Highpoints and Lowpoints

The second day of Alice's visit involved a long road trip---and needs some explanation.  There is a blog called French Word A Day, to which Alice introduced me a couple years ago.  It is written by an American from Az., Kristin Espinasse, who married a French man and, at that time, was living and making wine very near St. Sat.  Since then, she has moved to the Bandol area, where she and Jean Marc are planting a new vineyard in that AOC.   A mutual friend from NC, Robyn Mixon, had visited their winery and painted a picture of their wine bottles which was on the blog when Alice first sent it to me.  Alice suggested we should try to visit Kristin, since we felt we already knew her and her entire family  (especially the dogs) from her blog.  Bandol is on the Mediterranean and about a 2 hour drive from St. Sat.  Kristin kindly responded to Alice's email that she would be happy to meet us for lunch at St. Cyr Sur Mer on Oct. 17.  So, early that morning Alice, Tom Tom lady, and I took off for the Med.

I took my usual route over the Luberon, and ventured toward Marseille.  Soon I realized that Tom Tom was directing me straight through Marseille.  Quelle horreur!  This is the second largest city in France, traffic is god awful, it was mid-morning of a workday and every car, moto, and truck in the city was on the streets.  The saving grace was that our route remained on one major street, with no turning and route finding, just tout droit toward St. Cyr.  We made it through with only a few minutes taken off my life from the experience.

Once through the city, we had a marvelous drive along the sea, which was splendid on that warm, sunny day.  Think deep blue sea, light blue cloudless sky, warm breeze, palm trees and sail boats, un paradis.  One can understand why the Cote d'Azur is such a popular place.

We met Kristin at a pizza resto she recommended which looked out at a lovely harbor scene.  She was such a warm, inviting and interesting lunch companion, we took 2 hours to enjoy the company and the pizza.  We even had a "ride-by" visit from Jean Marc, who was out on his bike and stopped to say hello.  Sadly, we were having such a fine time, I forgot to take any pictures.  The moral of this story for me is that you may miss some of the best times of your life if you never risk asking for them.

On the return, we stopped off in Cassis, one of the most picturesque sea side towns ever, and,  relative to most of the coast, not too touristy.  But since I was concerned about getting back to St. Sat. before it was too dark---the twisty, narrow roads are scary enough in broad daylight---we couldn't tarry too long.  But there's always time for ice cream.  Here's Alice in the harbor in Cassis:

To avoid Marseille on the way home, we gave Tom Tom the freedom to take a route that included toll roads.  So off we went on the Auto Route, with Clio struggling to keep up, but with no city streets to follow.  I was questioning that choice, because we kept heading farther west, toward Avignon and away from Apt.  Finally we saw the exit, going back toward Apt, with all the toll booths and all the cars stopped at them.  I chose a line, got to the machine, put in the toll ticket, saw the fee--3.90 euro---and inserted a credit card.  It was immediately spit back at me, so I put in another, then another, then another, all of which came back.  By this time there was a line behind us, of course, although there was no horn honking --good French manners.  I couldn't do much else, so just turned to the car behind, did a very Gallic exaggerated shrug and hand raise (I thought), and they started moving to other lanes.  Finally I could back away and get off the highway and park to consider our next move.  All the booths were automatic, no people involved; I couldn't go through a cash one without my ticket, which was still in the first machine, and there was no getting off the road without breaking through a gate.  We were in a fine pickle.  But just then Alice spotted a woman in a uniform.  I ran through traffic to catch her at one of the booths as she was emptying change from the machine, explained my problem with the cards and the ticket, and told her we owed 3.90.  She was a true savior, since she believed me, took my change and opened the gate for us.  Without her, we would be like the "Man who never returned from 'neath the streets of Boston".  There was much enjoying of the fine bottle of wine from Chateauneuf when we finally got home.

After all that driving and adventuring, we took it easy the next day.  Up late, then a short drive to Menerbes, Peter Mayle's town from his Year in Provence book.  It is lovely, very much up scale and mostly restored to the nth degree.  Lots of money being spent here, and it shows.  One quick pic of the town Mairie:

Next stop was Rousillon and a picnic lunch, then more walking around.  Took Alice to meet Chantal at her Galerie des Ocres, and they hit it off, chattering away in French about the American sociologist who spent a sabbatical year in Rousillon soon after WWII when it was languishing.  He then came home and wrote a paper, turned into a book, about the town and inhabitants and culture, which became very popular.  Although names were changed, tous le village knew where it was and who they were and were not necessarily happy about it.  

Back home, Alice unpacked the bag in which she had carried her extra things and which had stayed in the trunk of the car.  She didn't find her Ipad, so we looked and looked.  Finally she did another search of the bag and realized a couple other things were missing, mostly small like cosmetics.  It became horribly clear that all these things had been stolen from the car.   There was no sign of any breaking into the trunk, so I must assume that I made the awful mistake of failing to lock the car, either when we took out the picnic stuff, or when it was returned to the trunk.  Rousillon is known to have a problem with theft from cars, so it probably happened there and not in Menerbes.  After a short time of disbelief, then anger and irritation, then more irritation getting calls through to cancel service and get her office IT person to erase all data from the tablet, and some wine, Alice marvelously moved beyond the entire event.  One saving grace is that her passport was in the bag, but was not taken.  I'm still feeling the guilt, but she is wonderful about the whole thing.

Tomorrow was another day, on many levels.  It was Saturday, and market day in Apt.  We wandered for hours, buying some things, looking at lots of others and enjoying the experience.  We both found some things for gifts, and some for ourselves and some for a picnic lunch that day.  We ran into neighbors, Gina and William, from St. Sat. who invited us to come by later that evening for a drink.  As we sat at an outdoor table enjoying a drink after shopping,  Gina and William stopped by, then Susan, her husband Fernando and Emma from school joined the group.  It felt like we were part of the neighborhood, very pleasant.

After Apt, we went on a hunt for mohair.  Alice had found web site for "Mohair in Provence", I found their flyer in the Apt TI and we had Tom Tom to guide, so off we go into the boonies.  Way back off dirt roads we stopped at a house and farm that was the correct location, but with no people.  We got out and started looking around, then a man appeared from the house and walked over to an outbuilding which had a sign on it indicating a shop.  He said nothing to us, just opened the door.   We went in and it was full of marvelous things---clothing made from beautiful mohair and wool yarns, and the beautiful mohair and wool yarns themselves.  From what we had read, this was a goat/sheep farm where the yarn and chevre were made.  Alice was totally ooohing and aaahing, and still the guy said nothing.  Finally she chose several skeins of mohair, put them on the comptoir, the guy added stuff up, wrote it down on a paper and gave it to Alice.  This was clearly the price, which she paid, he put the stuff into a bag, and we left, never hearing a word from him.  Tres bizarre, but efficient.  On the way out, we stopped by the side of  road for our Apt Market lunch:

We had an early morning on Sunday, because Alice was taking the 10:50 train from Avignon to Paris for a lunch date with an artist friend from Charlotte, NC, then headed to the airport to return to Atlanta. And I was staying in Avignon to meet my brother, Sam, and sister in law, Claire, on the 2:30 train from Paris. 

Alice's visit

My friend Alice and I worked together in the Legal Dept. at Wachovia, and have stayed good buddies through career changes and moves--me to Colorado and her to LA, and now to Atlanta.  She is a Francophile, like I, and meets every other week in Atlanta with a group to practice language skills.  She was arriving in Avignon Tuesday, the 15th, on the 13:00 train from Paris, for her first visit to the south of France.

The weather had been gorgeous all week, but had turned drizzly and cool that morning.  I left home early for the drive to Avignon (about an hour) so I could go by St. Saturnin les Avignon (I was living in St. Sat. les Apt) to find a fabric store that Francis had told me about.  I had admired the drapes in his salon, which were a sheer linen fabric that I have tried to find in the US, without any luck.  He told me he made them and had bought the fabric in St. Sat. les Avignon, which is sort of on the way to pick up Alice.  My Tom Tom lady got me there, and some nice people on the street immediately knew what I wanted when I asked where a "grand magasin de tissu" was.  And a large store it was.  Every kind of fabric you could think of, all jumbled into a great rambling warehouse of a building.  I found lots of the linen sort of fabric I wanted---it is very popular for curtains here.  Unfortunately, getting it home would be far too much trouble and expense than I could undertake.  But I did find the store, Gregoire, on the web, so perhaps I'll be able to order some.

Alice's train was a about 30 minutes en retard--and I thought they always ran on time.  We got into the car and drove back to St. Sat. for her to settle in and rest a bit, stopping along the way in Gordes for a late lunch and walk around.  Alice had been on a whirlwind travel schedule before she met me---a day in Chapel Hill, NC for a meeting, a few days in Tampa to see her friend Christopher's Royal Ballet of Scotland group perform, then to Paris and finally home with me.  She needed an early night.

On Wed. morning we had a 9:00 meet with Abdel Hamid, wine sommelier and retailer, for a tour of the Rhone valley wine region.  Abdel had cooked in restaurants for years, some of which were Michelin starred, and now does tours, wine tastings in restaurants, and sells wine at several markets in the Vaucluse.  We went first to a small, but several generations old, winery near Vacqueyras, Domaine La Fourmone.  It is run by a woman, granddaughter of the first owner.  Abdel commented on how many wineries are now being operated by women, and that they are turning out to be exceptionally good vintners.  We tasted a rose, a red and a white from Vacqueyras, one Gigondas and one Beaumes de Venise---all good.  We also got a little lesson from Abdel about the region.  This is a part of the Cote du Rhone region, where some areas have been especially recognized as outstanding by winning their own appellation, or AOC.  Gigondas is included in these, as is Beaumes de Venise, famous for its sweet white wine.  The most famous is Chateauneuf-du-Pape, which is on our itinerary for later in the day.

Alice and Abdel walking in, and admiring,  the Domaine La Fourmone vines

Entrance to the tasting room and cave at Domaine La Fourmone

Our next stop was a side trip to the Dentelles de Montmirail, and a vineyard where the vendange had not yet finished.  The dentelles are a short range of mountains with spiky tops, sort of like the Needles, and white rock.  The vendange, or grape harvest, is normally done by early Oct., but in this area there had been a late, and cool, summer, so the grapes ripened late.  Here are a couple pictures of the mountains and the grape harvest.

Les Dentelles de Montmirail

Grape harvesting---note the barely visible pickers in the middle of the picture

Grapes ready for the crusher

Lunch was at a little place in Gigondas that Abdel knew from having worked in the village before.  I had excellent house made raviolis.  If you see "maison" on a French menu board it means the dish has been made in the restaurant and should be extra good and fresh.
                                                       
                                                                   





As we walked around before lunch, we saw a class of plein aire artists working here.  One of them had set up at this spot to paint the doorway---not a bad choice.       

Next we drove to the Chateaufneuf-du-Pape AOC, and 2 degustations.  First was the Domaine de Beaurenard, one of the oldest vineyards in the area, now operated by the seventh generation of the family.  We were taken on a complete back stage tour of the whole wine making process and the gorgeous cellar where the barrels were aging.

Our last stop, and probably the best wine we had, was at Chateau Gigognan, also in Chateauneuf-du-Pape.  All of these wineries have vines in other areas, and make more than the CNduP wines.  Because of France's strict regulations, if the grapes are not grown in the area, the wine can't be labeled with the AOC.  CNduP has extraordinary soils, one of the reasons its grapes are special.  Check out this vineyard:

The rocks warm up in the sun, retain and reflect the heat, keeping the vines and grapes at a more constant and warm temperature.  This particular vineyard is also "bio", meaning organic, so the grass and plants have been left around the vines, rather than being chemically treated.  This rocky terroir is reflected in the taste of these wines.  At Chateau Gigognan Alice found her favorite wine, and a sort to namesake, Cardinalice, a bottle of which we enjoyed for the next couple days.

More adventures with Alice---both the good and the not-so-good--- to come.

And now for the rest of the story

Picking up where the tablet died, this is October 8 and the beginning of my week alone--no company to  keep me from having to entertain myself in a strange land.  But, of course, there was housework.  I did have to wash clothes, and hang them outside like everyone else does, as few people have dryers.  I did have grocery shopping and sweeping and bed changing, etc., etc.  There was time to play, though.  Did some hiking, with another trip to the Colorado for pictures in the sunshine;  revisited the village of Saignon, where Buck and I stayed with the children when we all came over here for my 60th birthday celebration;  went back to the Apt market on Saturday.

I also took an afternoon to explore Apt more.  It is the major town in the area, although its population is just around 10,000.  It looks bigger than that.  There is a substantial commercial area, lots of services on the perimeter, several hotels and restaurants, and some industry.  It's more of a work-a-day than tourist town.  There's a very nice movie theatre where Susan, Emma and I saw the latest Woody Allen movie another day---in English with French subtitles.  The headquarters of the Regional Park of the Luberon is there, also.  This is not a national park in the sense we know in the US.  It is a large tract of private land that is sort of zoned to preserve its ecology and traditional way of life---at least in the case of the Luberon.  There are several of these regional parks through the country, some more environmentally focused---like the park where our house in Normandy last summer was located.  On my afternoon exploratory excursion I happened to pick a neat restaurant for lunch---just while wandering through back streets.  It was a small place, but busy with locals obviously taking their lunch break from work.  The food was good, but the people watching was better.  Everyone seemed to know everyone else, lots of cheek kissing and "ca va's" going around.  And I was disabused of the notion that all French women are thin and chic.  Many of these ladies would have fit right into any American workday lunch scene.

I decided on Sunday to go for a more ambitious hike, but near town.  The Randonneurs have a map of hikes in the area, and I chose one that was about 8 km, and headed out of St. Sat. north on the streets, then turned on to a path and came back through a steep valley into town.  I got up the road and to the path, and started hearing lots of dogs---then some shots.  That's when I remembered it was hunting season---for sanglier, the wild boar.  I kept walking for a bit, then, after an internal conversation, decided that was a stupid thing to be doing with all those hunters and dogs around, so turned around and walked back toward town.  By then the dogs were quiet, and no shots for a while.  So I had another conversation and decided I was silly and I really wanted to hike so back I went to the path--le sentier.  Along the way, I saw three hunters with guns, but no dogs, who assured me I would be fine down in the valley.  So on I went.  Ran into some serious mountain bikers who rode back up the steep rocky path I had come down.  Then I happened to look up to the ridge line above the valley and see a dog and hunter looking back down at me---just a bit unsettling, but I was committed by then.  It turned into a lovely walk, with much turning and twisting, some of which I didn't do exactly right.  I wound up near town, on a road clearly not right, had to ask for directions and finally got into sight of the ruins so I could get my bearings and make it home.  I think I turned an 8 k. walk into a hot, sticky 12 k afternoon adventure.

The next night I was invited to a birthday party.  There was a really nice English girl, Emma, at the school the previous week, who was staying for 2 more weeks.  I had invited her to come with me on last Sat. to explore a couple of small villages, and enjoyed her a lot.  Her birthday was Monday, and Francis invited me and Susan to come over to have dinner to help her celebrate.  Since Francis was a patissier when he was younger, he made her quite a birthday cake:

Alice will be here next week, and things will become much livelier.

A Momentary Setback---or, ding, dong the tablet's dead

Much has been happening since I was last able to post anything here.  The most critical thing is that my tablet died.  It just turned black in the middle of searching for a web site and never returned.  That was a week ago, and a week of being pretty much out of touch with everything is really hard.  But the worst is I could not play solitaire or Sudoku--mon dieu, une catastrophe.  My brother arrived a few days ago, with his laptop, so I was able to get email again.  But no pictures are available.  So the blog will remain in a state of suspended animation until I get home and have access to my pictures and more time for finishing the story.

I left St. Saturnin this morning.  I'll admit it was bittersweet.  I am so looking forward to home and Buck and Susie---and all the familiar and good things that I've missed.  But leaving the place where I was beginning to feel comfortable and where so much had happened was a bit sorrowful, too.  I'm now sitting in Paris, in an apartment in the upper Marais, with my brother and sister-in-law.  We'll be here until Wed. morning, then United will get me back to Durango---I hope without problems.  Then I'll catch up on the blog with the last 2 eventful weeks, and maybe some lessons and take-aways from all this time and the adventures.

Catching up on the calendar

This will be a travelogue of sorts, hitting all the sights that Dottie and I covered on her visit. We started most unfortunately in Aix when the nice little clio lost her side door bumper.  Buck's reaction was "I could have told you to stay out of Aix".  We spent a very unpleasant time 10 years ago trying to drive through Aix that may have taken years off Buck's life.  And there wasn't much to see once Dottie and I finally parked and walked around.  I'd call Aix underwhelming.

Next day we went hiking in what is called the colorado provencal.  It's an area of ochre cliffs, like Rousillon but smaller, with trails through it.  Here's a look:

   











Next stop was lunch in Viens, a village mentioned in Rick Steve's Provence book.  I admit that I use Rick--he's good and practical.  And this was  a good rec.  Had a fine lunch of a soupe du poisson.  And discovered a spectacular cemetery--they are really interesting places.

The trip ended with a longer than expected drive to Manosque and the l'Occitane Factory store.  I squirted and sprayed so many scents on me that I still smelled in bed after my shower.

The bummer of the day came later at home when I realized there must have been some mussels in the soup at lunch.  I am very allergic to mussels.  About 6 hours after eating them I start throwing up---really, really throwing up.  This was not a bad case--there must have been a bit of mussel juice in the soup stock--but I  knew it was there.

Saturday was spent at Les Baux, a medieval castle ruin on a hilltop in the Alpilles near St. Remy, with a village below.  After that, we walked to the Carrieres Lumiere nearby.  This hard to explain, but was quite a show.  The carriere is abadoned mines, the inside of which have been turned into a sound and light show exhibit space.  You walk into a cool, damp cavernous space, with white washed walls all around through which you can wander with pictures projected on every space.  The show we saw was paintings from artists connected to the Mediterranean.  Hard to describe, but immensely well done.

Sunday we took off to Sault to find the Fete des Saveurs d'Autumnale.  It was a local Ventoux farmers fair of autumn produce and was a kick.  With a swinging band, lunch for free if you could push your way to the tables set up by the pork producers, veggie farmers and the Ventoux wineries and lots of booths with public interest information.  Just a bit of the color:

The largest meringues ever.

lunch preparations

Just like New Orleans

On Monday we hit Rousillon and Goult, where I almost was left to die in the public toilet.  I went in, Dottie was sitting on a bench sort of nearby.  I tried to get out, and couldn't get the door open.  Finally a man walking by heard and jerked open the door for me.  Free at last!!!  Finished the day with a walk in St. Sat to the moulin, chateau and chappelle.  Dottie declared I was trying to make a mountain goat out of her the last 4 days, but that's why they are called hill towns.

Tuesday was market day in town, then on the road to Marseilles and good bye.  Made a lunch stop in Lourmarin for a delicious poulet roti lunch, got Dottie to KLM safely and myself back over the hills without getting anywhere near Aix---another good day.

Home sweet home francais

While I was in school, I stayed with a host, Francis Jullien, in his home, which he operates as a chambre d'hote.  I had a lovely room and bath, large windows overlooking the Rue de la Republique, with breakfast and dinner included most days.  Plus strong wi fi signal--a critical item.  Francis is a fine cook, with a kitchen to die for, and I ate very well.  His house is on the historical register; it was the Judicial Hall in an earlier time. Francis's apartment, with the dining room, was the courtroom and had a tiny back stairway that was used for bring up prisoners  It's a very grand building which retains its grandeur.

But when school ended for me, I had to move out.  I had rented a gite for the month of Oct. from Francis (another property he owns in St.Sat.), so I packed up and moved across the street to the other side of the tracks.  The Rue de la Republique is stately, large town houses. My house is across the street from there, through the Passage de la Combe, a partly open, partly covered pieton that goes  through the block between r. d. l. Republigue and the smaller parallel street Rue de la Combe.  It is built back against the point of the rock outcropping on which the now ruined 11th century chateaux stood.  The walkway is somewhat like an alley, but with houses fronting on it.  My place is quite small.  There is a small sitting area, efficiency kitcen and dining area in the space into which the front door opens.  This is the entire rez de chausse, or 1st American floor. (pardon my spelling--don't have my dictionary with me and my mastery of french spelling is vague.)  Up a half floor is the bathroom, which is efficient--has all the necessary equipment with no wasted space.  My only real complaint is the shower.  It is one of those pre-fab guys.  The doors open in the corner and a large person could not get into it.  But the water is hot and it gets you clean.  On the 1st floor (2d american floor) are 3 doors and 3 bedroms. The one I chose is a decent size, has a window opening on the passage, and a walk in closet which has a stool to get you up to its door level.  The second room is similar, but no closet, the 3d is smaller and narrow. They are simple, spare, and fine.

The kitchen has a sink and draining board combo unit, circa 1950, a small bottled gas operated stove, a nice refrigerator, good sized pantry, plenty of utensils and, oddly stuck between the sink and stove, a teeny clothes washing machine.  It is the traditional french machine.  It is cabinet depth and very narrow.  The top opens on to another door, that opens on to the perforated metal drum that is positioned to spin around from front to back.   It holds about 1/4 of the load of my washer at home and takes more than an hour to finish one load, but the clothes get clean.  Then they go onto the drying rack and either into the spare bedroom or to the small terrace outside that fronts on the passage.  On a positive note, almost all clothes are hung outside to dry which contributes to the Europeans using less energy than we do. Here's a look at my home sweet francais home.

My bedroom

Dottie, standing in the kitchen and pouring our evening glass of rose.  The walls of the house are more than a foot thick and the wooden shutters are thick slabs of wood that close tightly and latch---every time I leave the house. 

A votre sante--an aperitif on the terrace

The main room.  The 2d complaint I have, after the shower, is there are no really comfortable chairs.

Looking through the kitchen window

Stairs from the main room.  Bath is to the right of the landing, bedrooms up to the left.

The first few days after I moved were spent in setting up the house, grocery shopping, etc.  There is a small epicirie (grocery) here in the village. 2 boulangeries, a bucherie/charcuterie (unfortunately closed right now for vacation) and a market on Tuesday mornings.  For big shopping, there are 3 super marches in Apt, including a leClerc, which is really a hyper marche (think of Wal Mart on a diet).  That's where I found the soap, detergent, bleach spray that the shower needed, and my shopping bag which doubles for a clothes basket.

Apt is also home to Sylla, the local wine cooperatif.  Grapes are brought there by the farmers, crushed and made into wine.  There  are private domaines in the area that do their own crushing, but many growers use Sylla.  There is a tasting room here for all local wines, not just co-op members.  Not all the wine is bottled, either.  You can buy either a 3 or 5 liter plastic jug, or bring your own, and have it filled from the pump hoses coming out of the wall from vats of the different co-op wines.  In the picture above, you can see Dottie pouring from one.  I got 3 liters of Luberon Rose, plus the vrac (bottle) for under 10 euro, and it makes a fine vin de maison.

My long time friend from NC, Dottie Blanchard, arrived on Oct 3 from her daughter Suzanne's, in Amsterdam.  They had spent the previous week on a nostalgic return to Sardinia where they lived when Suzanne was small.  Since she was already in the neighborhood, she flew down to Marseille, about an hour and 3/4 drive away, and I picked her up.  It is on the way home, so we decided to stop in Aix coming back.  Bad mistake.  Aix is a city, with an old center that has the tiny cramped streets of a village, but city traffic.  I was trying to navigate through it all and find a parking place in the area of the Cours Mirabeaux, turning right onto Ave Victor Hugo from an unknown side street, when I heard a loud, nasty, heart stopping screech/scrape/thud on the passenger side.  I had obviously scraped something, although neither Dottie nor I saw anything.  It was impossible to stop in the traffic and inspect the damage until I found a parking lot at the gare, several blocks away.  My sweet little Clio no longer had its black, rubbery, plastic door bumber strip.  There were really minor scratches, but that was it---cosmetic and no apparent mechanical damage.  See for yourself:

Because it's a lease, I have complete insurance coverage, no deductible, from Renault.  I called them the next day to report and their only concern was whether I wanted the car repaired immediately or replaced.  I assured them no, and was asked to send the incident report with that statement to them by fax.  That's more easily asked than done here.  Finally discovered the nice lady at the Tabac will send a fax for 1 euro, so Renault should be happy. And my car now fits in with all the other cars in the village.

I have to admit that driving here has ranged from hair raising scary to feeling like I'm in the 24 hours at Le Mans.  As you see, the Clio is tiny (I seem to be using that word a lot in descriptions.  it's not negative, just relative to home and usually a positive) It's 4 cylinders and when we were on the Autoroute to Marseille with a 130 kmh speed limit, she had a hard time keeping up.  But she has a really small turning radius, can park in a lot of unbelievably tight spaces, and fits on the narrow roads with a full sized tour bus coming toward you.  And on the narrow, twisty departmental roads through the Luberon, I am getting a kick out of the curves and shifting up and down. That is going to make Buck's hair turn whiter!!!!

More later on what Dottie and I have been doing.

This and That

This will be a bit of a catch up and catch all post.  When we last we talked, I was boring you with pictures of beautiful little villages all  around the Luberon.  This last one is about my all time favorite because it has such beautiful colors.  It's th ocre village of Rousillon, also officially one of the plus beaux villages of France.  In the 19th century, the ocre mines of the area made the town prosperous. Their ocre colors were used in paints all over the world.  The First World War and synthetic ocre combined to change this scene and Rousillon declined.  People moved away and the town began to die.  In the last quarter of the 20th century, the smart, chic, people discovered Rousillon, as they were also doing in Gourdes, Menerbes, etc., and tous Paris came south to the Luberon. As happens, the only people who can afford Rousillon now are the smart Parisians.

The red soil gives the town, and the buildings which are made of it, gorgeous colors ranging from red through pink to gold.  Sunset in Rousillon glows.The ocre mines are closed now. There is a self guided walk that can be done through the abandoned cliffs.  For years I used a picture of an ocre cliff as my screen saver.

Thursday afternoon we went to Rousillon for a walk around and drink and I took a few pictures that don't do the place justice, but give a little taste. I also found the gallery owned by a nice woman to whom  I had talked on the hike last Sunday.  If you're ever here, go to see her at the Gallery des Ocres.  It's behind the church at the top of the village.  The first is a random shot of a town house, and the second is the Mairie--or town hall.

Saturday morning is market time in Apt, about 10 km. away and a town of about 10,000.  This is a really big market.  There are vegetables, fish, cheese, oil, honey, sausages, foie gras, as well as underwear, fabrics, records--not cd's, vinyl--pictures, toys, clothes---you name it and somebody is selling it at Apt.  Of course, all that interested me was food, so here some pictures.                                                                                                                                                            

There were lots of mushrooms, with chanterelles going for 23 euro per kilo.  Couldn't help thinking about how many of them we cut on our Jura Knob hike a few years ago.