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 Venterol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Venterol. 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.
Dinner at a Village Bistrot. Saturday 12th September, 2009.
John had accompanied the owner/chef from Cafe de la Poste in our village of Venterol, to the market early this morning. Chef writes his daily menu according to what is best at the market, today it was tuna and chicken. Sophie greeted us and settled us in with an aperitif. For me it was back to our days in Burgundy where I enjoyed the aperitif of Creme de Cassis on ice, I had missed it. Sophie had made a tapenade with local olives and oil and we were offered this with our drinks.
Entree sounded enticing but lacked depth and seasoning. Camembert roti with pomme was one of the choices. A generous serving of camembert was baked in the oven and topped with small cubes of apple that lacked any sweetness or caramelisation from the roasting. The cubes still wore their skin which I would have preferred to have been gone. It was nothing to write home about. The camembert had a gelatinous nature instead of a creamy, oozy liquidity that could have been achieved with a better quality fromage.
Main course raised my spirits a little; chicken came blanketed in a sauce with strong aromas of cumin balanced with the sweetness of raisins. The hit was the puree of sweet potato, cooked with cinnamon and cream, it was to die for and I will remember to recreate it for JR on our return home. Dessert, like entree, was a bit of a non event. My apple beignets were overcooked, arriving dark instead of golden, they were a little dry also which was a shame, it would have been good to end on a high note.
The couple that run the restaurant are just lovely, they are new to the restaurant business, it shows a little. I would love to come back and see what the food is like a few years down the track. I wish them well in their venture into the hospitality industry, if heart has anything to do with it they will be stars!
We three sat at our table discussing our experiences this year. I asked the boys what this year had made them appreciate. AJ replied, “It has made me appreciate you guys so much more”. Sometimes the spoken word can be sweeter than dessert.
Entree sounded enticing but lacked depth and seasoning. Camembert roti with pomme was one of the choices. A generous serving of camembert was baked in the oven and topped with small cubes of apple that lacked any sweetness or caramelisation from the roasting. The cubes still wore their skin which I would have preferred to have been gone. It was nothing to write home about. The camembert had a gelatinous nature instead of a creamy, oozy liquidity that could have been achieved with a better quality fromage.
Main course raised my spirits a little; chicken came blanketed in a sauce with strong aromas of cumin balanced with the sweetness of raisins. The hit was the puree of sweet potato, cooked with cinnamon and cream, it was to die for and I will remember to recreate it for JR on our return home. Dessert, like entree, was a bit of a non event. My apple beignets were overcooked, arriving dark instead of golden, they were a little dry also which was a shame, it would have been good to end on a high note.
The couple that run the restaurant are just lovely, they are new to the restaurant business, it shows a little. I would love to come back and see what the food is like a few years down the track. I wish them well in their venture into the hospitality industry, if heart has anything to do with it they will be stars!
We three sat at our table discussing our experiences this year. I asked the boys what this year had made them appreciate. AJ replied, “It has made me appreciate you guys so much more”. Sometimes the spoken word can be sweeter than dessert.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
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.
Au Revoir Paris. Friday 28th August 2009.
We had cleaned and packed yesterday to lighten the load and make moving day a little easier on ourselves. My computer had a melt down yesterday; it won’t even start so we will have to wait until we arrive in Provence to see if all is ok. It pooped itself just as JR had finished backing up my images for the whole year to an external hard drive so fingers crossed I have not lost anything.
The alarm had to be set for 6.30am for the washing to be put on, breakfast to be had, bathrooms to be cleaned etc. We were leaving home at 10am for our 11.15 train to Marseilles. At about 9am there was a knock at the door, it was our lovely exchange family returning from our home in Australia. We were all hoping they would get through customs without delay so we would get the opportunity to meet face to face after swapping our lives and all of our worldly possessions for the past 3 weeks.
Their son of 4 ran straight to his room and began playing with his favourite toys while the rest of us chatted at 100 miles an hour and caught up on what life was like living in each other’s homes. They had loved our home and could not get over just how big it was, this is the wonderful thing about home-exchange, you really do get to live as a local and experience an authentic slice of life in worlds far removed from your own. We love it and so did they.
Goodbyes said, we began our journey arriving on time in Marseilles by 2.34pm precisely. Marseilles was an assault on the senses. Horns blared; traffic was intolerable, life was lived at full tilt it seemed. It was hot and humid and hard. Our next home-exchanger in Provence had organised a car hire for us as he would be using our car back at home. Little did we know that the pickup was at the back of Bourke and beyond and by the time we left Gare Saint Charles at 4.30pm, we were beginning to wonder what time the car hire office would close, it was Friday night?
Onwards we plodded our moods increasingly frosty. We queued at the information booth at the train station for what seemed like forever, the guy was lovely and confirmed the route I had plotted, to the end of the train line, then on bus 12 or 12S for an eternity. Our driver was only too happy to help but when she told us it was time for us to get off the bus, I thought it was a stop or two early. Anyway, who would know best, three blow ins or a Marseilles bus driver? As we were struggling off the bus with our three bulging suitcases, a woman who had seen me reading the details of my car hire paperwork began telling us it was not the right stop. Despite this, we were already half way out, bags and all and we had to believe someone. She ended up getting off the bus with us, explaining that she lives right near the car hire company we were trying to find. She offered to call them for us as she spoke fluent French, and ask them not to close as we were on our way and would be there soon. She explained to us, “You know in France, 6 o’clock means 6 o’clock; they will not usually wait a minute more.” She explained that we had a very long way to go and we had to hurry, maybe it was best that one of us run with her and the others wait on the road with the suitcases. As JR had lost his wallet and licence some time ago, that had to be me so off I ran with my angel, Catherine by my side (a few paces ahead really).
Every roundabout we ran around, and boy were some of them huge, and every motorway overpass we went under, I kept thinking that I had to collect the car, drive a manual through peak hour traffic in a strange city, and I had to remember where I had left the boys, I did not even have a street name to find my way to if I got lost, only the landmarks I was passing as I puffed and panted hot on my angels heels.
We arrived at last, we embraced and I tried my best to explain to her how much we appreciated her help, we would never have found the place without her, and definitely not by closing time, I had 2 minutes to spare. Every time people tell me of the reputation French people have for being rude and arrogant, these are the people I will think of, her and all the other angels we have met on our year of adventure. I ran the last 200 metres along the dirt track that lead to the car hire office and bounded in the door. I must have looked a sight; I was beetroot read and hotter than hot – not in a good way either.
More angels were on hand bringing me cool drinks of water and treating me with TLC. By the time I got in the car (with the AC on full) I felt like collapsing in a heap, but I still had a job to do – to find my boys. I launched the car forward and entered the stream of traffic; I changed gears, once, twice, three times – not bad! I was doing fine with the manual thing (they are not my favourite) but I was so stressed that I would not find the boys. Every roundabout I drove through I would talk out loud to myself with words of praise or questions of doubt, that didn’t help. After a few more turns I saw the familiar glass building of the cinema complex I had run past, I knew I had left the boys around the corner and up the street just a little. There they were, and I pulled into the road beside them. I had never been happier to all be together again, and that is when I lost it. I hugged JR with all the love I had and began to sob like a child. I guess I had held it together for so long and was physically and mentally exhausted; the heat did not help either.
We all managed to fit in the car with our entire luggage, just. On we travelled finding our way out of Marseilles and onto Venterol in Provence. We stopped at a great little place for dinner where we sat on an outdoor table, roadside. The proprietor even sold us a litre of milk for €1 as we anticipated not being able to find anything open in Venterol village on our late arrival. The evening breeze was a welcome friend after today’s searing heat. Finding Venterol was without incident and we navigated the narrow village roads without taking any paint off the car, phew! We parked in the village square as advised by our home-exchanger; we found the right rue between the bistro and the sign for the gallery. It just dawned on me that I did not know what number of the house we were looking for. Now don’t quote me, but I think it was about midnight by this time; the village was quiet except for the owners of the bistro who were having a nightcap in the square. We stopped to say hello on our way past with suitcases in tow. I thought I recognised the front of the house from the photos Ian had sent us so I tentatively tried the key in any lock I could find – no luck, I did the same all the way down the street. I could see the funny side of things after the day we had. I was imagining people opening their front doors to find me trying to unlock them in the dead of night, what predicaments we find ourselves in and you all know how we love to make a memorable entrance.
I went back to the town square and asked the owner of the bistro did he know the house belonging to our home-exchange contact – he didn’t. Now I was starting to worry a little. A night spent in the village square was not so appealing. Mr Bistro disappeared and when he came back he asked to see my key. Voila! He had sorted out the mystery and we were in. The place was cloaked in after midnight darkness, so I ran my hands up and down the wall inside the front door and found a light switch. No lights. Ian had not expected us to arrive in the middle of the night I expect so he didn’t think to mention that the electricity would be switched off. Back to our new friends at the bistro... just as he came down the rue with a torch with AJ in tow, JR and I had found the fuse box, flicked a switch and we were in business.
Our new home is adorable, but more about that tomorrow... first things first, to get rid of the scorpion in the kitchen sink and to figure out tomorrow who is making loud cries in the throes of passion at the rear of our terrace.
The alarm had to be set for 6.30am for the washing to be put on, breakfast to be had, bathrooms to be cleaned etc. We were leaving home at 10am for our 11.15 train to Marseilles. At about 9am there was a knock at the door, it was our lovely exchange family returning from our home in Australia. We were all hoping they would get through customs without delay so we would get the opportunity to meet face to face after swapping our lives and all of our worldly possessions for the past 3 weeks.
Their son of 4 ran straight to his room and began playing with his favourite toys while the rest of us chatted at 100 miles an hour and caught up on what life was like living in each other’s homes. They had loved our home and could not get over just how big it was, this is the wonderful thing about home-exchange, you really do get to live as a local and experience an authentic slice of life in worlds far removed from your own. We love it and so did they.
Goodbyes said, we began our journey arriving on time in Marseilles by 2.34pm precisely. Marseilles was an assault on the senses. Horns blared; traffic was intolerable, life was lived at full tilt it seemed. It was hot and humid and hard. Our next home-exchanger in Provence had organised a car hire for us as he would be using our car back at home. Little did we know that the pickup was at the back of Bourke and beyond and by the time we left Gare Saint Charles at 4.30pm, we were beginning to wonder what time the car hire office would close, it was Friday night?
Onwards we plodded our moods increasingly frosty. We queued at the information booth at the train station for what seemed like forever, the guy was lovely and confirmed the route I had plotted, to the end of the train line, then on bus 12 or 12S for an eternity. Our driver was only too happy to help but when she told us it was time for us to get off the bus, I thought it was a stop or two early. Anyway, who would know best, three blow ins or a Marseilles bus driver? As we were struggling off the bus with our three bulging suitcases, a woman who had seen me reading the details of my car hire paperwork began telling us it was not the right stop. Despite this, we were already half way out, bags and all and we had to believe someone. She ended up getting off the bus with us, explaining that she lives right near the car hire company we were trying to find. She offered to call them for us as she spoke fluent French, and ask them not to close as we were on our way and would be there soon. She explained to us, “You know in France, 6 o’clock means 6 o’clock; they will not usually wait a minute more.” She explained that we had a very long way to go and we had to hurry, maybe it was best that one of us run with her and the others wait on the road with the suitcases. As JR had lost his wallet and licence some time ago, that had to be me so off I ran with my angel, Catherine by my side (a few paces ahead really).
Every roundabout we ran around, and boy were some of them huge, and every motorway overpass we went under, I kept thinking that I had to collect the car, drive a manual through peak hour traffic in a strange city, and I had to remember where I had left the boys, I did not even have a street name to find my way to if I got lost, only the landmarks I was passing as I puffed and panted hot on my angels heels.
We arrived at last, we embraced and I tried my best to explain to her how much we appreciated her help, we would never have found the place without her, and definitely not by closing time, I had 2 minutes to spare. Every time people tell me of the reputation French people have for being rude and arrogant, these are the people I will think of, her and all the other angels we have met on our year of adventure. I ran the last 200 metres along the dirt track that lead to the car hire office and bounded in the door. I must have looked a sight; I was beetroot read and hotter than hot – not in a good way either.
More angels were on hand bringing me cool drinks of water and treating me with TLC. By the time I got in the car (with the AC on full) I felt like collapsing in a heap, but I still had a job to do – to find my boys. I launched the car forward and entered the stream of traffic; I changed gears, once, twice, three times – not bad! I was doing fine with the manual thing (they are not my favourite) but I was so stressed that I would not find the boys. Every roundabout I drove through I would talk out loud to myself with words of praise or questions of doubt, that didn’t help. After a few more turns I saw the familiar glass building of the cinema complex I had run past, I knew I had left the boys around the corner and up the street just a little. There they were, and I pulled into the road beside them. I had never been happier to all be together again, and that is when I lost it. I hugged JR with all the love I had and began to sob like a child. I guess I had held it together for so long and was physically and mentally exhausted; the heat did not help either.
We all managed to fit in the car with our entire luggage, just. On we travelled finding our way out of Marseilles and onto Venterol in Provence. We stopped at a great little place for dinner where we sat on an outdoor table, roadside. The proprietor even sold us a litre of milk for €1 as we anticipated not being able to find anything open in Venterol village on our late arrival. The evening breeze was a welcome friend after today’s searing heat. Finding Venterol was without incident and we navigated the narrow village roads without taking any paint off the car, phew! We parked in the village square as advised by our home-exchanger; we found the right rue between the bistro and the sign for the gallery. It just dawned on me that I did not know what number of the house we were looking for. Now don’t quote me, but I think it was about midnight by this time; the village was quiet except for the owners of the bistro who were having a nightcap in the square. We stopped to say hello on our way past with suitcases in tow. I thought I recognised the front of the house from the photos Ian had sent us so I tentatively tried the key in any lock I could find – no luck, I did the same all the way down the street. I could see the funny side of things after the day we had. I was imagining people opening their front doors to find me trying to unlock them in the dead of night, what predicaments we find ourselves in and you all know how we love to make a memorable entrance.
I went back to the town square and asked the owner of the bistro did he know the house belonging to our home-exchange contact – he didn’t. Now I was starting to worry a little. A night spent in the village square was not so appealing. Mr Bistro disappeared and when he came back he asked to see my key. Voila! He had sorted out the mystery and we were in. The place was cloaked in after midnight darkness, so I ran my hands up and down the wall inside the front door and found a light switch. No lights. Ian had not expected us to arrive in the middle of the night I expect so he didn’t think to mention that the electricity would be switched off. Back to our new friends at the bistro... just as he came down the rue with a torch with AJ in tow, JR and I had found the fuse box, flicked a switch and we were in business.
Our new home is adorable, but more about that tomorrow... first things first, to get rid of the scorpion in the kitchen sink and to figure out tomorrow who is making loud cries in the throes of passion at the rear of our terrace.
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