On the second of the Journées de Patrimone, I visit the Jewish cemetery in St Rémy de Provence and, before I proceed with this account, I’d like to say that, whilst I learned a lot today, I must apologise in advance to those of the Jewish faith who are familiar with what follows.

This serene and tranquil cemetery finally closed its doors in 1977 and it’s only thanks to European Heritage Days and the ‘friends’ that we can get in once a year, rather than never. Today, the oldest visible tomb was erected in 1821 and the most recent dates from 1915. However, the cemetery was first mentioned in 1400 and was founded much earlier; indeed, it was built on the site of another medieval burial ground.

There is evidence of a large Jewish community in St Rémy forever, probably since Roman times. Records show that in 1339 all meat sold in the town was ritually slaughtered (Kosher) and the locals made a formal complaint of it being tasteless. St Rémy’s famous son, Nostradamus, was born of Jewish ancestry although his family later converted to Catholicism. The Jews were expelled from Provence in 1500 by Louis X11 and they had to wait until the French Revolution of 1789 for official recognition of their right to return and confirmation of their equality with everyone else.

Back in the cemetery, I see a couple placing a stone on a tomb. Actually, I’d noticed that several of the tombs have stones randomly placed upon them. I gave this half a thought: in Provence, you can see rooftops adorned with stones but this is a practical solution against the whims of the Mistral. Surely this can’t be true for long-ago graves.

I pluck up courage and ask Madame from ‘the friends’. I don’t mean I need courage to ask, but I do need some extended vocabulary to understand the answer. Actually, it’s not too tricky: she gives me some alternative explanations which I later research and find her perspective the best. In no particular order that I know of, they are as follows:

Before the time of caskets and coffins, the deceased was buried in a shroud in the ground so the stones acted as protection against the ravages of wild beasts. Par contre, the stones, which are placed with the left hand, keep the souls in place, thus preventing a haunting. And yet another alternative is the view that placing a stone is a symbol of sending the dead on a safe journey (because the stone represents strength) and a reminder of the resurrection.

I was a bit confused by the latter. Pragmatically, it makes sense: if the stone is removed, then the soul can escape – hence the rolling back the stone from the place of Jesus’ burial. But I didn’t think that this religion believed in the resurrection; what do I know?

Anyway, Madame is on a roll with her audience of one and begins to tell me about the Germans. It’s true that the German army requisitioned St Paul de Mausole in WW2 but trying to confirm her story is a non-starter. Nonetheless, I’ve no reason to disbelieve her. Weasel readers will be familiar with St Paul de Mausole which is where Van Gogh placed himself after the episode in Arles. And where he produced 150 works of art including Starry Nights. So, the Germans threw out all the patients and closed down the cemetery. Just as contextualisation, this little part of the world was, in 1940, ordained as part of the Free Zone under the protectorate of the dubious Vichy government. By 1942, the Germans had moved in and begun a systematic round-up of French Jews.

Everything she passionately recounts begs another question but now more French people have arrived and the discourse is too speedy for yours truly. Still, it’s another piece of local history and culture for me from yet another true representative of Heritage Days.

It’s the European Heritage Days today and tomorrow when, all over Europe, it’s possible to visit places that are mostly closed to the public. Well, all over Europe apart from England which, secretly, had its heritage days last weekend. I suppose the Brexiteers feel we’re already no longer part of Europe so why not be different?

And actually, the French may well feel the same: at my very favourite Chapelle St Gabriel, whose doors are rarely open, on asking the lady from the Association of the Friends of Gabriel if they had any literature in English, I was informed ‘non’, only French, German and Spanish. And pourquoi pas Anglais, I press her? She’s embarrassed, poor thing – ‘une erreur’, she tries with a question mark. You’re sure it’s not Brexit, I suggest?

What she does have, nonetheless, looks interesting even if it’s going to take me some time to translate. So, I continue, as a friend of Gabriel, do you know the secret? She hates me in a charming sort of way. I see blank confusion as she makes a mental note to ensure there’s something in written English next time. ‘Quel secret?’

I tell her I’ve read that St Gabriel’s Chapel embodies a secret hidden in plain sight. Perhaps Jesus was here? (any chance to get back on that overladen boat in a manner of speaking). Madame has not heard of this although, being a huge fan of conspiracy theories, I suspect the Association of the Friends of Gabriel won’t be owning up to anything in the near future.

Or possibly St Martha, I continue? Madame brightens up considerably at this suggestion and begins to tell me how Martha overcame the Tarasque. Yes, yes, I smile but I also read that this chapel was constructed on the site of a previous building that may have been a religious school for girls and women initiated by St Martha. We’re having this conversation in French and nobody like a know-it-all. But Madame, who hasn’t heard this story either, seems genuinely interested. Either that or she’s a pleasant but accomplished actor.

Do you come here often she asks without a hint of either irony or sarcasm? Because, she continues, you could join the Association, which I’ve now decided is a local branch of Opus Dei, and tell everyone else all these things. It was a joy to be in that place with her: she loves it as I do and I’m seriously thinking of signing up.

The Association was formed in 2009, with the aims of restoring and maintaining the chapel and enabling regular access. In 2013, they managed to get the state architect on board along with the national body for archaeological research whose study suggested that a provisional budget of 460,000 euro might get the renovations under way. Some minor building works have been carried out but, today, one of the most worrying problems comprises the parasitic vegetation which is erupting over the building. On the other hand, the Association successfully inaugurated the ‘Dimanches de St Gabriel’, so many of those who previously complained of the place never being open, have subsequently been able to visit. Voila, what began with a tiny group of people now has a membership of over 250.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been to St Gabriel’s Chapel. However, my second visit on the first of the Journees du Patriome was to the Hôtel de Sade which I’ve never previously visited. Balthazar de Sade had a wonderful mansion erected in St Remy in the late fifteenth century. Baltahazar, by the way, was an ancestor of the infamous Marquis of the same name.

I suppose the main reason for its importance is that Balthazar had his house built around a bunch of much older constructions, most of which are a bit tricky for yours truly to comprehend. Where’s Paul Russell when you need him? Apparently, the new bits are constructed in the ‘flamboyant Gothic’ style whatever that is. However, pre WW2 excavations revealed a huge bath complex dating from the fourth century AD. Not mentioning any names, but it wasn’t that long ago that some Prof from the USA was dragging me round Constantine’s bathroom in temperatures of 40C after a particularly energetic lunch. If only we’d known what was lurking in the back streets of St Remy. I quote: ‘it’s exceptionally well-preserved state is comparable to the thermal baths of Constantine in Arles’.

Here, we have the well-preserved remains of the hypocaust, the palaestro, the pool, the sauna, the tepidarium and the frigidarium. Who knew, Russell? Don’t ask me ; I only take the photos and write a few words.

And if all of that isn’t sufficient, it turns out that the Hôtel de Sade is the repository of excavation findings from Glanum. They’ve got mosaics and sculptures; painted plasters, heads and torsos; tombs and carvings. They only had a few out on display today and they were ‘roped’ off by ugly red and white chains, so I didn’t take any photos. Sorry Prof.

Here’s a tip, though. If you’re interested in historical stuff that the public can’t normally see, visit Provence during les Jours du Patrimone.

September in Provence can be charming with its late-in-the-year warmth, excepting the unexpected wind. Something purporting to be the mistral blows down the Rhône when one least desires its presence. But, today, the curse of the South is non-existent.

Market Day in St Remy de Provence and the place is flooded with Americans looking for end of season bargains. It’s like high summer has chosen to make a last-ditch reminder of its economic raison d’être. Those huge tomates anciennes are beckoning to be conjoined to a little picadon. The rennes claudes, sweet and juicy, don’t suffer the fears of their English counterparts: if a tree dies, so will its owner (or vice versa).

By the pool, we few cosmopolitan hangers-on lap up the globally warmed rays, intent on returning to colder climes with the hint of an envied tan. We dip in and dip out of the water and likewise of our undemanding novels; immersed in the care of nothing, to which we cling before reality hits on the next plane home. A solitary tree frog sings a lonely song from time to time.

Later, just before dark, the odd lost swallow flies overhead looking for its compatriots. I sit here quietly, reading of news from home wherein a son has just bought his first house and my parents are accompanied by decorators. It’s an hour and a half away by air and a million miles to another life. My hostess lends me a jacket to combat the sudden drop in temperature, but it’s still warm enough to take supper outside.

My picture is of the town hall at Tarascon, the place to be when celebrating Christmas in these parts. I won’t be there: I’ll be in Dorset with my family.Tomorrow, the temperature begins its downward slide, but Provence will still be here. Different, but still beckoning timelessly with a disregard of the seasons.

The two chicken-sitters were safely ensconced in their upstairs abode, at the end of a dark French lane in the middle of nowhere. The owners had left for another country and the writers were in sole charge of the estate, five chickens and a cat called Poodle: an almost-free holiday. You know what they say about no such thing as a free lunch …

It began well enough. We’d journeyed into St Remy, wandered the market and, sans coats, taken the aperitif in glorious sunshine on the terrace of the infamous Bar-Tabac des Alpilles. Our dear American writer friend turned up and we three, having met again, cackled our way through a delicious pork fillet drenched in a creamy sauce and accompanied by luscious potatoes Dauphinoise. A dousing of Rosé from the close-at-hand Ventoux served to lubricate the warning signs in Bev’s throat. All was well with the world.

Later, following a much-needed siesta chez nous, we awoke to discover the skies had become more than a whiter shade of pale: downright bloody grey-turning-black actually. What’s the end of that line about meeting again? Oh yes, ‘in thunder, lightning, or in rain’. The writers, armed with a tempting slice of dry bread, persuaded the chickens back into their coop for the night. Bev had several conversations with herself about foxes. To make her feel better, I recounted a funny story about sitting pool-side last summer when a ropey looking vixen turned up for a drink. Bev didn’t laugh so I let her watch a Strictly Come Dancing programme as a treat. She seemed to be sniffing a lot.

I noticed that all the outside lights, including that lovely big one on the Plane tree, had shut themselves off; we couldn’t see a thing but we could hear the wild wind shaking up the cypresses and generally wending its destructive way through Provence. No matter: we’d boarded up the shutters and moved on to Master Chef, delighting in hapless cooks being humiliated by nasty Greg.

Bev thought a cup of tea might make her feel better. It probably would’ve done but there didn’t seem to be any water coming out of the tap. Any of them. Bev said she was going to bed. Downright flaky I say. Personally, I don’t think she drinks enough wine.

The storm was fearful: no point counting the gaps between the thunder and lightning – there weren’t any. All the long night, the rain fell fiercely and fearlessly and the storm rattled one’s very bones. No point getting up until it passed because there was no electricity, so no lights. Just us in our respective rooms with the darkness punctuated only by frequent flashes.

We rose, bleary-eyed, at une bonne heure to try and attempt repairs. In Bev’s boudoir, I entered a large orange box above the malfunctioning toilet and tripped a switch. Hurrah! Electricity. With the aid of our trusty torch, I made my way through the wet gloom of early, silent-birded morning to the even more silent boiler room on another part of the estate where I succeeded in repairs to the water pump. Back in our joint, I took a welcome shower only to have the water dry up before I could even get the conditioner on. Trying to make the best of a very bad hair day, I noticed Bev, still sniffing, had spent valuable time and electricity on making toast on which she’d spread, in my non-judgemental opinion, an excessive amount of Reine Claude confiture. ‘Why can’t you function without breakfast’, I demanded? ‘Why can’t you function without washing your bloody hair’, she retorted? Good point.

We went our separate ways: she to tend chickens, me back to the water pump. Onwards to trip more switches throughout the estate, feed the cat called Poodle, write a diplomatic email to the owners, take a phone call from Portugal, discuss the plan for the day, return to bed for more sleep and, finally, run away to Arles.