, It is a delightful town with a village like atmosphere, and there is something for everyone. We chose not to visit the Roman ruins; we refer to them now as ‘ABR’, another bloody ruin which makes us all laugh. If this is your thing you will be well satisfied in Vaison la Romaine.
We walked around without a map and discovered whatever we passed. The Roman Bridge was great to see, it is the link from the new town to the old medieval town and is just gorgeous. From the bridge you ascend the hill to the ramparts of the old city; this is the spot for exploring. The upper town is full of enchanting Provencal squares with pretty fountains. We came across a local couple doing handcrafts and selling home grown Muscat grapes of which we bought a bunch and ate while wandering. At the height of the hill there is an old feudal castle which offers an incredible panoramic view of the town. We were relaxed and unhurried today and it was nice to explore this way and to have time to breathe.
A few kilometres up the road is Seguret, again perched hillside and pretty as a picture with fountains and small chapel. There are beautiful views over the plains from the village square, it is a nice place to contemplate Provence.
Another short distance along is Sablet, cute and cobbled it is, but nothing out of the ordinary, if you can call hill side Provencal villages ordinary. I don’t know why, but Sablet pales into insignificance compared to the others. We had a few interesting encounters here though. I heard a woman saying ‘no worries’ as she helped a passerby with a question. She was an Aussie, her daughter lived in the village with her family and she lived with them for half of the year. A little later, AJ and I got talking to another Aussie couple who had been staying in the village and were leaving tomorrow, they, like me, had fallen in love with Provence.
We had packed a picnic to take today and had planned to enjoy it for dinner. As Sablet didn’t enchant us, we decided to drive home and enjoy the picnic on our terrace. It sounded great in theory but when we arrived home the Mistral wind had arrived with us, forcing us indoors to the dining table where we enjoyed our first ever kitchen picnic.
I would recommend anyone visiting Provence to spend an afternoon discovering the secrets of Vaison la Romaine, It is a delightful town with a village like atmosphere, and there is something for everyone. We chose not to visit the Roman ruins; we refer to them now as ‘ABR’, another bloody ruin which makes us all laugh. If this is your thing you will be well satisfied in Vaison la Romaine.
We walked around without a map and discovered whatever we passed. The Roman Bridge was great to see, it is the link from the new town to the old medieval town and is just gorgeous. From the bridge you ascend the hill to the ramparts of the old city; this is the spot for exploring. The upper town is full of enchanting Provencal squares with pretty fountains. We came across a local couple doing handcrafts and selling home grown Muscat grapes of which we bought a bunch and ate while wandering. At the height of the hill there is an old feudal castle which offers an incredible panoramic view of the town. We were relaxed and unhurried today and it was nice to explore this way and to have time to breathe.
A few kilometres up the road is Seguret, again perched hillside and pretty as a picture with fountains and small chapel. There are beautiful views over the plains from the village square, it is a nice place to contemplate Provence.
Another short distance along is Sablet, cute and cobbled it is, but nothing out of the ordinary, if you can call hill side Provencal villages ordinary. I don’t know why, but Sablet pales into insignificance compared to the others. We had a few interesting encounters here though. I heard a woman saying ‘no worries’ as she helped a passerby with a question. She was an Aussie, her daughter lived in the village with her family and she lived with them for half of the year. A little later, AJ and I got talking to another Aussie couple who had been staying in the village and were leaving tomorrow, they, like me, had fallen in love with Provence.
We had packed a picnic to take today and had planned to enjoy it for dinner. As Sablet didn’t enchant us, we decided to drive home and enjoy the picnic on our terrace. It sounded great in theory but when we arrived home the Mistral wind had arrived with us, forcing us indoors to the dining table where we enjoyed our first ever kitchen picnic.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Honey On My Tongue. Wednesday 2nd September 2009.
I don’t remember if I had told you that I had met a local honey producer at the small market in Venterol on our first day in the village. She called yesterday to tell us that she and husband Charles would be tending the bee hives at 2pm today if we would like to come and photograph the process.
The road up to their property was pretty as a picture. The landscape was of tall Cyprus, pine, and oak trees, the later with yellowing leaves, ready to hibernate, to shed their leaves and conserve strength to enable them to endure the lack of rain. They can do this for a few years to get through a dry spell, and then, when the conditions are right they will spring back to life, such is the miracle of nature.
JR donned a protective bee suit and ventured off with Charles to visit the hives, Julie and I looked on from a distance, only moving when an angry bee came to investigate us. Julie could tell by the tone of its buzz that it would not tolerate us, a previous visitor had proved no threat at all; I was at her mercy.
They live an uncomplicated life, two kids, no TV, mobile phones or MP3’s. They use an outdoor dry toilet in the summer as water is precious and it takes 8 litres of water to flush a toilet, they prefer not to waste the resources from their underground spring, ‘Les Moulieres’, after which their farm is named. They are 9th generation on this farm and live an almost self-sufficient existence. They have chickens for eggs and occasionally for meat, the goat gives them two babies to eat every season, also milk daily, some of this is transformed into cheese. The fruit trees of course give their fresh fruit to be enjoyed; these fruits are also made into confiture to be enjoyed all year round. The fruit varieties they have are apricots, apples, pears, peaches, figs, cherries, black currant, red currant, quince, plums, and two I will have to investigate further; kaki and nefle. They grow olives by the truck load which I can vouch for whole heartedly; these of course give both fruit and precious oil. The bees give honey (lavender and spring flower) and other by-products, and the prolific veggie patch supplies three families with basil, parsley, tomatoes, pumpkins, capsicum of red and green, French beans, salad leaves, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, leeks, melon, onions, and spinach. “When we harvest we share”, says Julie. A healthy rosemary bush is covered in a spray of pink flowers by the front door.
The north side of the house is protected by an enormous line of Cyprus trees, planted by Julie's Great, Great Grandfather to give protection from the Mistral winds, and the garden is littered with waist height earthenware jugs, the storage for olive oil hundreds of years ago. The farm of ‘Les Moulieres’ is a special place, Julie’s family are part of its terroir.
There was a get together in our village beginning at 6pm so we arrived home just in time to go straight out again. It was called ‘Musique Dans le Jardin’. We followed the yellow arrows that directed us down the narrow alleyway after our house. Inside a timber door was a garden paradise and by chance it was the garden we overlook from our terrace, the garden where we heard the sweet notes of song only days before. A central fountain tricked its own melody; its surface was decorated with softly coloured flowers bobbing and floating. Our friends Julie and Charles arrived soon after us; it was nice to see a few familiar faces. We had expected something a little less intimate held in a public park, AJ looked terrified at the prospect of staying so we slipped him the key and he made a discreet exit before the entertainment commenced.
An older couple held the stage, as we, the audience sat under a rough-cut stone garden house which had an open end allowing the view of the performance, a central olive tree too young to have fruit, a laden apple tree and a pomegranate tree in full splendour, its fruit up high showing the colours of ripeness but the lower branches held only green, inhospitable fruit. Its admirers will have to be patient if they want to receive its glistening red jewels, only after it has been kissed by the Provencal sun for days to come. The silvery haired lady played a traditional Moroccan instrument and sung with Oriental tones and high pitched whines and inbetween her songs, her partner, a poet, would recite the words he had penned. “la lune, la lune”, he began. He was animated and put all of himself into his performance, they looked at each other adoringly as often as they could, and he recited his poems directly to her as the content suited. They poured tea from a brass kettle and drank from Moroccan glasses. The more the performance continued, the more dramatic it became. He took her hands and they walked around the central garden in slow motion, ending in rapturous applause. It was quite a special moment to witness. I am not saying it was particularly my cup of tea, it was a little off beat that is for sure, but it was delivered with a special small village uniqueness and with undeniable passion. The worst thing was, actually two things come to mind... the first one was when I looked over and saw JR with his eyes closed, it is hard to sleep and be discrete in a crowd of only 25. And the second thing was that I am sure the lady was the lady we heard in the throes of passion from our terrace a few nights ago, I could hardly stop myself from giggling out loud every time I thought of it. Doesn’t life throw us unexpected and funny moments sometimes?
We returned home to AJ, happy he had not stayed for the performance. We sat on our terrace enjoying local olives, comte fromage and chevre – and yes, we did recite some poetry to each other employing the dramatics of the performance we had witnessed. We threw together a quick pasta sauce of onions, garlic, lardons and tomatoes, it was yummy, the best ever according to AJ.
The road up to their property was pretty as a picture. The landscape was of tall Cyprus, pine, and oak trees, the later with yellowing leaves, ready to hibernate, to shed their leaves and conserve strength to enable them to endure the lack of rain. They can do this for a few years to get through a dry spell, and then, when the conditions are right they will spring back to life, such is the miracle of nature.
JR donned a protective bee suit and ventured off with Charles to visit the hives, Julie and I looked on from a distance, only moving when an angry bee came to investigate us. Julie could tell by the tone of its buzz that it would not tolerate us, a previous visitor had proved no threat at all; I was at her mercy.
They live an uncomplicated life, two kids, no TV, mobile phones or MP3’s. They use an outdoor dry toilet in the summer as water is precious and it takes 8 litres of water to flush a toilet, they prefer not to waste the resources from their underground spring, ‘Les Moulieres’, after which their farm is named. They are 9th generation on this farm and live an almost self-sufficient existence. They have chickens for eggs and occasionally for meat, the goat gives them two babies to eat every season, also milk daily, some of this is transformed into cheese. The fruit trees of course give their fresh fruit to be enjoyed; these fruits are also made into confiture to be enjoyed all year round. The fruit varieties they have are apricots, apples, pears, peaches, figs, cherries, black currant, red currant, quince, plums, and two I will have to investigate further; kaki and nefle. They grow olives by the truck load which I can vouch for whole heartedly; these of course give both fruit and precious oil. The bees give honey (lavender and spring flower) and other by-products, and the prolific veggie patch supplies three families with basil, parsley, tomatoes, pumpkins, capsicum of red and green, French beans, salad leaves, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, leeks, melon, onions, and spinach. “When we harvest we share”, says Julie. A healthy rosemary bush is covered in a spray of pink flowers by the front door.
The north side of the house is protected by an enormous line of Cyprus trees, planted by Julie's Great, Great Grandfather to give protection from the Mistral winds, and the garden is littered with waist height earthenware jugs, the storage for olive oil hundreds of years ago. The farm of ‘Les Moulieres’ is a special place, Julie’s family are part of its terroir.
There was a get together in our village beginning at 6pm so we arrived home just in time to go straight out again. It was called ‘Musique Dans le Jardin’. We followed the yellow arrows that directed us down the narrow alleyway after our house. Inside a timber door was a garden paradise and by chance it was the garden we overlook from our terrace, the garden where we heard the sweet notes of song only days before. A central fountain tricked its own melody; its surface was decorated with softly coloured flowers bobbing and floating. Our friends Julie and Charles arrived soon after us; it was nice to see a few familiar faces. We had expected something a little less intimate held in a public park, AJ looked terrified at the prospect of staying so we slipped him the key and he made a discreet exit before the entertainment commenced.
An older couple held the stage, as we, the audience sat under a rough-cut stone garden house which had an open end allowing the view of the performance, a central olive tree too young to have fruit, a laden apple tree and a pomegranate tree in full splendour, its fruit up high showing the colours of ripeness but the lower branches held only green, inhospitable fruit. Its admirers will have to be patient if they want to receive its glistening red jewels, only after it has been kissed by the Provencal sun for days to come. The silvery haired lady played a traditional Moroccan instrument and sung with Oriental tones and high pitched whines and inbetween her songs, her partner, a poet, would recite the words he had penned. “la lune, la lune”, he began. He was animated and put all of himself into his performance, they looked at each other adoringly as often as they could, and he recited his poems directly to her as the content suited. They poured tea from a brass kettle and drank from Moroccan glasses. The more the performance continued, the more dramatic it became. He took her hands and they walked around the central garden in slow motion, ending in rapturous applause. It was quite a special moment to witness. I am not saying it was particularly my cup of tea, it was a little off beat that is for sure, but it was delivered with a special small village uniqueness and with undeniable passion. The worst thing was, actually two things come to mind... the first one was when I looked over and saw JR with his eyes closed, it is hard to sleep and be discrete in a crowd of only 25. And the second thing was that I am sure the lady was the lady we heard in the throes of passion from our terrace a few nights ago, I could hardly stop myself from giggling out loud every time I thought of it. Doesn’t life throw us unexpected and funny moments sometimes?
We returned home to AJ, happy he had not stayed for the performance. We sat on our terrace enjoying local olives, comte fromage and chevre – and yes, we did recite some poetry to each other employing the dramatics of the performance we had witnessed. We threw together a quick pasta sauce of onions, garlic, lardons and tomatoes, it was yummy, the best ever according to AJ.
Pretty Provence. Tuesday 1st September, 2009.
Where has the year gone? The arrival of September forced me to think how quickly our experience is slipping through our fingers as I sat on the terrace with my morning coffee, the birds were singing and a distant rooster was greeting the day with his noisy exuberance. AJ joined me for a while; he was not so exuberant in his just woken state. I feel as though I want to slow time down to allow me to savour every moment for a little longer, to taste its sweetness more intensely, but I know it is not to be.
JR and I went to the computer shop as arranged, just to hear the words spoken to our face, as if hearing them down the phone line made them not as true. It wasn’t the case, it is as dead as a do-do. JR is great with this kind of stuff, he thinks it all through logically and moves forward thinking of every imaginable hurdle we may face. A new hard drive was ordered along with the appropriate software to be loaded, it should all be ready by Friday. The most important thing is I feel like I can trust the guy and don’t feel like we are being fleeced.
We took off out of Venterol at 11.30am and did not plan to arrive home until late. The tourist office had recommended a beautiful day trip to take beginning from Nyons, in the direction of Currier, along the D64 to Ste-Jalle. The D108 peels off, climbing, twisting and turning to Buis-les-Baronnies and what looked like the beginning of Gorge country with an almost dry river at its bottom. We stopped at Buis-les-Baronies for lunch. Our picnic spot filed two of our criteria, we had shade and water. We climbed down the bank to the water, a family were playing a little upstream, we greeted each other politely. Our lunch was delightfully simple; an assortment of the usual toppings, today there was fresh goat’s cheese as well, on a crusty, crumbly baguette. I had packed some of the local olives also, we devoured them quickly. AJ balanced on a little rock wall and crossed the river, I thought for sure he was going to go in, but he didn’t, although he came pretty close a few times. We played rock target which is now our usual waterside sport. The colours of the rivers in Provence mystify me. They are like Australian opals and make me think of home. Their bluey, green qualities are of soft pastel and they have a milky quality from the limestone silt, I have fallen for them, their beguiling colour, their cool tranquillity and that they are the setting for many happy family memories for me.
With lunch behind us we continued on with contented tummies wondering what would be our next discovery. It was not long until we found it as we doubled back a little and took the D546 in the direction of Vercoiran. Fields of shimmering, silver olive trees lined the road; we stopped to admire their beauty and the tricks they played in the light, refracting sunshine on their leaves. Their branches were filled with hard, green fruit, it was not light in colour but not dark either and far away from feeling the hands of the harvest. The old trees showed the years before them with the girth of their gnarly trunks and character one only acquires with age. Their trunks were thick, much thicker than the young ones, not yet bearing green orbs of fruit, and they took pride of place in the plantation, they were the elders, the Grandparents to the young, spindly ones.
When the roadsides weren’t lined with olive trees, the landscape was filled with fruit orchards of varying kinds. A few rows into an orchard on the right was a flurry of activity that would be hard to miss. Long ladders, whose two long sides of timber joined at the top to enable them to be wedged in the forks of trees, were standing upright throughout the orchard. The ladders held buckets to collect the fruit and held legs of many colours which sprang from the bodies owning many accents from around the world. This was a fruit-picking community, the workers of the harvest. The harvest today was of prune trees, better known to us as plums. The trees yet to have their ripe fruits plucked, had heavy branches filled to overflowing with purply, swollen fruits ready to eat. We chased down the boss who was busy emptying buckets of plums into crates on the back of the tractor and asked if we could take a few photos. “No problems”, he said so we did. Most were happy to smile and pose for the camera, teasing each other as they did. A few were not, no doubt they were not supposed to be working in France but we asked no questions and respected their need for anonymity.
Just passed St-Auban-sur-l’Ouveze, we took the D359 to tiny Aulan where we poked our noses around the chateau, now closed in readiness for the impending winter. The tourist season officially finishes at the end of August here and many sights close their doors. We filled our drink bottles from a fountain in the chateau wall, the cool water was welcome, it was a warm day and out supply was dwindling. The road followed le Toulourenc through deep gorges, although they were mostly dry showing only the white, rocky beds of the river, this is a spectacular part of the world, very rugged and wild. We stopped at one of the deepest parts of the gorge and were rewarded with an opalescent pool of deep water, all bluey green and beautiful. AJ diced with danger navigating rocks on which he climbed which, when the rivers were flowing, would have been a steep waterfall. We stayed for a while throwing rocks and stuff, AJ teased me for not being a daredevil and giving in to my vertigo infliction, it is getting worse by the day.
Our next stop was at the hillside village of Montbrun-les-Bains known for its thermal springs and fountains, it was certainly pretty but I would not call it spectacular (we must be getting spoiled), its avenues still showed their central gutter where sewerage flowed years ago, and were lined with tilleul trees that give up their annual burst of lowers for the infusion drink enjoyed all over France, the trees were minus their precious blooms today, they were gone long ago, before Provence was part of me.
The tourist office advised that the village of Brantes in the Vallee Toulourenc was not to be missed. After snaking along hairpin bend after hairpin bend we arrived at high altitude in the village and it was here we ended our day, sitting perched on a cliff as the sun slowly set behind the majestic Mont Ventoux. Surely someone had set a distant universe alight behind the streaks of cloud to make such brilliant fiery colours in the sky. The village itself was kind of kooky. It was cut into the side of a mountain with a dry river bed at its foot and I felt that if just one rock gave way we would tumble to our deaths. There were no cars, just tiny pathways all rustic and uneven to navigate. Wild herbs of both edible and medicinal nature grew in every crevice, and at every turn there was something to eat on offer from the creator, I had discovered my secret garden. I could come here and eat like a queen and dine on olives, elderberry, apples, rosemary, mint, blackberries, tilleul and grapes as long as the season offered them.
The sun had gone by the time we drove back down to earth, as we looked behind us from the road the village was lit in a soft glow, its bell tower glowed softly against the night sky and it was a beautiful sight to see. Feathery ribbons of cloud collected on the peaks of Mont Ventoux like an eerie mist and I knew I was small in the world. How could one be small when the centre of themselves holds so many memories and has seen so much beauty?
JR and I went to the computer shop as arranged, just to hear the words spoken to our face, as if hearing them down the phone line made them not as true. It wasn’t the case, it is as dead as a do-do. JR is great with this kind of stuff, he thinks it all through logically and moves forward thinking of every imaginable hurdle we may face. A new hard drive was ordered along with the appropriate software to be loaded, it should all be ready by Friday. The most important thing is I feel like I can trust the guy and don’t feel like we are being fleeced.
We took off out of Venterol at 11.30am and did not plan to arrive home until late. The tourist office had recommended a beautiful day trip to take beginning from Nyons, in the direction of Currier, along the D64 to Ste-Jalle. The D108 peels off, climbing, twisting and turning to Buis-les-Baronnies and what looked like the beginning of Gorge country with an almost dry river at its bottom. We stopped at Buis-les-Baronies for lunch. Our picnic spot filed two of our criteria, we had shade and water. We climbed down the bank to the water, a family were playing a little upstream, we greeted each other politely. Our lunch was delightfully simple; an assortment of the usual toppings, today there was fresh goat’s cheese as well, on a crusty, crumbly baguette. I had packed some of the local olives also, we devoured them quickly. AJ balanced on a little rock wall and crossed the river, I thought for sure he was going to go in, but he didn’t, although he came pretty close a few times. We played rock target which is now our usual waterside sport. The colours of the rivers in Provence mystify me. They are like Australian opals and make me think of home. Their bluey, green qualities are of soft pastel and they have a milky quality from the limestone silt, I have fallen for them, their beguiling colour, their cool tranquillity and that they are the setting for many happy family memories for me.
With lunch behind us we continued on with contented tummies wondering what would be our next discovery. It was not long until we found it as we doubled back a little and took the D546 in the direction of Vercoiran. Fields of shimmering, silver olive trees lined the road; we stopped to admire their beauty and the tricks they played in the light, refracting sunshine on their leaves. Their branches were filled with hard, green fruit, it was not light in colour but not dark either and far away from feeling the hands of the harvest. The old trees showed the years before them with the girth of their gnarly trunks and character one only acquires with age. Their trunks were thick, much thicker than the young ones, not yet bearing green orbs of fruit, and they took pride of place in the plantation, they were the elders, the Grandparents to the young, spindly ones.
When the roadsides weren’t lined with olive trees, the landscape was filled with fruit orchards of varying kinds. A few rows into an orchard on the right was a flurry of activity that would be hard to miss. Long ladders, whose two long sides of timber joined at the top to enable them to be wedged in the forks of trees, were standing upright throughout the orchard. The ladders held buckets to collect the fruit and held legs of many colours which sprang from the bodies owning many accents from around the world. This was a fruit-picking community, the workers of the harvest. The harvest today was of prune trees, better known to us as plums. The trees yet to have their ripe fruits plucked, had heavy branches filled to overflowing with purply, swollen fruits ready to eat. We chased down the boss who was busy emptying buckets of plums into crates on the back of the tractor and asked if we could take a few photos. “No problems”, he said so we did. Most were happy to smile and pose for the camera, teasing each other as they did. A few were not, no doubt they were not supposed to be working in France but we asked no questions and respected their need for anonymity.
Just passed St-Auban-sur-l’Ouveze, we took the D359 to tiny Aulan where we poked our noses around the chateau, now closed in readiness for the impending winter. The tourist season officially finishes at the end of August here and many sights close their doors. We filled our drink bottles from a fountain in the chateau wall, the cool water was welcome, it was a warm day and out supply was dwindling. The road followed le Toulourenc through deep gorges, although they were mostly dry showing only the white, rocky beds of the river, this is a spectacular part of the world, very rugged and wild. We stopped at one of the deepest parts of the gorge and were rewarded with an opalescent pool of deep water, all bluey green and beautiful. AJ diced with danger navigating rocks on which he climbed which, when the rivers were flowing, would have been a steep waterfall. We stayed for a while throwing rocks and stuff, AJ teased me for not being a daredevil and giving in to my vertigo infliction, it is getting worse by the day.
Our next stop was at the hillside village of Montbrun-les-Bains known for its thermal springs and fountains, it was certainly pretty but I would not call it spectacular (we must be getting spoiled), its avenues still showed their central gutter where sewerage flowed years ago, and were lined with tilleul trees that give up their annual burst of lowers for the infusion drink enjoyed all over France, the trees were minus their precious blooms today, they were gone long ago, before Provence was part of me.
The tourist office advised that the village of Brantes in the Vallee Toulourenc was not to be missed. After snaking along hairpin bend after hairpin bend we arrived at high altitude in the village and it was here we ended our day, sitting perched on a cliff as the sun slowly set behind the majestic Mont Ventoux. Surely someone had set a distant universe alight behind the streaks of cloud to make such brilliant fiery colours in the sky. The village itself was kind of kooky. It was cut into the side of a mountain with a dry river bed at its foot and I felt that if just one rock gave way we would tumble to our deaths. There were no cars, just tiny pathways all rustic and uneven to navigate. Wild herbs of both edible and medicinal nature grew in every crevice, and at every turn there was something to eat on offer from the creator, I had discovered my secret garden. I could come here and eat like a queen and dine on olives, elderberry, apples, rosemary, mint, blackberries, tilleul and grapes as long as the season offered them.
The sun had gone by the time we drove back down to earth, as we looked behind us from the road the village was lit in a soft glow, its bell tower glowed softly against the night sky and it was a beautiful sight to see. Feathery ribbons of cloud collected on the peaks of Mont Ventoux like an eerie mist and I knew I was small in the world. How could one be small when the centre of themselves holds so many memories and has seen so much beauty?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Bad News. Monday 31st August 2009.
We had been recommended a guy who was trustworthy to have a look at my computer which was still showing no signs of life; he runs a shop on the Nyons – Montelimar road which we drove along en route to our home in Venterol. “No problems, come back tomorrow”, he said, giving me a feint feeling of hope that all would be alright. On the way home, we called in at a local winery in hope to organise an interview and photo shoot documenting a day in the life of wine harvest. The owners of this particular winery are known for their friendliness and passion and they produce all kinds of yummy stuff, the local variety of olive, confitures, syrups etc. We got talking in their rather large and impressive showroom and before long we had been told the start of harvest would be 14th September. We were so excited that we would finally catch the harvest and at such a lovely winery too. They are the last independent winery in Nyons and they harvest completely by hand. Guilluame took us through a wine tasting of all of his drops, JR walked out with three of them he liked them so much, the Rose was my favourite, very easy to drink, even easier on the terrace at Venterol.
Back at home, JR and AJ pumped up the tyres of the mountain bike in the cellar and AJ took it for a test run around the village square. I took him for a run in the car to show him the boundaries around the village where he could ride to and off he went, he loved it, it is nice for him to have a bit of freedom. The village dog, who we later learn is called Sydney, adopted AJ and ran alongside him for the entire way. We gave him a bowl of water and a serve of fried rice for his effort; he is a lovely black lab and is so friendly. The local plumber arrived as arranged to look at the backed up drain in the shower, it has been so disguisting I find it even hard to write about. We ended up building up the base of the shower with wooden slats and a large terracotta brick we found in the underground workshop, to enable us to shower without standing in a sess-pool of water, after about an hour it would drain away. You couldn’t run enough water to clean the base of the shower without it backing up. JR stepped up to the occasion and dealt with it all, I don’t have the gumption for anything to do with drains, especially ones belonging to someone else. The problem is behind us now and we can look forward to trouble free showers from here on.
AJ and I settled in for a movie, we laughed until our sides almost split; it was a little naughty so was right up his alley. As the movie ran, the chicken basted in mustard and honey cooked in the oven until fork tender, the potatoes had been tossed in olive oil, cumin, seasonings, and wild rosemary we had cut from the side of the village hill earlier in the day - they were pretty spectacular.
My mobile rang and on the line was the guy from the computer shop, it was terrible news, I had not felt my heart sink like that in years. The hard drive was dead with no signs of life at all and the worst news was that he could not retrieve any data at all, it had all been lost. One of the problems with being a living in the moment kind of girl is that details of backing up and stuff like that tend to be put on the back burner, to be honest I never get around to doing it. JR on the other hand is great and looks after these kinds of detail. He was actually backing up all of my photos from this year when the computer died. He had plugged the external hard drive into his computer to check my photos were backed up ok but that was dead also. On realisation that I had lost every precious memory (16,000 photos) from our year of living life less ordinary was too much for me to bear, I wept and wept. AJ sat beside me with his arm around me telling me that everything was alright and we had our memories.
JR tried one more time to check the external hard drive, he plugged it into a different port to the one he had tried before, it made a familiar noise and voila, there were my images safe and sound. We were all so happy, JR was relieved. The only thing missing are my key words for every photo, these are the words I have assigned to each image, the details of where, when why, to replace these will take forever. The important thing is that I have my wonderful photos, so precious to me as AJ is not the little boy he was when we left home, he has grown so much.
The streets of Venterol were alive with pre-bedtime sounds of children playing; AJ met a group of boys, younger than he, as we walked around the village. They were too young to hold his interest for long.
We arranged slices of bocconcini and ripe tomato on a plate and drizzled it with local olive oil and JR took it out onto the table on the terrace, AJ set the table with all we would need, a bottle of red wine was opened and we sat under the vast expanse of sky, overlooking the terracotta rooftops enjoying a delicious meal as the sun set and the moon, almost full now, arrived giving the universe a silvery sheen. The soft notes of a woman’s voice travelled up to our terrace, accompanied by old fashioned and simple music, whether it was her partner playing it I don’t really know, but in between her sweet songs I could hear her laughing with someone. Her voice came from the garden behind us, obscured from my view high up on my terrace by an apple tree laden with yet to ripen fruit. It was quite a moment. The moment ended with the arrival of 3 bees, they could have been wasps I’m not really sure, but they were intent on making friends with us and were getting a little too close for comfort thus forcing us back inside. See, not everything is perfect in Provence. One thing I have noticed everywhere we have lived in France, is that the bees are prolific and always take the opportunity of arriving to investigate something sweet, be it perfume, food, drink - anything really.
Back at home, JR and AJ pumped up the tyres of the mountain bike in the cellar and AJ took it for a test run around the village square. I took him for a run in the car to show him the boundaries around the village where he could ride to and off he went, he loved it, it is nice for him to have a bit of freedom. The village dog, who we later learn is called Sydney, adopted AJ and ran alongside him for the entire way. We gave him a bowl of water and a serve of fried rice for his effort; he is a lovely black lab and is so friendly. The local plumber arrived as arranged to look at the backed up drain in the shower, it has been so disguisting I find it even hard to write about. We ended up building up the base of the shower with wooden slats and a large terracotta brick we found in the underground workshop, to enable us to shower without standing in a sess-pool of water, after about an hour it would drain away. You couldn’t run enough water to clean the base of the shower without it backing up. JR stepped up to the occasion and dealt with it all, I don’t have the gumption for anything to do with drains, especially ones belonging to someone else. The problem is behind us now and we can look forward to trouble free showers from here on.
AJ and I settled in for a movie, we laughed until our sides almost split; it was a little naughty so was right up his alley. As the movie ran, the chicken basted in mustard and honey cooked in the oven until fork tender, the potatoes had been tossed in olive oil, cumin, seasonings, and wild rosemary we had cut from the side of the village hill earlier in the day - they were pretty spectacular.
My mobile rang and on the line was the guy from the computer shop, it was terrible news, I had not felt my heart sink like that in years. The hard drive was dead with no signs of life at all and the worst news was that he could not retrieve any data at all, it had all been lost. One of the problems with being a living in the moment kind of girl is that details of backing up and stuff like that tend to be put on the back burner, to be honest I never get around to doing it. JR on the other hand is great and looks after these kinds of detail. He was actually backing up all of my photos from this year when the computer died. He had plugged the external hard drive into his computer to check my photos were backed up ok but that was dead also. On realisation that I had lost every precious memory (16,000 photos) from our year of living life less ordinary was too much for me to bear, I wept and wept. AJ sat beside me with his arm around me telling me that everything was alright and we had our memories.
JR tried one more time to check the external hard drive, he plugged it into a different port to the one he had tried before, it made a familiar noise and voila, there were my images safe and sound. We were all so happy, JR was relieved. The only thing missing are my key words for every photo, these are the words I have assigned to each image, the details of where, when why, to replace these will take forever. The important thing is that I have my wonderful photos, so precious to me as AJ is not the little boy he was when we left home, he has grown so much.
The streets of Venterol were alive with pre-bedtime sounds of children playing; AJ met a group of boys, younger than he, as we walked around the village. They were too young to hold his interest for long.
We arranged slices of bocconcini and ripe tomato on a plate and drizzled it with local olive oil and JR took it out onto the table on the terrace, AJ set the table with all we would need, a bottle of red wine was opened and we sat under the vast expanse of sky, overlooking the terracotta rooftops enjoying a delicious meal as the sun set and the moon, almost full now, arrived giving the universe a silvery sheen. The soft notes of a woman’s voice travelled up to our terrace, accompanied by old fashioned and simple music, whether it was her partner playing it I don’t really know, but in between her sweet songs I could hear her laughing with someone. Her voice came from the garden behind us, obscured from my view high up on my terrace by an apple tree laden with yet to ripen fruit. It was quite a moment. The moment ended with the arrival of 3 bees, they could have been wasps I’m not really sure, but they were intent on making friends with us and were getting a little too close for comfort thus forcing us back inside. See, not everything is perfect in Provence. One thing I have noticed everywhere we have lived in France, is that the bees are prolific and always take the opportunity of arriving to investigate something sweet, be it perfume, food, drink - anything really.
Day Tripping. Sunday 30th August 2009.
Let’s explore and discover the landscape of Provence we thought. We didn’t set of as early as expected; in fact, the village clock had chimed 1pm by the time we got our bums into gear to get out the door – the gorgeous heavy timber door to our temporary home in Provence. Along the D538 we tootled in our little Fiat Punto, veering off to the left to follow the same rue, labelled ‘route remarquable’. It sounded inviting enough.
Not far along the road we noticed a gathering of cars and onlookers, of course curiosity got the better of us and we stopped and stuck our noses in. It was the check point for the Rallaye de Picadon, an annual car rally named after the local goats cheese, an indication of the locals pride in their produce. Well, AJ couldn’t have been more excited as we passed all kinds of rally cars on the open road en route to the next leg of the race. We continued on until we spotted the next check point gathering. Noticing cars driving down the nearby road, we decided to follow and found signs directing us to a car park and viewing area for the rally. We stayed a while sitting on a sloping bank with a full view of a hairpin bend. The rally drivers flung their cars around the bend in front of us and locked up their tyres, with every screech and puff of smoke from the burning rubber the crowd cheered. AJ and JR were pretty excited and so was I sitting in the sunshine of southern France, beside wild blackberry bushes and two happy boys. We had our picnic here, the usual suspects attended, saucisson, mustard flavoured with pain d’Espices, red tomatoes, creamy Coulommiers fromage, our picnic staple. The Vegemite even made an appearance too. We finished with deep purple muscadets grapes and enjoyed every last, juicy one of them. We had not a care in the world sitting perched on the hillside.
On we travelled, new on the D156 after the town of Bourdeaux. The scenery became more dramatic as the road snaked along the mountain sides, revealing shards of limestone protruding from the earth, sometimes looking like the spiny plates on the backs of prehistoric animals, some were reminiscent of giant dinoraur teeth. The time of the day depicted the colour of the limestone ridges as we passes, they varied from pale pink, ochre, white and grey.
Nearing the town of Saillans we passed two young girls with buckets in hand. ‘They’re forraging’, I said and we stopped the car. They both had a bucket of freshly picked blackberries, plucked from bushes growing wild from the roadside. They had been picking for only an hour and had plenty of perfect fruit, each made up of a cluster of dark blisters filled with sweet juice, they tasted as Mother Nature intended with the perfect blend of fruitiness and sweetness. The girls were picking them to make confiture, they shared that in October they would return to this same forest to forage for champignons – what a life!
Leaving Saillans behind we picked up the D135 and also the la Roanne River. We watched as canoes full of adventure seekers made their way downstream whooping as they went. I paddled in the cool water, an almost opalescent colour of blue and green made cloudy from the sandstone rich terroir. I have never seen rivers of this colour except here in Provence. The banks were made of gentle, stony slopes allowing us to reach the flowing water with ease. It was a lovely moment as we all chose a target rock to aim for, AJ and JR left me for dead, my aim was of in la la land.
The road between Saillans and St-Nazaire-le-Desert followed the picturesque river for miles. Sometimes its banks were sheer cliffs and sometimes they were gentle slopes like before, all were lovely. The river flowed on its path and so did we, stoping for photos along the way. The boulders in the bed of the river were sometimes the size of a small house and at others they were like flattened golf balls, nature had offered us every possibility of her handiwork today I think.
The road made its way underneath the majestic mountains that dwarfed us, through dark tunnels and under ledges cut away to allow our passing, all the while la Roanne flowed by our side, our forever friend if we wished to stay. Just before arriving at St-Nazaire-le-Desert, I spotted a vegetable patch that dreams are made of. The pumpkin vines were full of what looked like prize winning pumpkins of bright orange, they looked as though they had been lacquered to be put on show but they hadn’t, they lay on the dusty ground, attached to their host via an umbilical cord. The cabbages fanned their leaves out from their radius as if to catch as much of the late afternoon sun as possible before the cool of night descended. A few unripe strawberries hung from infantile plants, their leaves serrated as if cut by decorative pinking shears, and apple trees were heavy with fruit beginning to blush with red.
Not far along the road we noticed a gathering of cars and onlookers, of course curiosity got the better of us and we stopped and stuck our noses in. It was the check point for the Rallaye de Picadon, an annual car rally named after the local goats cheese, an indication of the locals pride in their produce. Well, AJ couldn’t have been more excited as we passed all kinds of rally cars on the open road en route to the next leg of the race. We continued on until we spotted the next check point gathering. Noticing cars driving down the nearby road, we decided to follow and found signs directing us to a car park and viewing area for the rally. We stayed a while sitting on a sloping bank with a full view of a hairpin bend. The rally drivers flung their cars around the bend in front of us and locked up their tyres, with every screech and puff of smoke from the burning rubber the crowd cheered. AJ and JR were pretty excited and so was I sitting in the sunshine of southern France, beside wild blackberry bushes and two happy boys. We had our picnic here, the usual suspects attended, saucisson, mustard flavoured with pain d’Espices, red tomatoes, creamy Coulommiers fromage, our picnic staple. The Vegemite even made an appearance too. We finished with deep purple muscadets grapes and enjoyed every last, juicy one of them. We had not a care in the world sitting perched on the hillside.
On we travelled, new on the D156 after the town of Bourdeaux. The scenery became more dramatic as the road snaked along the mountain sides, revealing shards of limestone protruding from the earth, sometimes looking like the spiny plates on the backs of prehistoric animals, some were reminiscent of giant dinoraur teeth. The time of the day depicted the colour of the limestone ridges as we passes, they varied from pale pink, ochre, white and grey.
Nearing the town of Saillans we passed two young girls with buckets in hand. ‘They’re forraging’, I said and we stopped the car. They both had a bucket of freshly picked blackberries, plucked from bushes growing wild from the roadside. They had been picking for only an hour and had plenty of perfect fruit, each made up of a cluster of dark blisters filled with sweet juice, they tasted as Mother Nature intended with the perfect blend of fruitiness and sweetness. The girls were picking them to make confiture, they shared that in October they would return to this same forest to forage for champignons – what a life!
Leaving Saillans behind we picked up the D135 and also the la Roanne River. We watched as canoes full of adventure seekers made their way downstream whooping as they went. I paddled in the cool water, an almost opalescent colour of blue and green made cloudy from the sandstone rich terroir. I have never seen rivers of this colour except here in Provence. The banks were made of gentle, stony slopes allowing us to reach the flowing water with ease. It was a lovely moment as we all chose a target rock to aim for, AJ and JR left me for dead, my aim was of in la la land.
The road between Saillans and St-Nazaire-le-Desert followed the picturesque river for miles. Sometimes its banks were sheer cliffs and sometimes they were gentle slopes like before, all were lovely. The river flowed on its path and so did we, stoping for photos along the way. The boulders in the bed of the river were sometimes the size of a small house and at others they were like flattened golf balls, nature had offered us every possibility of her handiwork today I think.
The road made its way underneath the majestic mountains that dwarfed us, through dark tunnels and under ledges cut away to allow our passing, all the while la Roanne flowed by our side, our forever friend if we wished to stay. Just before arriving at St-Nazaire-le-Desert, I spotted a vegetable patch that dreams are made of. The pumpkin vines were full of what looked like prize winning pumpkins of bright orange, they looked as though they had been lacquered to be put on show but they hadn’t, they lay on the dusty ground, attached to their host via an umbilical cord. The cabbages fanned their leaves out from their radius as if to catch as much of the late afternoon sun as possible before the cool of night descended. A few unripe strawberries hung from infantile plants, their leaves serrated as if cut by decorative pinking shears, and apple trees were heavy with fruit beginning to blush with red.
The drive home was as one would expect, with the exception on one thing. On a roundabout close to Nyons there was a hippy type, with a donkey on a lead – not exactly an everyday sight. Even more unusual was a dithery old man, with an old man swagger. He wore a belt slung low on his hips, attached to which was a holster, inside the holster was a gun.
Ponderings...
The Mistral winds make for dry lips, a paw-paw ointment business would boom here!
The plumbing in Europe has us stumped! Almost every home we have lived in since leaving Australia has had appalling drainage in the shower. Narrow drains = bad drainage, it’s not rocket science!
A Petit Village in Provence. Saturday 29th August 2009.
Could I love the tiny village of Venterol any more than when I first saw her in the soft light of day? Venterol is small, charming, full of village characters, and has the most beautiful clock tower with an ornate wrought-iron bell tower, these are a specialty of the region allowing the strong winds to pass through them and the sound of the bells to carry for miles. The bells chime on the hour and then at five passed the hour, we don’t know why.
How can I describe in words our little village home? We live on three of the five levels that make the whole of the house which lies on a narrow, stony lane, only just wide enough for one car. As you open the heavy timber front door, with huge black hinges befitting a door of a dungeon, you are in the lounge room which has an original Godin wood stove, not that we will need it in summer. A small bathroom with terrible drainage is on this floor, as well as AJ’s room at the back of the house with a window overlooking the neighbouring rooftops. From here an almost vertical set of dark timber stairs lead to the next floor. The kitchen is old style and quite charming, I love the ceramic sink; it is so much nicer than today’s versions of the same. Oh, and we have tongs, the first we have had in a French kitchen since leaving home. There is a dining area with room for five, from here you can see out onto the terrace, which could easily be my favourite place in the whole world. It is our Provence version of our ‘lazy corner’ on the deck back at home. The terrace is high from the ground and is bathed in the morning sun, becoming cool and shady by drinkies time before dinner. It owes its height to the steep hill the village is perched on; the back of our house tumbles down it with the road to the larger towns at the bottom.
After climbing another set of almost vertical stairs, you arrive in the master bedroom. Beside the bed on the south side of the house there is a small window overlooking the tangles of wrought iron that make the picturesque bell tower. Another window at the back of the room overlooks the same tree covered hill and terracotta rooftops as the terrace. As in keeping with homes in this region, which falls victim to the harsh Mistral winds that sweep over the land from the North, this side of the house is almost totally void of any windows. The Mistral winds are blowing a little this morning, they are nothing to worry about though.
Julie, the local lavender honey producer at our village market this morning, is rugged up against the wind, I however, are in short sleeves and am finding today’s sunshine, blue skies and breeze just perfect after the assault of yesterday’s heat in Marseille. Julie and I get talking and I buy a bag of her olives, a variety particular to this area with a lovely finely wrinkled exterior and sweet flesh. I am catching up with Julie early in the week for a trip to her bee hives and hope to learn more about the olives then too.
The market was the last of the summer season so we were lucky to see it. It was very small and only open to local artisans; I think there were a total of five stalls, that’s it. When the market finished at midday, the producers and artisans got together on a communal table in the village square to mark the end of the summer market season until it rolls around again next year.
Alex explored the nooks and crannies of the village and so did we, we all kept bumping into each other and reporting our finds, Alex likes it here and thinks it would be a great place for hide and seek. The wrought iron balconies that decorate the front of some of the homes are more often than not draped in grape vines. Today they are heavy with purply-black grapes, they are sweet and ready to harvest which we learn will be next week. JR is ecstatic to hopefully see the grape harvest he sadly missed in Burgundy. Silvery olive branches overhang the laneways, proudly showing off their plump fruits, and elderberry trees are abundant with nearly ripe fruit in the edible gardens and on the sides of the roads. I am not kidding when I tell you that the scent of lavender is in the air and is so strong at times we deviate from our path to find its host. We later learn the scents are from the lavender distillery in Nyons; may the perfumed scents find their way to Venterol every day we are here.
Our visit to the local tourism office in nearby Nyons was a fruitful one. The enthusiastic staff helped us with all kinds of information about locally produced specialties of wine, olive oil, honey, lavender oil etc. We will be busy for our three weeks here and are already feeling that it just won’t be long enough. We will just have to make the most of it but we are already talking about how and when we could possibly do another trip, maybe in lavender season.
We navigated the layout of yet another supermarket to stock the fridge and cupboards for the next few weeks, the prices were a welcome sight after Paris. Back at home, the groceries have to be hauled up the steep steps to the kitchen level of the house, the stairs are so steep they are already a pain.
With the jobs behind us, we retired to the terrace with a drink as the colours of the land become blushed in pastel hues and the shadows reached away from their hosts in long and slender shapes on the ground. Magic hour had arrived and JR disappeared to navigate the laneways of the village, so did AJ. I sat in quiet contemplation and thought about how blessed we are to be here, in a village of Provence, on a terrace of my dreams, knowing I am loved.
How can I describe in words our little village home? We live on three of the five levels that make the whole of the house which lies on a narrow, stony lane, only just wide enough for one car. As you open the heavy timber front door, with huge black hinges befitting a door of a dungeon, you are in the lounge room which has an original Godin wood stove, not that we will need it in summer. A small bathroom with terrible drainage is on this floor, as well as AJ’s room at the back of the house with a window overlooking the neighbouring rooftops. From here an almost vertical set of dark timber stairs lead to the next floor. The kitchen is old style and quite charming, I love the ceramic sink; it is so much nicer than today’s versions of the same. Oh, and we have tongs, the first we have had in a French kitchen since leaving home. There is a dining area with room for five, from here you can see out onto the terrace, which could easily be my favourite place in the whole world. It is our Provence version of our ‘lazy corner’ on the deck back at home. The terrace is high from the ground and is bathed in the morning sun, becoming cool and shady by drinkies time before dinner. It owes its height to the steep hill the village is perched on; the back of our house tumbles down it with the road to the larger towns at the bottom.
After climbing another set of almost vertical stairs, you arrive in the master bedroom. Beside the bed on the south side of the house there is a small window overlooking the tangles of wrought iron that make the picturesque bell tower. Another window at the back of the room overlooks the same tree covered hill and terracotta rooftops as the terrace. As in keeping with homes in this region, which falls victim to the harsh Mistral winds that sweep over the land from the North, this side of the house is almost totally void of any windows. The Mistral winds are blowing a little this morning, they are nothing to worry about though.
Julie, the local lavender honey producer at our village market this morning, is rugged up against the wind, I however, are in short sleeves and am finding today’s sunshine, blue skies and breeze just perfect after the assault of yesterday’s heat in Marseille. Julie and I get talking and I buy a bag of her olives, a variety particular to this area with a lovely finely wrinkled exterior and sweet flesh. I am catching up with Julie early in the week for a trip to her bee hives and hope to learn more about the olives then too.
The market was the last of the summer season so we were lucky to see it. It was very small and only open to local artisans; I think there were a total of five stalls, that’s it. When the market finished at midday, the producers and artisans got together on a communal table in the village square to mark the end of the summer market season until it rolls around again next year.
Alex explored the nooks and crannies of the village and so did we, we all kept bumping into each other and reporting our finds, Alex likes it here and thinks it would be a great place for hide and seek. The wrought iron balconies that decorate the front of some of the homes are more often than not draped in grape vines. Today they are heavy with purply-black grapes, they are sweet and ready to harvest which we learn will be next week. JR is ecstatic to hopefully see the grape harvest he sadly missed in Burgundy. Silvery olive branches overhang the laneways, proudly showing off their plump fruits, and elderberry trees are abundant with nearly ripe fruit in the edible gardens and on the sides of the roads. I am not kidding when I tell you that the scent of lavender is in the air and is so strong at times we deviate from our path to find its host. We later learn the scents are from the lavender distillery in Nyons; may the perfumed scents find their way to Venterol every day we are here.
Our visit to the local tourism office in nearby Nyons was a fruitful one. The enthusiastic staff helped us with all kinds of information about locally produced specialties of wine, olive oil, honey, lavender oil etc. We will be busy for our three weeks here and are already feeling that it just won’t be long enough. We will just have to make the most of it but we are already talking about how and when we could possibly do another trip, maybe in lavender season.
We navigated the layout of yet another supermarket to stock the fridge and cupboards for the next few weeks, the prices were a welcome sight after Paris. Back at home, the groceries have to be hauled up the steep steps to the kitchen level of the house, the stairs are so steep they are already a pain.
With the jobs behind us, we retired to the terrace with a drink as the colours of the land become blushed in pastel hues and the shadows reached away from their hosts in long and slender shapes on the ground. Magic hour had arrived and JR disappeared to navigate the laneways of the village, so did AJ. I sat in quiet contemplation and thought about how blessed we are to be here, in a village of Provence, on a terrace of my dreams, knowing I am loved.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)