Thelma and Louise ride again

Bear with … it’s been a long time since I’ve done this and I’ve forgotten how it works. Clicking on the creatures in the centre of the snap might give you a clue as to where I am and why I’m posting again.

Today, of course, is glorious beginning with a visit to the market this morning for provisions. You know by now how that one goes: a double expresso before shopping…the purchase of a beautifully cooked chicken from the van that’s always in the same place, served by the same ageless woman who, like the rest of the French female population, hasn’t gained an ounce in the last year. Pas beaucoup patates, I say, c’est juste moi. Madame places the potatoes in their own bag and informs me that they’re on the house for Norma-no-mates. Merci. I squeeze her hand and we’re both happy. On to the veg stall for a lettuce large enough to warrant its own carrier bag and a bright yellow tomate ancienne of size sufficient to allow me to remove all seeds and still have something left that will take me two days to demolish. And back to the pool to roast in temperatures of 34C.

It’s a far cry from last night’s debacle. Having collected my hire car from Marseille at almost 10pm…it’s brand new exclaimed the Hertz rep proudly, you’re the first driver, …I nearly managed to write it off within half an hour. Telling myself that driving a car I’m unused to up the motorway in the dark is nothing to worry about, I stopped at the toll station. Reaching out to collect my ticket, something peculiar happened to my feet and before I could claim evidence of ever having been in the place, I’d crashed through the barrier and landed some feet away (in the brand new vehicle). Shit.

So many things went through my deranged mind in a matter of seconds. Impossible to reverse. I thought about walking back to retrieve what I needed but the people behind were tooting at me. No change there then, so I continued on my not so merry way, unhappily driving in the darkness of the A7, wondering how I was going to leave the road at 11pm minus a billet. On reaching my exit, there seemed no way to bypass the machine obstinately demanding a non-existent ticket, and obviously, this being way past any helpful person’s bedtime, no-one to help me. I spotted a big red button that seemed to be the way out and off for idiots so I pressed it. A faceless voice, emanating from somewhere in the modern world: bonsoir? I told a lie. I said my ticket had flown out of the window during transit. Faceless entity, clearly sick of tourists, muttered something incomprehensible and the barrier lifted. Bienvenue en Provence.

It’s the last day of Orkney, if there could ever be such a thing in somewhere so seemingly eternal and ethereal. Yesterday, a friend who’d also recently visited the islands, said it’s the most civilised place she’s ever been to; in so much as there’s so much civilisation that we know or understand so little about.

On the last day of our sojourn, we’re taken to the Stones of Stenness and the Ring of Brodgar. On later relating this, my son said it sounds like something from Lord of the Rings. Well, guess what: Tolkein was here gaining inspiration.

Firstly, we’re poured out of the minibus to look at the Stones. Orkney was kind to us in foregoing the rain and mist. Had we had either of those two unwanted drudges in attendance, we’d have been unable to experience any comprehension of why these magnificent sites were constructed at this point. The landscape is all consuming: I don’t know what to look at first. In the distance, the black hills of the island of Hoy loom both menacingly and temptingly. Look at us, they whisper quietly: can you see that gap in between? Nearly as conspiratorial as a white picket fence in downtown Dallas.

When I walk in the Stonehenge landscape, which was constructed after the Orkney architects had been to work, I sometimes don’t even visit the stones. The surroundings seem more important. It’s the same here: something hidden in plain sight that we’ve all failed to identify.

At the entrance to the Ring of Brodgar, my phone croaks an alert to someone calling from our time – not from the past. Sorry. I’m embarrassed for the crassness of the temporal. It’s hard to believe there’s so much inexplicable pre-history extant. Our lives are so temporary and insignificant compared with what’s here.

I’d like to share it all with someone I love, but I’ll take these new friends in the meantime.

Walking uphill with Gwen

Coming down that huge hill was bad enough, the thought of going back up looks downright/upright scary. Walk in zig zags advises our guide; a man who hasn’t noticed that those of advanced years with a predilection for red wine always stumble along in this manner, even when traversing the high street in town. The sunshine is glorious. Had it not been so, I’d be sitting in the minibus for the duration of the visit to Midhowe tomb and broch.

Having emerged from the main attractions in this historic theme park, I notice that Gwen, who wears a permanent smile, is nonetheless looking a little jaded as we pause to examine yet another pile of rocks. Shall we make an early and slow ascent I enquire? Oh, yes, she responds enthusiastically, I can’t take any more stones. I wander off to alert our leader to the fact that two of his party may be absconding shortly. But we’ve got another hour to go, says he. Well, that does it: the frail women have plenty of time to reach the distant van.

I’m seventy today. Gwen is eighty. We have dicky hearts, she says. This is the first I’ve heard of it, but I have a stick and she has nothing but fortitude and a pair of yellow rubber boots that she found in a charity shop. We stop frequently at points she’s identified as comprising particularly comfortable grassy tuffets, like two elderly little Miss Muffets on the lookout for spiders. Do you think we spent too long in the tomb I ask? By about an hour she replies sadly. Dave had gone on and on and on about possible inhabitants of the tomb that the recent powers that be had covered in a large hangar like structure: shamans, the sick and deformed, anyone that the ancients had seen fit to hide away. We, meanwhile, had looked wistfully at the sunlight teasing us as it streamed through hideously small windows, believing it to be a place where important folk rested.

Are you ok, I ask her on the second tuffet? We look down on the neolithic and on the seals sunbathing below. Gwen tells me about her time working at the BBC. It was easy, she recalls: if you did well in the job they gave you, you got moved up to the next level. Everyone was happy until the communists took over. Then we had to wait for that strange woman to become prime minister and sort it all out. I have little understanding of this narrative apart from the historical fact that Thatcher ‘sorted’ everyone out.

Are you ok, Gwen asks me on the third stop? We’re watching the sea birds. The problem is, she continues, Roger is an owl and I’m a lark. I’ve told my daughters, if you’re planning anything serious with a man, sleep with them first in order to discover whether they’re larks or owls: you need two larks or two owls to make it work. And at this point, I realise that we’re creating an important and joyous memory. Never again will I walk up a huge hill with such a woman, distancing myself from the prehistoric, and from the temporal.

Finally, we can see the rest of the party beginning their ascent of the incline. I can’t see Roger she worries. Oh, he’ll be there, I reassure her. And there he is striding onwards, as far removed from a man who was close to death last year as can be. Gwen’s husband died at an insanely early age. This isn’t the first time she’s spoken of him as if it was only yesterday that he left. We were gardeners, she explains in a manner that’s simultaneously inexplicable and meaningful.

We’ll have to make a last-ditch attempt to get to the top, I say, or else they’ll be here and overtake us. So we up sticks and no sticks and make our not-so-weary way. And at the top, we share a little self-congratulatory kiss as a reward.

It’s hard to believe that nine weeks ago I was down in Dorset packing essentials into a single holdall in readiness for my break in Provence. Sitting on my patio, listening to the birds at the end of another day, it seems like nine months! When I look in the mirror, which is never a good idea, I barely recognise myself: the few clothes I brought with me are rags; my eyebrows, chin and upper lip haven’t seen a threading person since January and I’m doing a pretty good impression of Captain Birds Eye; my hair is a long, bleached frizz; and as for my flip-flopped feet – well, there’s major repair work in store. Let’s face it – I’ve gone feral.

This may be the last post , and as I intend to spend the next two days meeting friends and eating, I’m promising nothing. In the meantime, I thought I’d pop in a few snaps that didn’t previously cut the mustard. The first one is a misty view across the Luberon that I took the other day when Lori, Anais and I climbed the hill above Eygalieres. The second, shows a couple of the white horses that are so prolific down in the Camargue where I passed a fine day with Madame Proust.

Barthelemy Yonnet deserves a post to himself. You can probably work out that he was a firefighter from Arles, and most firefighters around here are volunteers. Victime du Devoir means ‘died in the line of duty’. This memorial sits quietly on the side of a small road that runs down the hill from Frigolet to Boulbon. And I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything else. I’ve researched everything I can – nothing. I can only think that this isn’t an uncommon end; but at least they remembered him.

Here’s a couple of children anxiously looking at one of the saints in the church at Chateurenard. That little boy is so polite, he’s taken his hat off. I took so many pictures of saints during this stay. The churches are rammed with them.

Finally, here’s Chappelle St Gabrielle, still my most favourite place amongst many competitiors.

It’s Mother’s Day today and here’s what I did: I went to the local market and bought a chicken from the spit, a baguette and a pot of ginormous basil to go with the equally enormous tomatoes I purchased from the man who sells vegetables on the roundabout. I also bought a bright orange dress to squeeze into a gap in the holdall. After that, I drove to a brocante in Eygaliers where I purchased nothing due to the exhorbitant prices. Then I went to a second-hand shop before checking on the new chicks at the Mas. Now, I’m drinking my favourite wine and have just made a plan to meet Eleanor for lunch tomorrow. You may think that’s not terribly exciting, but it’s been a perfect day.

I popped over to Graveson yesterday to enjoy a glass of lunchtime wine in the peace and quiet. Then this lot turned up:

Below, is the town hall

And here it is five minutes later when desks had been abandoned:

It was delightful. I asked my waiter what was being celebrated. Nothing special, he replied, it’s normal

Well, it might be in your world, I thought.

Finally, I’ve shaken off Madame Proust who’s been stalking me for the last week. Honestly, just when you think you’ve escaped to paradise, the Wareham contingent shows up. Anyway, yesterday I squeezed her cheese and wine soaked body back on the TGV and ran away toute de suite to Eygalieres to climb a hill with Lori and Anais – a much better class of folk.

Back in 2007, when I first discovered this part of the world, Anais was my French teacher and we’ve stayed in touch all this time. She’s fortunate enough to have lived in this beautiful village all her life and now offers guided tours around the area.

Lori is from Maine and is a new friend who I’ve only just met. Lucky me: she and partner Tim are charming and treated me to a lovely lunch before we began this epic climb.

And Eygalieres, is a gorgeous spot, in which the rich and famous desire to live. Not a million miles from this road, resides Hugh Grant. I don’t suppose he’d thank me for sharing that but I’m not offering further details. I might’ve previously mentioned that Brad Pitt and ex-President Sarkovsky once fought over the same property here.

This is an ancient mill which is now in the hands of the commune of Eygalieres.

And this is a beautiful overgrowth of rosemary in the garden of the mill.

I’m sorry Anais, but I can’t remember much of the wealth of information you passed about all of these chapels, and certainly not the dates. However, you can see all the empty bell towers; empty because various folk have stolen the bells over the years.

There’s one bell left which chimed whilst we climbed up and up and up. I was too busy clinging on to those two: with one either side, it looked as if we were dancing a drunken farandole.

And always, Mary is waiting at the top.

Finally, we reach the gorgeous view over the garrigue, over the vineyards, and over to the Alpilles where Jean Moulin landed all those years ago.

And with regard to Madame Proust (you know who you are), we had a wonderful time. It was so lovely to have you stay, but you would never have made it up this hill x

This is the website for the various businesses and tours Anais runs: https://boutique-cousudor.com/index.php

Carriere is the French word for quarry. These, therefore, are the quarries of lights. In fact, they’re old limestone quarries just below the ancient village of Les Baux de Provence. At first, 1977, this unique place was known as The Cathedral of Images. Each year, an immersive artistic experience, comprising projections of giant images onto the quarry walls, accompanied by a range of classical and choral music, takes place within. And each year, the theme changes. Currently, it’s Venice.

It’s a glorious experience, but only after I’d been snapping away for a while, did I realise that photography wasn’t allowed. I’m very sorry (and I wasn’t the only one) but it seems a shame not to share. I’ll put a link to the site after the following photos:

If you ever pass this way, I can’t recommend this sufficiently: https://www.carrieres-lumieres.com/

The Abbey Saint-Michel de Frigolet stands below the hills known as the Montagnette …

… here’s a rather misty view I took yesterday after clambering to the top of the rocks. Frigolet takes its name from the Provencal word for thyme (ferigoulo) which is abundant in this environment.

The abbey began life as a monastery founded by Conrad, King of Arles in about 960. It’s been developed over the years and to my mind is very beautiful. Take a look:

You can’t normally see the two statues above, but a handy delivery truck arrived at the same time as me so I was able to sneak in for a quick look before the electric gates closed.

To begin with, the monastery was home to Benedictine monks, but it was subsequently occupied by several different orders until the French Revolution when something almost unbelievable happened in this place of peace and tranquility: The Siege of Frigolet.

(I didn’t take this snap, neither did I draw or paint it, but I did buy a card from the abbey shop).

Anyway, after the revolution, the government formed the National Assembly. Unfortunately, due to costs incurred in the fighting, and the excesses of the old royal family, there wasn’t much spare money. Amongst other measures, the Assembly decided to sell off all the monastery land in France to nobles and merchants, which meant a lot of people supported the dissolution.

Over at Frigolet, the monastery had become an abbey. Father Boulbon, the first abbott, refused to obey the government decree authorising the eviction of all religious communities and along with 36 other monks, locked himself in the church between 5 – 8 November, 1880.

Did you see all those crowds in the picture? Two thousand soldiers, along with artillery and cannons, AND the police, were sent to sort things out. Talk about overkill. To counteract this, thousands of local people turned up to support Father Boulbon but they were unarmed and passed the time singing a famous song of Catholic Provence, which was well-meant but didn’t really help. Gendarmes entered the church and escorted the monks from Frigolet, whilst the soldiers scattered the singing peasants.

Here are some images of the church today:

You’ll be pleased to learn that Father Boulbon was eventually allowed to return to Frigolet. There was another attempt to remove the order at the turn of the century but by that time, Father Boulbon had died, leaving behind a legacy of building a new faith in Saint Norbert.

The days are short and the nights long when I arrive at the beginning of February for a two-month sojourn. For me, the first big difference is that I’m awakened at une bonne heure to the dawn chorus. The trees around and within the property seem jam-packed with little birds flitting and fluttering; always too speedy for my camera but, paradoxically, slow enough to warrant a visit to my courtyard. When in Provence, I tend to think of bigger birds: kestrels, peregrines and buzzards that one sees along the roadsides; cranes, storks and flamingos down in the Camargue. But my French doorstep in winter isn’t that different to my garden in England: Monsieur and Madame Blackbird are daily visitors along with some great tits and a plethora of sparrows. I imagine the tourist-laden summer months might be too hot for them to greet the day. Or perhaps they fly north away from the crowds.

One glorious night, quite early on, I heard the twooing of an owl close to hand. Owls can be heard most nights hereabouts: if, like me, you’re a poor sleeper and choose to stand outside under the stars for five or ten minutes of those indeterminate hours that are neither night nor morning, all life is passing by in the darkness. Foxes bark, owls call to each other and the constant rustling and scurrying of unseen and unknown animals is sufficient to send you back to your safe and cosy bed toute de suite. On this particular night, however, the bird sounded as if it might be literally outside my door. I was too nervous to draw back the curtain, fearing I’d frighten it away, but K1 looked out of her upstairs window and was lucky enough to see the wise old creature sitting on a branch of the plane tree. A week or so later, the owl returned, and I too enjoyed the cabaret.

In the summer months, guests are full of praise for the wonderful gardens that K1 has nurtured. Most days, whilst we laze around the pool, she’s to be seen de-heading the roses, trimming back the lavender in readiness for next season’s gift bags, and checking not a single errant weed has been allowed to make more than a fleeting appearance. In February, apparently, nothing stirs and it’s difficult to imagine the delights that lay in store. K2 has pruned a large olive tree and in so doing, almost fallen into the silent pond; the same pond that will house the noisiest of frogs who sing every summer evening. But the lifecycle of the plants continues and almost daily I can see the changes. The potted shrubs look dead but, slowly, they begin to sprout the first green shoots which grow amazingly quickly. The empty spaces below trees are suddenly filled with miniature daffodils, while gorgeous blue hyacinths emerge to meet the soon-to-be spring. But the best thing is the almost instant appearance of the blossom on the fruit trees: pear, apricot and quince are dressed in such outstanding fashion that we await the optimum day on which to take our photos of remembrance.

Finally, if you think our lovely hosts are sitting quietly by the fire waiting for the first guests of the year, think again. Those two never stop working and the frenetic activity I’ve watched over the last few weeks exhausts me. They are sawing and building and painting and cleaning their way through the gites to ensure you have the most wonderful holiday. Very occasionally they take a break: a trip to the cinema, a shared dinner, a quick walk but, largely, they are indefatigable. Surely amongst the hardest workers in Provence, they await your pleasure.

If you don’t want to miss out, check the site: https://massaintantoine.com/