Eating the Lotus

Our homeland is neither in Europe, nor out of Europe.  We are in La La Land.

We continue our seemingly hedonistic, lifestyle. Though in reality we spend many days houseworking, shopping, reading and trying to get the damned television to give us a few English programmes.   Or now, any programmes at all.   It is my view that President Macron, unaware of our total powerlessness, is purposely blocking our signal so we’ll go home and force Britain to Remain. Our TV could then become the Backstop, or at least a doorstop.

We would, however, be foolish to stay indoors all the time and not take advantage of the beautiful and varied countryside that is within a short drive (or, God forbid, walk) of our rented home. Winters are, generally, milder here and there are many early year days when the weather is warm enough to walk without  coats, and certainly to  sit outside enjoying the views and having a small glass of the local wine.

In the UK, to plan a carnival with street parade in early April, is risky.   The residents of the seaside village of Bouzigues, were confident that their  parade would  go ahead. And so it did. It was a tenth of the size of the one in Sitges, with only four floats, but the enthusiasm of the participants was every bit, if not more, infectious. It was also all inclusive, in that one was side by side with those who had spent many hours rehearsing and many days decorating their floats. We felt totally at one with everyone there. And at times forgot we should be just watching and took part.

In mid April we had our first visits to the ‘pop up” beach clubs, or Paillottes, or Guignettes, the temporary beach clubs, rebuilt each year, where one can hire wonderfully comfortable sun beds and have reasonably priced lunches. With visiting children and grandchildren, friends and their families, we happily bathed in the sunshine and in the sea, before travelling home, sandy and sun bronzed, sizzling with Vitamin D and bonhomie.

In the meantime we entertained our friends Jenny and Mark, with cultural trips and more seaside capers for these expert swimmers.

I am very pleased to say that our daughter, Sara, has also fallen in love with the Languedoc and in her three month stay learnt some french (mostly Yoga instruction!) and introduced us to places that she had researched and then took us to.  One of these was  The Lerab Ling Buddhist Temple at Roqueredonde, deep in the countryside, near Lodève.   To come upon this exquisite building, set among green woods and shaven hills ,  took our breath away.

In Whitstable one of my greatest joys is our monthly, rather radical, Not the Book Club  meetings.   So much did I miss it that I’ve started one here called Book Club Plus in which, over lunch, we each discuss a favourite book from the past or present    The range of literature is huge,  from Colette to modern  writers such as Ian McEwan.   Food, friends, books and conversation.    What a combination!

It is a small community here and like many “immigrant” communities I suspect the “six degrees of separation “ is cut down to about three.   Tracey, one of our Book Club members, is married to Daniele, one of our conversation class members.   Daniele, an Italian singer/ guitarist has been a great hit since they arrived in this area eight months ago and appears at many of the social occasions we attend.   How lucky are we?    He is a very talented young man.

As I have said in the past, many of the interesting people we have met and events we have attended have been because of the amazing networking abilities of our old friend, Bassie.

Last week we went for  lunch at Maman Des Poissons (Fish Mother) in Pezenas, a tapas bar with good food and amazing and very friendly service    There,  Bassie and I , with Tricia from the Book Group met Lynn Michell, a published author with a small book publishing business.   My goodness.   Other people’s lives!    Lynn lives up in the hills in a house she and her husband have hewn out of the rocks.   Her husband is an academic as well as a builder of houses and they chose to follow their separate careers here in the Languedoc.    I look forward to learning more about her life as we, together with another friend, are going to get together once a fortnight to do some creative writing together, with guidance from Lynn.    Incidentally, Tricia, the other creative writer, is an “International Baccalaureate Educator” and lectures on “Pathways to Future Education”   Just can’t get away from teachers.   And don’t want to.

One of the places we have wanted to visit since arriving here, is Arles.    We both remember our old friend, Esther, enthusing about the town many years ago.   Only about an hour and a half’s drive from here, it is easily achievable as a day trip, but the combination of our dislike of motorways and the proximity of Arles to Aix en Provence,  formed our decision to make this a two day trip.

”’Ere we go again”, we thought ungrammatically, as we circled Aix for two hours trying to reach our hotel.   We had chosen the day of the “ Iron Man” race.    Every route into town was “barrée”.   Whilst trying to park to assess the situation, we were nearly victims of scammers who wanted us to take our credit card to a parking meter or get fined a hundred euros.   Tired and frustrated Gazzie was nearly drawn in, but refused to hand over his card.  The scammers gave up.    Without a fight  thank goodness.   By going back on the motorway and taking a different route in we found our hotel.

Thereafter (actually “wineafter”) Aix revealed itself to us in all its beauty.  We dined in “Les Deux Garçons “, the oldest and most famous restaurant in the town,  frequented in the past by the likes of Van Gogh, Cézanne, Jean Cocteau etc.    Presumably they all died in poverty, after paying the prices for food which tasted as if it had been cooked in the Thirties, buried and ressurrected for our delectation .  Oh how we laughed.

On the morrow we were excited to find that Aix has a little tourist train    A favourite of ours.   Under the watchful gaze of Monsieur Cèzanne we mounted the train and set off in bright sunshine to discover some of this famous Provençal city.

 

The City of Fountains is deservedly a tourist magnet.   We were pleased to have visited at the edge of the tourist season.

We wander the ancient streets, craning our necks to look up at roof lines, which one only seems to do when being touristy. Sometimes what catches your eye is something as bizarre as odd shop signs.

However after a light snack we switched back to tourist mode and visited the famous Cathedral of St.  Saveur.

 The Statue on the left is St Theresa of the Roses.   This was the title of a pop song of 1956, sung by Malcolm Vaughan.   Never say this blog isn’t educational.  

We set off in the afternoon to make our hour long journey to Arles.    Gazzie had picked our hotel based on its proximity to the centre of Arles and the fact it was film-themed.   At a cheaper price than the hotel in Aix, this was a dream hotel for me.

In contrast to the comparative luxury of the little tourist train, we mount our tourist Tuc Tuc, with Soufrian, our very knowledgeable driver.    At least we think he was. Knowledgeable that is.     The tail end of the Mistral was rattling our Tuc Tuc around alarmingly, Soufrian was peddling like a mouse on a wheel at the same time as mouthing amazing information and squeezing between bollards the exact width of the Tuc Tuc!   Gazzie and I nodded encouragingly and knowingly, until, after a puzzling thirty minutes we realised he wasn’t talking about Cèzanne and Gauguin but Caesar and Augustus!    

And thus we made our confused  and shaking way through the narrow, pedestrianised streets of a French town, whose Roman roots are beautifully preserved for our  present.   How symbolic then that our fellow guests at the hotel and just ahead of us at most ancient tourist sites was a Korean women’s football team!   Some things are changing for the better.

Between Aix and Arles, we approached what was to be the pièce de résistance, la crème de la crème of our visit.   Les Carrières des  Lumières at Les Baux.   In quarries dug out by man  since Roman times for the white limestone used for local buildings,  there has been created a world of wonder.  

Once you enter, the caves are completely dark, and then projected on the 50 ft high walls, the ceilings and floors, were illumined Van Gogh paintings, moving over each other to the accompaniment of amazing music of all genres.   It is very difficult to explain the experience, but Gary and I agreed that it was a deeply spiritual one and like nothing we had ever seen or felt before.

The exhibitions change annually    I can’t wait to return.

We drove back to our home in Gabian, eyes and souls overflowing. 

I am aware, bloggees, as always, that I record the highlights of our life here and would not want to give the impression that our life is a series of “ events” strung together with inertia.  Because we are in a limbo land between holiday and residence, we still are tourists at the same time as “living”, paying electricity bills and medical bills and taking the rubbish to the tip.    But there is a disconnect   We don’t vote here, don’t pay taxes, are not fully cognisant of the political system, struggle to read French newspapers, and watch French television.

So, freedom or irresponsibility?  Whatever it is, that’s the way it will be until October, when we return home to “reflect” on our future.

Poppy fields in Languedoc, courtesy of photographer Sara.