She arrives and departs in a whirlwind of laughter. A week ago, she knew nothing about our part of Provence. Today, she left reluctantly, armed with garlic and Madelines and memories. There’s been no time to write this journal.

‘What’s a santon?’ We’re up at Frigolet. We haven’t progressed very far because we arrived at midi so everything’s shut: the churches are closed as is the gift shop. Fortunately, the buvette is open and for 12 euro a plate of Provencal style tapas is available, sufficient for two people. I’m recounting the story of the crèche that housed all of Daudet’s characters and which is now missing from the gift shop. Mrs Proust, intellectual though she is, has never read Daudet, doesn’t know what a santon is, misunderstands the notion of a crèche, can’t get into the gift shop and is never likely to see that which has disappeared. It’s a tricky tale to tell.

I have an idea: we’ll go to Le Paradou where we can see an almost complete social history of Provence in miniature. And where they have a much better gift shop. Mrs Proust is delighted and subsequently leaves with an illustrated copy of Letters From my Windmill (in English) and a new specialised subject for future pub quizzes.

‘Why are we going to a hospital?’ We’re at St Paul-de-Mausole where Vincent spent two years after the business with the ear down in Arles. I’ve left my camera behind as have both Karil and Mrs Proust. It’s a shame because, as we emerge through the arch into the garden, there’s a once-only photo opportunity: a large, brown and not unattractive man in a straw hat is cutting back the rows of lavender. It’s a well-practised art form: this way, that way; up and back he smoothly travels. We dispatch Mrs Proust into the little museum alone. We’ve seen it before and we’ve also noticed a party of 4000 Dutch folk making their way up there. Karil returns to the garden and, locating a scrap of paper and a pen in her bag, produces a superb sketch of the lavender harvester. Mrs Proust returns with news that it has been necessary to speak severely, in French, to a large Dutch woman who has caused an altercation in Van Gogh’s bedroom. This is particularly impressive as Mrs Proust didn’t speak French three days ago but is now the protagonist in a major international incident.

‘There won’t be many people there because of the rain’. It’s the Wednesday morning market at St Remy. We push, shove, jostle and elbow our way through the masses. Mrs Proust oohs and aahs continuously. Mrs Proust purchases purple garlic and lemon infused oil. Mrs Proust buys two green ceramic birds, one with a happy face and one with a cross face. She gives me the happy faced green bird to remind me of her. And the cross-faced one reminds her of? Possibly, Paul Weller who she has spotted looking exceptionally cross when I was inspecting  the facilities. Or so she says.

‘I like Noves’. It’s Mrs Proust’s mantra. In this briefest of times we have also visited Chapelle St Gabriel, the market at Eygalieres, the perfume museum, St Sixte Chapel, Avignon and been entertained at two different swimming pools. And what does Mrs Proust like? Noves. Nobody goes to Noves because there’s nothing there. Why does Mrs Proust like Noves so much? She likes the doctor in Noves because he kept her fan safe when she left it behind after insisting on joining me on a visit. She likes the pharmacy in Noves because it has a wide range of L’Occitane products and because the staff are extremely pleasant and helpful. She likes the scruffy little bar on the corner where they serve fairly good coffee for only one euro and where you can eat your pain au chocolat purchased in the friendly boulangerie. But, most of all, Mrs Proust likes Noves because of La Plancha where we ate on her first night in Provence.

Actually, it’s the sports bar where, every night, they lay out their green tables in a part of a car park that they’ve laid claims to. It’s constantly packed with French folk in families and parties – there’s not another foreign voice to be heard. They only serve frites, salad, ratatouille and a choice of either red mullet, steak or gigantic prawns. It costs 12 euro. Peter and Karil brought us here on Mrs Proust’s first night in Provence and she asked to return for her last night. As Mrs Proust says, it’s SO French.

Au revoir Mrs Proust. We are missing you already.

6th August: Peter and I set off for Arles at une bonne heure. Karil waits in Cabannes for the baby to be collected. Karil says Peter will be a good guide. She’s right: I’ve been to Arles many times but today saw parts of the town that I didn’t know existed. First stop is the Fondation Van Gogh – a brand new gallery which currently boasts work by the artist – including The Yellow House – and other folk who have, allegedly, followed in his footsteps. The gallery is a pleasure. The same cannot be said for all the contents. Peter wishes to bypass one particular set of constructions that remind me of Jack’s bedroom when he was younger. ‘Rubbish’, says Peter the art critic as he barges a way through.

After an excellent lunch, we set a path through ancient back streets that I have never seen before. Morning Glory, in Van Gogh blue, grows prolifically against some of the stone walls. It obviously likes the heat.

We emerge in a part of Arles that is both ancient and new. On the site of the former chariot racing arena stands the unattractive Museum of Antiquities. I have been brought here to find out more about the aqueduct at Fontvielle. There are two models of the mills and news that there would have had to have been a second aqueduct: one could not have served all the demands of Arles. So, a missing end to one aqueduct and another that is entirely missing. The museum is interesting, especially the boat that was found a few years ago. It’s so big, they had to build another extension.

Nothing, however, is in any language other than French and it takes me a long time to both read and understand the pieces I’ve chosen to look at. On the way out, I am asked to participate in a survey. I point out to the child asking the questions that it might be helpful to have an audio handset in a variety of languages. The child asks me how old I am. Soixante-et-un (61) I reply. Soixant-onze (71) queries the child? I hit the child with my programme and demand to know whether I look soixante-onze. There is little to be said. The damage has been done 😦

4th August: In Eygalieres it’s not possible to reserve a table for lunch on Friday. I demand to know why not. There is a plausible reason: it’s not a restaurant. Ah! I was momentarily confused by the presence of a menu on the wall. I try to explain but it becomes a pointless exercise. I ask for a Coca Cola. I’m ignored. I resort to the trusted pen and notebook. The same woman appears instantly at my table with a pleasant ‘bonjour’. So, someone whose short term memory is worse than mine.

I’ve left the others back at the ranch. The missing-in-action parents returned temporarily this morning. The three rapidly aging folk who have been ‘watching’ the 16 month old since Saturday can hardly string a sentence together. The word ‘watching’ doesn’t mean the same here as it does at home. Here, ‘watching’ means employing endless and varied means of stopping the small person from screaming. The aperitif begins earlier and earlier and now arrives without request or warning.  A nursery rhyme book, written in many languages, has been discovered behind the washing machine. Peter and I drink several aperitifs whilst taking turns in reciting in Turkish, Bosnian, Indian and so on. We find it far more amusing than the bewildered child. Sometimes, when we think no-one else is looking, one of us slinks silently away to a dark place only to be faced with accusing glares on return. It’s exhausting. It’s difficult to believe this is only Day Three.

Later, I cook aubergine gratin. Karil offers to make polenta. I ask how to make polenta. Karil says she does it in the microwave but, her friend, Roberto, doesn’t approve. I remind her that Roberto ran over her foot at the market in Cavaillon so hardly has a leg to stand on when it comes to criticism. Karil says she lost her toenail. I tell Karil she’s lucky she still has a leg to stand on.

3rd August: And so to the road that runs between Noves and Cabannes and the little lane that runs away from it. The small spotted ponies are biding their time in what’s left of the pear orchard. Various Norwegian Blues are here and there: two of them are asleep inside a large cardboard box that probably once held something of interest from Ikea. Another is spotted sloping in the direction of the kitchen with something also interesting hanging from the side of its mouth. The something interesting probably didn’t originate in Ikea. They have been temporarily usurped by a sixteen month old child who currently dominates this household. She’s been left with her grandparents for a week. She’s going to make the most of it.

The evening sun shines down on the little table and chairs in the new garden. All day the threat of a storm of epic proportions arriving from the Pyrenees has hung over us in bulky grey and black cushions of cloud. At midi, in the dripping humidity, an electric fan was brought to the outdoor sitting room. Eating was hard work – only two of the three adults succeeded. The sixteen month old, whose safety is paramount at all times, managed a yoghurt; and later some indeterminable scraps of something found under the table.

We went for wine, vegetables and ice-cream. Somewhat irrationally, when asked what I’d like to eat for dinner, I requested curry. Then, when no-one was looking, the grey and black clouds moved away to worry the folk in another part of Provence. The big sky turned blue again and the cicadas recommenced their chattering. Away through the foliage of the new garden, over the tops of the endless orchards and behind a cypress dressed horizon, new clouds sit patiently. The aperitif is also waiting.

1st August: Two first stages draw to a close today: firstly, the last piece of the work on the Indonesian elections was completed and sent post-haste to Jakarta this morning. Hurrah! Hurrah! Although, I don’t know whether they’re hurrahing over there: last I heard, they were still arguing between themselves.

The second first stage to end is, sadly,  my sojourn at Mas Sainte Antoine in Rognonas. Most Donald followers will know that, with unbelievable serendipity, I first came here in 2007 to pass a few months of my sabbatical year. I hadn’t even seen the place until the day I moved in. Largely, this was due to a lack of interest on my part as I didn’t want to leave my new found friends in Valence where I’d stayed for the previous weeks. Nothing could have prepared me for my new home; I didn’t know places like this existed. On the morning following my arrival all those years ago, I was up and outside writing at five o clock  much to the astonishment of the then proprietors. I was smitten.

Since then, I think I’ve returned every year and, like the first time, have never wanted to leave. In fact, in all those visits, I’ve yet to meet anyone who wants to leave this enchanted place. These days, it’s run by a couple of Kiwis who must be the most industrious people I’ve ever met: they never stop working. The pool is pristine and the gardens are manicured to precision. All day and every day they are cutting and pruning and mowing and cleaning but, somehow, have time for each and everyone of us. And each and everyone is treated as though they’re the most special people in the world. In the most special place.

Tomorrow, stage two takes me to Cabannes where I will pass the next three weeks with my friends. It’s only a twenty minute drive. It’s like another country. Storms of electrical proportions are forecast but we will sit in the shelter of the remise, no doubt sipping the Mohito. Watch this space.

Home

July 31st: For some reason, I’ve never been to Beaucaire before. I can’t imagine I’ll be going back; especially in a car that sports an orange light I’ve only just noticed indicating that I’m running on good will. I’ll worry about that later

From Tarascon, I cross the wide expanse of the Rhone and one of its siblings and swerve off to the right in the direction of who knows what. Ah: the-all-things-nautical base, outside which I abandon the car and set off to explore the town.

There’s something strange about this place. Where is everyone? I check my watch to see how early it is. It isn’t. It’s 11 o clock but there aren’t any church bells going about their business to remind me. Occasionally, the odd person stumbles around. And I mean ‘stumbles’: each wears a slightly glazed look, most struggle to walk in a straight line and no-one says ‘bonjour’. It’s a bit like Shaun of the Dead.

I have no idea where I’m going as the place is a veritable labyrinth of old, twisted streets and alleys. In one sense, Beaucaire, it seems, is very beautiful and exceptionally ancient – at least these back ways are. But it’s difficult to get a grip on things – no bars, no shops, no ateliers – just bend after empty bend until, around a corner, I come across an old blind man, sitting on the ground, playing his accordion. I take his picture but with cash in hand. He might not really be blind. That’s what Beaucaire does: it turns a disorientated tourist into a sceptical and untrusting being. As I walk over to place my money in the accordion player’s pot, I notice a pharmacy up a small incline into which I venture in search of more waterproof dressings for the wound which is now, like the old man of Aran, knitting nicely. It’s almost impossible to get into the pharmacy as it’s full to the brim with missing people. Perhaps they have Black Death here? The place is certainly old enough.

I wander back down past the possibly blind accordion player, round another corner and find, quite extraordinarily, that it’s market day. In every other French town and village that I’ve ever been to on market day it’s been impossible to park, let alone fight a path through the throngs. Market day is an EVENT, though not here. I’m sorry Beaucaire, but yours was the most awful market I’ve ever seen. I’m guessing this is a town with no money. Around yet another corner, I found this little port on a canal. Who owns all these boats? Certainly nobody at the market. I decide to explore a few more of those back streets which are far more interesting.

In Sandy Lane, which is not in Beaucaire, there is a man of indeterminable years with learning difficulties. On dry days, his aged parents put an old bath mat on the front wall. They place their son on the old bath mat and he sits there for hours watching the passing traffic. There’s one of these men in Beaucaire but the difference is that he doesn’t sit still in one place. I know this because he followed me round the corners for a while. Every time I turned to look at him, he immediately sat down on a handy wall. However, he must have a limited radius because, by the time I’d arrived at the old hotel in this picture, I’d lost him.

I did, however, pick up another. The new man was wandering down the road armed with a small boy and a baguette. When he saw me looking at the old hotel, he asked whether I’d like to come in and proceeded to unlock the door. My friend, Barbara, says I’m not afraid of anything. That’s not strictly true but I don’t like to turn away an opportunity. But still…

The new man could see I was wavering. He told me I would like what I saw and showed me how to let myself out of the building so I went in. He was right. Here’s the courtyard.

A few streets and corners later, I found this little alley. It looked slightly different to all the others and I’d walked so far, I thought I might as well have a look. It was a very steep climb and, as with the rest of the place, wholly unpopulated.

It was worth it though because I could see across the rooftops of Beaucaire and for miles in the distance. I forgot to mention that the temperature at ground level today was 33C so, by this time, I was very tired and about to give up. One more corner, I thought. And guess what I found?

A Castle. And you won’t be surprised to learn that it was closed to the public and that I took this photo through yet another fence. Time to find some petrol.

July 30th: Some things in Provence are just so good that there’s nothing else to say.

29 July: The weather is all over the place. It teases and it taunts and it pays no attention to professional forecasters. The air is so heavy that the weight of it might flatten a person.

On my patio chairs, rest two brand new plump, full-length cushions which I am requested to bring indoors in the event of precipitation. In the middle of a long and largely open-eyed night, I awake from one of those deepest and shortest moments of dreamless sleep and hear the unanticipated rain beating down. I am like an automaton: rising from my bed and rushing out into the darkness to retrieve the now dripping seat covers.

But what’s this? They are being guarded by a yellow toad the size of Wales. I look at the toad. The toad looks at me. I take a step back. The toad moves forward. I peer at my open window above the patio table and wonder whether this French giant has the wherewithal to jump on the table and in through the window. Onto my currently vacant bed. Laugh if you will. I doubt you currently wake at daylight in the company of grasshoppers of such a size that, accompanied by a few chips, could feed a starving nation for a week.

The day is sadly wasted: spent mostly in catching up on lost sleep. Even the wonderful Goldfinch cannot deter my top and bottom eyelids from a continuous meeting. In the late afternoon, I speak severely to myself. I shower, dress and drive to St Remy to retrieve my blue, salamander-ridden sarong from the garden in which I abandoned it on Sunday. Most of the O’Connor brigade have disbanded and departed for home. They have left behind one O’Connor and one yoga teacher. That formerly industrious couple have also succumbed to this uninviting day and are hiding indoors in the dark. They are watching television. They are watching English television. There’s no getting away from the fact. They are watching Jeremy Kyle. These are, indeed, desperate days.

In St Remy, there is an outdoor evening craft market. I sit outside the infamous bar-tabac and consider ordering a thirst quenching Coca-Cola. A young man is watching me. He is smoking a joint. I look at him. He looks at me and smiles knowingly. I smile back and fumble in my handbag for my notebook and pen. I start writing. The young man stops smiling and, unlike the toad, scuttles away. It’s amazing what a pen and notebook might mean to different people. He has gone but, at last, the waiter is at my side. He thinks I’m writing a review. Neither of the two will ever guess that I’m writing about toads. It’s been so long that I forget about the refreshing Coca-Cola. Unusually, for me, I order a glass of rose. The lightness of colour and taste makes it the only appropriate choice to fight the oppression. I write a few more lines and the wine appears instantly.

In my current life, I go to bed early. It’s the joy of being on holiday on one’s own. Next Saturday, I move in with friends. It will be nice, I hope, but you have to fit in with other folk’s arrangements and lifestyles. Where I’m going, life largely revolves around the wants and needs of a number of felines of the Norwegian Blue variety. Currently, life revolves around me. I have a drink, write a few lines, eat my dinner and watch an episode of Breaking Bad. Then I read my book – The Goldfinch – then I go to sleep feeling more than a trifle content.

In the morning, I get up very early, drink some coffee, write a few more lines and wonder what to do with the rest of the day. You can see why I go to bed happy. This morning, when I was drinking my coffee and writing my lines, before anyone else was out and about, a woodpecker, with a violently red beak, arrived. As I said, you can see why I’m happy. I even went to the village to purchase croissants – what a luxury. But the weather was indecisive so I reflected a little on ways in which the day might not be wasted. I decided to go to Avignon.

Back in the day – a popular phrase which indicates many lifetimes since, but for me means 2008, – I would drive into the city. In the past, you could randomly park almost anywhere against the city walls. Things have moved on: the parking areas have been replaced with grass and flowers and very nice it looks too. Makes it difficult with a car though. Back in the day, I would bravely drive up La Rue de la Republique and not bat an eyelid at all the other vehicles fighting their way through town in order to reappear outside the city walls and make for another battle in the car park under the Palais du Papes. And back in the day, I would drive my loyal Fiesta down back streets that, frankly, had a cheek to call themselves a street; waging war against the lycra brigade and those who had the audacity to live in the city. In my sabbatical year, I became French. I’m not French now and I have a hire car without premium insurance. I took the bus.

Avignon Festival finished yesterday. Today, Avignon looked liked somewhere after the ball was over. If you’re lucky enough to happen upon Arles on a Saturday, you can enjoy one of the biggest and best markets Provence has on offer. And if you stay for lunch, you can watch the good folk of Arles clean up their town and hose the roads down. And within half an hour, you would never know that fish stalls, vegetable stalls, fruit stalls, flower stalls and all things Provencal had ever been near the place. Avignon, meanwhile, was clinging to memories of its festival. Old posters littered the joint. I dismissed the main routes, favouring the far more interesting back streets but they were infested by debris.

Finally, I sought the hidden path behind the Palais du Papes and sat quietly in the undisturbed quarter of le manutention with a welcome glass of Coca Cola. A woman arrived and asked me if I would save her a table. I don’t know who she thought I was but I agreed. She later returned with her friends who offered their thanks and asked whether I’d had to engage in battle to save the table. It was peaceful.

Later, I caught a bus home – notice that word ‘home’ – and the driver forgot to stop at my point of disembarkation. No worries – he just drew up outside the lane back to the gites. It’s better in the country.

27 July: ‘Are you going to put us on your blog’, they demand to know?

Well, some of them want to know: Martin, exhausted from a week of doing nothing, remains comatose on the lawn.

Others, fortuitously, are a little more industrious: Alex and Maria, for example, are busy removing the rare swimming spider from its place at the bottom of the pool where it was pretending to be dead. Maria, who has, thankfully, taken over from me as the bossy one in the entourage, is supervising. Generally, we see her standing on her head or- for a change -on one leg ( she’s a yoga teacher, they explain ).

And here I am again with the famous author who’s been giving me lots of useful writing advice. How much have you written this week, Bev?

A splendid lunch and a lovely afternoon. Thank-you O’Connors for your unceasing hospitality.