Storybook Villages. Monday 7th September 2009.

It was both exciting and strange to be driving through and visiting villages that had been the settings of books I had read over the years, villages like Rousillion, Apt and, Aix en Provence; our destination for today. We didn’t stop in Apt, even though we thought we might, it was busy, busy, busy and seemed hard work, on we pressed to Lourmarin which was bustling with tourists around the chateau area but sleepy in comparison to Apt once you arrived inside the sweeping, cobbled back streets. We took a table under the shade of an umbrella right beside a trickling fountain, and sipped coffee. Lourmarin seemed like the kind of place where people sat in the shade sipping aperitifs and coffees watching the world pass them by, or strolling the uneven streets with toy sized dogs toddling along at their heels. The clientele at the cafes invariably wore something a bit sparkly, even the baseball caps showed diamantes and glitter, Lourmarin was well heeled.

On the same street as where we sat, a vendor sold honey of Provence, figs grown in his garden, red currants in small brick-shaped punnets and artichokes adorned with violet coloured brush strokes, hence their name.

My first impressions of Aix were not warm and fuzzy, like arriving in any new city when you don’t know where to go; it was a full frontal attack. Parking was difficult but we persevered and found that if you park just outside the perrifique road, you pay only €1 per hour, not a bad deal when only one street closer is double the price. As usual, we had packed a picnic and due to the usual lack of picnic spots along the roadway, we ended up enjoying a car boot picnic on an anonymous street in Aix. The picnic was great though, left over roast pork from last night’s roast, spiced up with the last of our mustard, laced with pain d’espices, from Burgundy – yes, we have been carting around our precious mustard from one destination to the other. We headed on foot towards centre ville and almost immediately Aix began to reveal her charm. The streets are lined with ornate doors, sometimes flanked with muscular sculptures, heavy door knockers and heavy metal studs and hinges. Deep inside the city walls there are intimate squares at every turn, often with a central fountain, the sounds from it giving feelings of tranquillity. The large streets are lined with shady plane trees as are some of the squares offering shade from the warmth of the sun.

Aix hums along and has such an assortment of shops from the run of the mill big names that infiltrate every shopping hub, to small specialist stores specialising is sweet bon-bons, some of which we bought and ate as we walked. My favourite shop sold artisanal Provencal biscuits that were arranged in wicker baskets with flat bottoms, the biscuits were piled high and fanned out and looked so enticing, they sold the regional specialty of callisons and fruity flavoured lollipops too.

The sun was streaming in the doors to the Hotel de Ville which were adorned with enormous lion’s head knockers. It cast neatly edged shadows on the ground inside the courtyard giving it a warm and welcoming glow. We sat inside a quiet corner of the courtyard for a while. My special place tucked safely deep inside the old town of Aix, is Place D’Albertas with its disused fountain as its crowning glory. The floor of the square is paved in rounded stones which were long ago laid in patterns. The cobbles undulate now, they lie neglected with weeds making them their home but they still have a story to tell.

JR was taking a few pics as AJ and I sat on a step in front of a set of heavy timber doors. The door behind us opened and a beautiful young girl appeared. As AJ was sitting in front of the door she had opened, he stood and politely moved to the side, as he turned to face her he was standing one step lower than she allowing them both to be eye to eye and only inches apart. She moved to the same side as he, they both took a step to the other and back. She made her exit and left AJ and I to enjoy the biggest belly laugh. She had the face of an angel and was about AJ’s age, it was quite a moment.

Before leaving the city, we walked up Avenue Paul Cezanne to the painter’s home and studio around the turn of the century. It was closing as we arrived but we were able to see the garden and photograph the outside, its rust coloured shutters were closed tightly awaiting the night. The leaves on the trees lining the steep avenue were beginning to turn rusty orange and curl at their edges, their hearts were still green and supple but as the early autumn days pass, their green hearts will also turn golden and earthy and will fall gently to the earth.

It was a long drive home, the time passed by with us singing and laughing. We realised we were on the same road as the night we drove from Marseilles to find our home on the very first night in Provence. We found the restaurant we had eaten in and enjoyed so much but being a Monday, it was closed, its curtains tightly pulled across the facade of the dining room. Pizza Jo’s mobile pizza van was doing brisk business in the village of Saint-Andiol en route to Nyons, so we stopped and ordered a tartiflette, a forestiere (mushroom) and a chorizo pizza and ate happily sitting on a park bench outside the tourist office. A few locals passed wishing us bon appétit such is the French way.

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.

Inside the Fortress Walls of Avignon. Saturday 5th September 2009.

My internal thermostat is becoming increasingly wonky these days and often sees me running a little warmer than those around me. I liked the freshness of today’s morning; the new season brings change and an unfamiliar crispness in the air. I ate breakfast outside on the terrace while the boys teased me and ate inside in the warmth. They pulled their jeans out of the suitcases this morning too, they hadn’t been seen for a while. Autumn has arrived in Provence.

JR, AJ, myself, and the Mistral winds arrived in Avignon, a good 80 km from home by noon. The view as we approached the city was of an expanse of city walls with squared off tops showing a likeness to fairytale castles of olde. Avignon overlooks the wide expanse of the Rhone River and The Bridge of Avignon built between 1177 and 1185 with only four of its original 22 arches remaining. It is strange to see a bridge end half way across a river.

We began our exploration at the tourist office and met the lovely Stephanie who arranged tickets for us to ride the tourist train around the city to get our bearings. I left with a bag of information including a 500+ page book on the vineyards of the inter Rhone. She was so helpful with information in relation to my food writing and suggested she call a contact of hers at the hotel La Mirande, a member of the leading small hotels of the world, who run an exclusive cooking school in an ancient underground kitchen. Our visit was organised for the afternoon and after being shown around this very special hotel, we discussed the possibility of taking part in a private cooking lesson with chef, all expertly captured on camera by JR. We will await confirmation for Thursday or Friday.

We enjoyed tripping around the city on the tourist train, after which AJ and I sat in the square right in front of the Papal Palace and enjoyed a massive ice-cream. I had mint, choc-chip and every time I have this flavour I think of you Robby, you introduced me to it so many years ago.

We were welcomed at the Papal Palace for a tour also which we completed with our audio guides. We had fun, AJ was in the silliest of moods and I needed little encouragement to join in the fun and frivolity. JR had a nasty fall up high in the ramparts, falling down a very big step, we rushed to his side. He and camera were ok thank goodness, I can’t believe all he escaped with was a scratch on his arm, he was very lucky.

After our tour of the Palace we descended the town to the Rhone for JR to photograph The Bridge Of Avignon in the evening light, it was golden, beautiful and soft. While he disappeared, AJ and I did a tour of the bridge with our audioguides. The Mistral winds were blowing a gale and I felt we might disappear over the sides. As we got to the end of the bridge, which stops mid river, I heard a feint voice calling ‘Razza, Razza’. It was JR over the other side waving his arms. He took a few pics from a distance of AJ and I on the bridge.

We met up again and headed back into town for dinner. While we were having lunch today at a wonderful little place recommended by Stephanie at the tourism office, we noticed ‘Bistrot au Tartines’. This was one of our favourite places to eat in Lyon during our time there; I even included it in my Top 10 favourites of Lyon, in an article I wrote for the Sunday Mail, Escape lift out. My tartine forestiere was topped with mushrooms, lardons, and chevre and was so delicious. I had spoken to the manager earlier in the day, telling him of our love affair with ‘Bistrot au Tartine’, he understood completely. It turned out he had lived in Melbourne and Brisbane, Mt Gravatt in fact. He loved Australia as we love France. He offered me a dessert of our favourite tarte au praline, the Lyonnais specialty but we were on the hoof, he promised to reserve some for us tonight and he did, it was his treat. A few hippy types arrived, pulled up a table and began to play, I just love this place.

The drive home was a long one and we were all exhausted after our long day of discovery, exhausted but happy and glad to be home to our little home in the Provencal countryside.

Villages of Vaucluse and the Sweet Scent of Lavender. Friday 4th September 2009.

I had a 10.30 interview and photo shoot booked with Distillerie Bleu Provence to watch one of the final distillings of lavender for the season. We were given access to the entire distillery and Clement, who was looking after us, was a wealth of knowledge and pretty easy on the eye too. We watched the entire process of how to extract the oil from lavendin, the farmer arrived with his truck laden with long, flower tipped stalks which were forked into the vases ready for steam to be forced through them alowing their precious oil to be extracted. It was a great visit and I learned so much. The things we are seeing behind the scenes of this year are amazing and I am so thankful.

I would recommend anyone visiting Provence to spend an afternoon discovering the secrets of Vaison la Romaine, It is a delightful town with a village like atmosphere, and there is something for everyone. We chose not to visit the Roman ruins; we refer to them now as ‘ABR’, another bloody ruin which makes us all laugh. If this is your thing you will be well satisfied in Vaison la Romaine.

We walked around without a map and discovered whatever we passed. The Roman Bridge was great to see, it is the link from the new town to the old medieval town and is just gorgeous. From the bridge you ascend the hill to the ramparts of the old city; this is the spot for exploring. The upper town is full of enchanting Provencal squares with pretty fountains. We came across a local couple doing handcrafts and selling home grown Muscat grapes of which we bought a bunch and ate while wandering. At the height of the hill there is an old feudal castle which offers an incredible panoramic view of the town. We were relaxed and unhurried today and it was nice to explore this way and to have time to breathe.

A few kilometres up the road is Seguret, again perched hillside and pretty as a picture with fountains and small chapel. There are beautiful views over the plains from the village square, it is a nice place to contemplate Provence.

Another short distance along is Sablet, cute and cobbled it is, but nothing out of the ordinary, if you can call hill side Provencal villages ordinary. I don’t know why, but Sablet pales into insignificance compared to the others. We had a few interesting encounters here though. I heard a woman saying ‘no worries’ as she helped a passerby with a question. She was an Aussie, her daughter lived in the village with her family and she lived with them for half of the year. A little later, AJ and I got talking to another Aussie couple who had been staying in the village and were leaving tomorrow, they, like me, had fallen in love with Provence.

We had packed a picnic to take today and had planned to enjoy it for dinner. As Sablet didn’t enchant us, we decided to drive home and enjoy the picnic on our terrace. It sounded great in theory but when we arrived home the Mistral wind had arrived with us, forcing us indoors to the dining table where we enjoyed our first ever kitchen picnic.

A Day In Nyons. Thursday 3rd September, 2009.

We took some time to discover the charms of the Nyons market this morning, one of the best in the region with approximately 300 stalls. The market umbrellas took over the whole town, it was a thriving metropolis. Many of the stalls specialised in regional specialties of olives, oil, wines, ceramics and all kinds of lavender products. The market stalls snaked along the narrow roads into the old town; it was such a pretty setting. A trout specialist sold live trout he scooped from a tank to order. He bagged them and gave them to their new owners after a sharp knock on the head, after which there were no signs of life.

We had a quick lunch at home before returning to Nyons to see what had been advertised in the tourist brochures as ‘Concentration de vehicles’, just in case it was going to be interesting for AJ we didn’t want to miss it so we made sure we were in town for 3pm. The only concentration of vehicles was the usual mass in the car park, other than that there was nothing out of the ordinary. We asked at the tourist office. They pointed us to the square in front of the Mairie and assured us there would be a meeting of old vehicles at 3. There was still nothing to be seen. The office staff at the Mairie feigned ignorance but there was a section of the car park that had been cordoned off. The staff suggested we check back at 4, there was still no action. We are yet to find out what happened to the event but we are told there is another one scheduled for next Wednesday at 8pm.

We wandered up and down the steep, cobbled lanes of the old town. It ascended the hills that look over Nyons. We explored the Roman Bridge and the uniquely coloured river that runs under it, there was a lone fisherman casting a line into the tealy water.

It was quite a long walk through Nyons to the Co-operative but certainly worth it. They sell everything imaginable as long as it is produced by local farmers. They run education courses on wine, olives, tapenades etc, I was lucky to try the later and discovered a lovely new taste – tapenade made from the local Nyons olives mixed with local honey, it was so lovely, a great combination. The boys wandered ahead to check out the Citroen dealer in town while I chatted to the people at the co-op. JR ventured out later to catch the magic of the day through his lens and later we all snuggled up in the lounge room to watch Starsky and Hutch on DVD.

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.

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?