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.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
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.
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.
A Day With A Dancer. Wednesday 26th August 2009.
It was arranged for us to meet our Bluebell Dancer in the foyer of the Lido on the sparkling Champs Elysses at 11am. The Avenue doesn’t really sparkle that much in the mornings, it looks a little tired, but as the day wears on it spruces itself up and begins to shimmer and shine with a special kind of pizzazz that only befits Paris’ Champs Elysees.
She was only a little late; I could tell it was her by the way she walked, flip-flopping in her thongs and the longest legs God ever invented extending from under a sun dress, not surprising attire for an Aussie girl. We had told her not to plan anything special for the day as we would be together for about 12 hours or more and the goal was to document a day in the life of a Lido Dancer – and that we did.
We began at her favourite bar, funny; it was almost beside the Moulin Rouge. We had lunch together and sat and chatted about how life found her kicking her heels up on the stage at The Lido every night. As the day moved forward, we all relaxed together and began to get to know each other, I liked her and she said I reminded me of her Mum, quite the compliment as they are very close. We all went to Sacre Coeur, a special place for her, we sat on the lush grass and talked some more, AJ assisted JR and did a great job of what was asked of him while JR captured almost every moment on the camera. We were invited back to her apartment, wow was it small. 23 square metres and apparently her last digs were only 13 square metres. Her friend popped over, the girls were running today, they are in training for the Paris Run. A group from The Lido are running to raise awareness and money for breast cancer; a nice sentiment.
After a quick freshen up we walked the streets of Montmartre, she loves it there with its eclectic mix of people. She led the way to one of her favourite places for dinner. The pizzas weren’t bad and while we were sitting on the footpath tables another Aussie girl dropped by, this time a dancer from the Moulin Rouge.
We had to be back at The Lido by 8pm, in time for our girl to transform into a showgirl. We were escorted back stage and stayed in the dressing room for makeup and hair, slowly watching our dancer bloom. Before our eyes she blossomed from a girl into a woman, she was beautiful.
She showed us all the stage entrances left and right, the quick change areas and every costume she would wear on the night. Before we left her she was wearing the full costume for the opening number and she happily posed for a snap with us all – I wasn’t nearly so glamorous as she.
The curtain rose and the lights dimmed, we sat sipping our drinks in the best seats in the house and watched the show. JR was given special permission to photograph the performance and he captured some spectacular moments. The show was wonderful; we all had a great time.
We said our goodbyes at around 11.30, she still had one more show to do and would not be finished until about 2am, I don’t know how she does it, we were all buggered and we hadn’t danced a step all night.
On the way home we all reminisced about the fun we had with our beautiful, elegant, down to earth and innocent Lido dancer who had stolen a little piece of each of our hearts.
She was only a little late; I could tell it was her by the way she walked, flip-flopping in her thongs and the longest legs God ever invented extending from under a sun dress, not surprising attire for an Aussie girl. We had told her not to plan anything special for the day as we would be together for about 12 hours or more and the goal was to document a day in the life of a Lido Dancer – and that we did.
We began at her favourite bar, funny; it was almost beside the Moulin Rouge. We had lunch together and sat and chatted about how life found her kicking her heels up on the stage at The Lido every night. As the day moved forward, we all relaxed together and began to get to know each other, I liked her and she said I reminded me of her Mum, quite the compliment as they are very close. We all went to Sacre Coeur, a special place for her, we sat on the lush grass and talked some more, AJ assisted JR and did a great job of what was asked of him while JR captured almost every moment on the camera. We were invited back to her apartment, wow was it small. 23 square metres and apparently her last digs were only 13 square metres. Her friend popped over, the girls were running today, they are in training for the Paris Run. A group from The Lido are running to raise awareness and money for breast cancer; a nice sentiment.
After a quick freshen up we walked the streets of Montmartre, she loves it there with its eclectic mix of people. She led the way to one of her favourite places for dinner. The pizzas weren’t bad and while we were sitting on the footpath tables another Aussie girl dropped by, this time a dancer from the Moulin Rouge.
We had to be back at The Lido by 8pm, in time for our girl to transform into a showgirl. We were escorted back stage and stayed in the dressing room for makeup and hair, slowly watching our dancer bloom. Before our eyes she blossomed from a girl into a woman, she was beautiful.
She showed us all the stage entrances left and right, the quick change areas and every costume she would wear on the night. Before we left her she was wearing the full costume for the opening number and she happily posed for a snap with us all – I wasn’t nearly so glamorous as she.
The curtain rose and the lights dimmed, we sat sipping our drinks in the best seats in the house and watched the show. JR was given special permission to photograph the performance and he captured some spectacular moments. The show was wonderful; we all had a great time.
We said our goodbyes at around 11.30, she still had one more show to do and would not be finished until about 2am, I don’t know how she does it, we were all buggered and we hadn’t danced a step all night.
On the way home we all reminisced about the fun we had with our beautiful, elegant, down to earth and innocent Lido dancer who had stolen a little piece of each of our hearts.
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