Want to go to the Roman aqueduct via Daudet’s windmill, I asked Eleanor? You drive and I’ll buy lunch. Seemed like a fair deal. In 1865, Alphonse Daudet published what was to become quite a famous book called Letters from my Windmill. Aimed at posh Parisian readers, the book recounts stories based on Provencal social history and folklore; it’s delightful, although I doubt those pesky Parisians were bothered with much outside of the capital. We found the windmill quite easily, plus a number of others dotted around: there’s the Moulin Sourdon in the distance. Locating the aqueduct was a little more challenging.

Lot of trees in these parts and signage is confusing or non-existent. I hesitated in explaining to Eleanor that today was the third time I’d attempted this walk. The woman at the tourist information office had given us her idea of a map which was little more than a piece of green paper with a wiggly line on it. At one point, enjoying my confidence, and a sense of self-worth, I approached a group of confused looking French ramblers and offered to share our expertise. They were very grateful and attached themselves to us. And, on looking back, I noticed that they’d acquired some other lost souls whom they’d clearly convinced of the benefits of following the Brits, despite a loss of kudos via the never-to-be-forgiven Brexit fiasco . One or two other folk, who’d been wandering in the woods for some weeks, gradually joined in. I was minded of that episode in Three Men in a Boat, where the protagonists manage to convince almost everyone at Hampton Court to follow them in and out of the maze. It ended badly.

We lost our European friends along the way, although we did occasionally spot and speak with random passers by; some in tears, most exhausted; one guy with a toddler who probably wasn’t even at the walking stage on entering the woods. Eleanor thought the mother was probably laying dead in a bush somewhere. We were following the blue path, but when, at a junction of three paths, we reached the tree in the above photo, we decided that, in the interests of safety, it might be better to find a route back to the village.

Rather than retracing our steps, she wanted to try an alternative way and after some hours we came to a campsite optimistically named Utopia. It doesn’t look very welcoming, I said, although there were several young men yomping around, clearly having been set some sort of unachievable challenge. Bonjour, they all said. The French are always polite, even in the face of adversity. Bonjour, we replied, sick to our stomachs and needing a drink. Eleanor said the French like this sort of rustic open-air holiday. It reminded me of the tiger enclosure at Longleat.

Eventually, we found the Chateau de Montaubaun so we knew we were close to civilisation, even though it was closed due to lack of enthusiasm.

More importantly, we found a joint open for lunch. You may think all these people look miserable, but so would you if you’d just unsuccessfully tried to find a Roman aqueduct. Eleanor started waving at people and soon all the occupants of the restaurant were waving back. How do you know these people I asked? We met them on our walk, she replied and soon we were approached by our new compatriots who were eager to know if we’d completed our task. Friends for life.

We finished lunch, climbed back into Eleanor’s car, and drove to the aqueduct. It’s an amazing feat of engineering which brought water from the little mountains of Les Alpilles into the important city of Arles. What did the Romans ever do for us? Almost everything apart from cartography.

What a lovely day: most of it passed by the pool reading and writing, followed by a late afternoon visit to the local brocante where it’s possible (for me) to forget time.

Hard to believe this is just down the road – it’s as though they sited it with me in mind.

Here’s a few of my super cheap purchases. Those tiny dishes are Le Creuset, ideal for posh starters. Not saying how little I paid in case they appear in someone’s Christmas stocking. Want to know what’s in that green box?

Spooky old photos on glass. I lost nearly an hour perusing them and I know exactly what I’m going to do with them and in whose direction they’re headed. Off to finish the lasagne now

It’s Tuesday! It’s lasagne day…a time of joy.

On the corner of the main street in our village, which is pretty much the only street, we find Chez Florence. It seems to me that Florence has been there forever: certainly, when I first found Rognonas towards the end of 2007 she was present and has been ever since; with the exception of high days, holidays and holy days of which, this being France, there are many. It was only in July just gone, however, that I discovered that Florence lives in Nimes which is probably an hour’s drive away for most people and around two weeks for yours truly – a tediously slow snail behind the French wheel.

So, for the last twenty or so years, this lovely lady has undertaken a round trip of about sixty miles in order to supply the great and the good, plus occasional tourists, with high quality food. Mais, pourquoi, you ask? Je ne sais pas, I respond but I’m jolly glad she does. Especially on Tuesdays when the lasagne arrives.

In France, I feel the decline of the small retailer, especially the literal corner shop, has been stemmed:if you want bread, go to the baker; tobacco and newspapers – to the tobacconist; stamps – off to the post office (if you can find one open) and so on and soforth.

Chez Florence is a little different in that one can find a veritable melange of fruit, vegetables, wine, cheeses and home-made meals, all of the highest quality. Today, for example, whilst searching for olive oil, she presented me with an old Martini bottle containing an interesting looking, if slightly cloudy conncotion which she’d made herself over in the Gard.

I suspect it’ll be delicious when I pour it over the haricots along with a little chopped garlic.

And as for Florence herself? I’m in awe of this beautiful woman who never ages.

All that driving around the countryside, making, bottling, running a business and she really does look the same as when I first found her. Only one problem. My friend, Eleanor, who lives not a million miles away on the other side of the Rhone, sometimes pops in for a bottle of Seguret and when she does, Florence rushes to the ‘ready meal’ side of the shop and asks if lasagne is required. And when I make an appearance, Florence is ready at the wine rack to demand ihow many bottles of Seguret I’d like.

In a village where foreigners are thin on the ground, we think that Florence believes Eleanor and I are one and the same person. A sort of composite of ladies fighting the end of the world. No matter. Without Florence, there would be no lasagne and Tuesday would be just another day.

I’m walking the Via Domitia. Well, not all of it. That would be silly, not to say overly ambitious as its 778k long. It was the first Roman road linking Italy and Spain by means of Southern France. Don’t start all that ‘what did the Romans ever do for us’ business though: they didn’t construct it, but merely paved the mythic route traversed by Heracles. If you like.

My journey begins at the antiquities of St Remy de Provence where parking charges don’t allow for anything under 24 hours. Could be a long stretch with one small bottle of water and no snacks to hand. Long time Donald followers might recall that the mausoleum and triumphal arch beckoned entry to Glanum: a relatively recently discovered Roman city that time had forgotten, to the extent that passers-by might have wondered what their purpose was.

At the top of the blog is a picture of a donkey in the olive groves which I took more years ago than I can remember. Today I took the opposite way, through other olive trees to catch a different perspective of St Paul Mausole where Van Gogh was holed up after the debacle down in Arles. The other snap shows part of the little mountains of Les Alpilles that he was so fond of capturing.

It’s practically autumn. The deafening chatter of the summer cicadas has been silenced. Where does a cicada go after summer? Some say they burrow deep into the earth where it’s warmer; others claim they die within the first two years of life. Whatever the truth, today they’ve been replaced by innefectual grasshoppers making the most of dry grasses and, on this random patch of unwanted plums, by one or two enormous wasps gorging themselves to the point of drunken oblivion.

Not sure these snaps require explanation and you’re out of luck if you want me to tell you what the plants are. I’m just trying to give you a feel of the walk and the little tracks I took along the way. It wasn’t a huge yomp, but it always takes me ages as I like to look and take in what’s on offer.

Further along the way, and I’m out in the open now on the foothills of Les Alpilles with spectacular views of La Montagnette and Mount Ventoux. The latter is famous in the wider world for being a particularly high point up which sturdy cyclists in the Tour de France sometimes wander. In the past, those on bicycles weren’t so healthy; often stopping for a quick cognac to wash down their amphetimines, thus giving a different understanding to the concept of speed. I’m actually above the Domaine de Metifiot which is looking splendid in the midday sun. Look at this fellow:

My journey continues past all sorts of interesting features. This has to be the absolutely best time of year for walking in Provence: the temperature is around 25C, so manageable. The skies are as clear as is possible. All is at peace in my little world. And you wonder why I’ve been returning to the paradise I discovered 16 years ago?

Coda: reader, I’m sorry the photos are so large. I’m only ever inspired to post on my blog when in Provence and always forget how things work. Still, hope you enjoy my ramblings.

Make the most of this picture – it’s the only one you’re getting in the strange tale I’m about to recount. Anyone recognise the joint? It’s the place in Van Gogh’s painting, The Night Cafe…look it up if not convinced.

Last evening, I went to Arles with the lovely Anais, my old French teacher. She’s not old – I mean I’ve know her since 2007. We went to deliver a plant (a large sage) that she’s been looking after for her friend Andrew, as you do. Place du Forum, where the cafe is, was absolutely heaving: the world and his wife, and possibly everyone else’s wife, were promenading, drinking, eating and generally living the bonne vie. Toute du monde passed this way. Amongst the melee, I noticed a man, not in fancy dress, walking through the crowds with a large white parrot on his shoulder, both unconcerned, plus all the beautiful people with not an overweight person amongst them.

Andrew and his friend Jean-Luc arrived and we had drinks at the bar. When chatting, one to one is ok: I established that Andrew is a tour guide and Jean-Luc is a musician with some sort of specialism (?), but it’s tricky for me to understand everything when everyone else is French, especially when it’s noisy. Hopefully, I kept up and even had a couple of proper conversations. I don’t mind – it’s good for me, but I was at a loss when, after an hour or so, they all got up, saying we were going elsewhere.

‘Elsewhere’ turned out to be down a little street, round a corner, and through an ancient, inconspicuous doorway into some sort of turret. (Let me remind you that Arles is ancient.). First, Anais and I were invited down an old stone spiral staircase to see the cellar with its barred door and fifteenth century well. It looked like the kind of place white slave traders might keep their women. After, we ascended two, or possibly three, flights of stone staircases, arriving in a very small apartment. It was explained to me that Jean-Luc is a specialist at playing music with plants – he gives talks on this at conferences: he’s an expert.

Those two fellows procured an innocuous potted plant which they watered profusely in readiness for the demonstration. At this point, hungry as I was, I gave up all hope of ever eating again and decided the only way forward was to immerse myself in this experience. Jean-Luc produced two speakers, a strange box and a number of electrodes which he plugged into the box – and into the plant.On pressing a few switches, sounds were suddenly emitted: the plant was singing. The lights on the box were flashing and the notes were clear and loud. Instantly, I knew what it reminded me of, and although I had some difficulty explaining in French, Andrew knew what I meant: it was just like the sounds and lights in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Mais oui, he exclaimed, c’est vrai.

Jean-Luc took up his guitar and proceeded to play along with the plant: he responded to its notes and it replied to him. It was incredible, bizarre. I thought about all the people down below going about their well-dressed business. And I thought of myself up in this ancient tower undertaking this strange experience. And although I was starving, I considered myself exceptionally lucky.

In my life, things seldom turn out as expected. This is particularly true in France where the current trend is to line the pockets of those who make ‘deviation’ signs. My heart sinks every time I see a yellow placard looming. This morning, for example, I set off for Chateurenard to purchase a roasted chicken from the woman who gave me the free potatoes last week because, like the rest of Provence, she feels sorry for me having no friends in evidence. Not only was the route to the carpark barred by deviations, accompanied by a plethora of gendarmes, the existence of chickens and markets was conspicuous by absence. The village was en fete. I didn’t hang around, but did stop long enough for a double expresso and a good vantage point for the full procession, so there are benfefits of things going wrong.

Later, on attempting to enter Avignon, yet again the road was barred. It’s troublesome, especially when attempting to find the spot in the underground carpark where one emerges at the Pope’s Palace.

The ciity was as per normal: ridiculously historic, but also slightly grubby.

Here’s one of those human statues taking a lunch break. Later, he turned up at our restaurant begging for cigarettes.

And here’s the Utopia cinema where you can watch films in the language in which they were made, with sub-titles for the French.

In temperatures of 31c, we went to see Asteroid City, the new film by my favourite director, Wes Anderson. I think it’s his best yet but I have to report that we were the only people laughing.

What to do on a rainy day

We experienced a rather large storm last night. To be fair, we knew it was coming and it was needed: had it become any hotter, we’d have all exploded. In the event, the heavens roared and the lightening crashed against the plane tree outside my billet with sufficient force to awake even the most wine-soaked resident. It knocked out the internet, so nothing to be done whilst waiting for it to pass save read a bit more of my current book which has now passed the epic stage and moved to the dizzy heights of opus. Or, in other words, it’s a bit long.

A drop of rain at night is no bad thing, but this morning it was still lashing it down. I don’t have anything with sleeves here, but I found a handy brolly hanging on the kitchen wall so, armed with said accessory, I headed off for the indoor brocante that’s opened down the road. For the uninitiated, this is just like the emporiums (or is that emporia?) I frequent at home; only better because a) the stuff is French and b) unlike the professional brocantes, the people flogging the stuff don’t seem to know how much to charge. Consequently, I managed to successfully undertake a substantial amount of Christmas shopping for about five quid.

Next, in my cunning plan, I zoomed off to St Remy to view an exhibition with lunch as a handy interlude. St Remy was hot, damp and vaguely tropical with everyone crammed inside the restaurants. No matter, I found one of those inside/outside joints with a table perfect for Norma-no-Mates. Every time I rock up on my own, the waiter asks sadly ‘are you toute seule’ as if lunch alone is a despicable way to pass one’s life. Yes, I am. Bring me a glass of the pink stuff and some mussels, and don’t spare the horses I say, tucking my serviette into the top of my blouse Poirot style. (Mussells = carnage).

Finally, I arrive at the museum for the exhibition. In my very best French, I ask whether I’m in the right place for Birdland. Madame says oui but this is Birdland 2. What happened to Birdland 1, I enquire, feeling that I’m already in the sequel before I’ve even experienced the original. Birdland 1, the audio version, is in another venue, down this road, along this boulevard, turn right, turn left et voila! To say it’s uninspiring would be an understatement. I’m the only visitor. Unsurprising, as most of the others are probably elsewhere sticking pencils in their eyes for fun.

I return to Birdland 2. Madame and I have a very nice conversation about how I came to be in this place; possibly… who can say? It’s an equally benign event, allegedly a celebration of the birds that inhabit this region. But here’s the thing: in my brochure I read, as if I didn’t already know, that the majority of the birds are unprotected, which means anyone with a gun…so that would be the whole of the south…is allowed to shoot them. No wonder decreasing numbers make it to our neck of the woods.

Finally, I visited my favourite perfume shop where the scent is made. It’s a lovely experience. When one enters, it’s to the accompaniment of birdsong. Have you been to the Birdland exhibition I ask the woman who advises me on what desperate remedies might be available for ancient dried-up skin? She’s confused. Don’t bother, it’s all here and it smells nicer.

…probably begins somewhere in the early hours of the morning. Noises. Rustling and bustling, pitter-pattering take over from the constant chattering of daytime cicadas, and the incessant singing of frogs. If you’ve never been near a French frog pond, it’s almost impossible to describe. Some years ago, I stayed here with my daughter. We were clueless. Quietly sitting outside our gite, we were suddenly alerted to the sounds of the jungle. Are there monkeys, she asked? Quite reasonably in my opinion, for the commotion was deafening. We tip-toed towards the origin but were too scared to undertake a full investigation. On reporting this the following day, our hosts were taken aback at our naivety.  

And many years afterwards, I spent an extraordinary evening with a high-brow literary group of writers at the Valley of the Nymphs, somewhere in the Vaucluse, waiting for the moon to hit a circular window in the ancient chapel in which we were ensconced. That night was magical for many reasons, not least the accompaniment of some unknown eastern European genius playing a solitary tango on his violin. And then, from somewhere near to hand, the frogs began to sing. We were charged with writing a piece, there and then, set in our surroundings. The others constructed ethereal compositions based on the incoming moonlight. I wrote about a band of mutant frogs taking over the world.

There are always unknown noises outside my open door which is impossible to shut due to the intensity of the heat. Sometimes, it could be a cat who lives who-knows-where and who has taken upon itself to pay unexpected calls. I don’t mind if I’m on the terrace, but I don’t much care for the idea of it coming in and pouncing on the bed uninvited. All that circular scratching and fidgeting they do whilst building a nest amongst the bedclothes is unwelcome.

There’s a netted screen across my door to hinder nasty flying bitey things: tiny spiteful creatures whose singular aim is to cause unhappiness with their personal nastiness. But, in the potential hideousness of a dark Provencal night, my biggest fear is snakes. The sneaky things that can crawl silently in. I haven’t seen a snake here for years and neither do I expect to because my hosts keep the place spotless: no unwanted piles of leaves for slithery types to hide in. But when I first discovered this paradise, there were other owners, and there were snakes close to hand…I saw them. And with them, a tale of a monstrous reptile who haunted the area which is now a haven for joyful frogs. A monster the size of a large rubber inner tube. And this is no exaggeration. I once made the mistake of staying in the Camargue. It’s an area known for white horses, black bulls and pink flamingos. A place where it’s impossible to venture outside in the evening for fear of attack by swarms of mosquitoes, so thick that they look like plumes of smoke. On the first morning, I was charged with searching for croissants. Along the lane, I came across something in the road resembling a Boa Constrictor. Even though I was in the car, I was terrified.

I’m staying put with a pillow over my head.

On returning from France, I always look forward to a take-away Indian. I’m talking cuisine here – not foreign bodies. Friends of mine concur: they may have been visiting relatives in Greece and suffered a surfeit of stuffed vine leaves, or they may have bravely travelled to the extremes of Cornwall, but still they’re ready for the taste of home. It’s the same thing in reverse. On arrival here, like any other sane person, I’m always on the lookout for an understated artichoke. Not only are they a bit thin on the ground in old Blighty, I recall one horrendous year when they were impossible to locate in the land of the frog. You could drive past fields where they’d been left to flower because interior decorators would spend more euro on something to make a provencal living room rustic, but try to buy one to pop into a saucepan of boiling water…forget it. Edible artichokes have been globally warmed to the point of moodiness.

A globe artichoke is just what’s needed on a balmy evening when the main meal has been lunch: something to fill that nagging gap. I had lunch out today. It was salad a la maison, which means no-one’s got a clue what’s involved. On enquiring, I didn’t get past the grilled aubergines in the explanation. I asked for a small plate. Monsieur kindly informed me that this was possible but I’d have to forego the mozzarella (which I’m pretty sure hadn’t been previously mentioned). You’ll need the XL size he said, which instantly took me back to the last time I tried to purchase a frock on the market at Chateurenard. So be it, I said. Make it so. The salad was liberally sprinkled with small unrecognisable crunchy bits of something brown. They tasted strangely of onion. What are these small unrecognisable crunchy bits I asked him? Onion, he replied.

This evening, my hostess gave me a gift from the girls that live down the garden. I often think it’s one of life’s mysteries why hens always lay eggs in multiples of six. I’m going to make a frittata with them tomorrow. Meanwhile, the artichoke beckons.

Earlier this evening, Keryn and I were in the pool discussing journeys. I was recounting last November’s attempt at getting to France from St Pancras wherein I’d inadvertently forgotten to pick up my case after it went through the scanner. Only after I’d passed through the first of the Brexit security posts, and was in the crocodile queue for the second, did I notice that I didn’t seem to have as much baggage as I owned when I entered the station. I looked back and saw said case sulking at the end of the conveyer. Fortunately, a railway employee, stunned that someone could so readily abandon their worldly goods at such an early stage in proceedings, lifted several ropes and escorted me back past passport control to retrieve my life. Having regained ownership of the case, I was then taken through security for the third time in half an hour to rejoin those waiting for French clearance.

Should you be travelling alone, Keryn asked? Fair point given Saturday’s fiasco at the toll booth. Just as I was thinking of something witty to say, I looked up and saw a glorious sight: a white female sparrowhawk circling above the pines. There she is in the snap above. Well, one of her relatives as even I don’t take my phone in the water. The photo is courtesy of Wikipedia.

Poolside in this neck of the woods is a great place for spotting nature. Only yesterday, I was standing at the edge gossiping and looking upwards just in time to see a red kite flying past.

I didn’t take this photo either; that fellow from Wikipedia got there before me. Just as well as I don’t take my phone…

You can probably tell I haven’t done much since arriving in paradise; although I have read the first of my holiday books and am some way through the second. Life is tough. One more thing of beauty though to report. In the early hours of this morning, unable to sleep in the heat of the night, I ventured outside just in time to see a shooting star.

You’ve guessed it…I didn’t take this photo either. My star was much larger, brighter and closer, almost to the point of landing. This is how to be happy when sleep avoids one.