The City of Stone and Water

For four centuries, Beaucaire was the site of one of the largest markets in the Mediterranean region. One of the information plaques on the castle grounds said that at the height of trading over 50 thousand gold francs (no idea of current exchange rates, but probably an astronomical amount for that time) were in circulation in the market stalls on either side of the Rhône. We spent some money in town for lunch, at a quai-side place called Restaurant Le Soleil, at 30 Quay General Gaulle. It was too damp to sit outside, and rather cold, so we went inside to a very warm welcome. The waiters were friendly and helpful, and happy to accommodate allergy issues, and the food was very good and very very reasonably priced. I would definitely go there again, especially for the seafood.

Mom and I had the starter of steamed sea snails and shrimp with a garlic aioli (I had Mom's share of that) and John had slices of a local cured meat, the Rosette de Lyon. The snails looked a bit too much like slugs for Mom's taste, but she did bravely eat two of the smaller ones, and then I moved most of my shrimp to her plate and took her snails. The shrimp were excellent, and I did like the snails. There was garlic in most of the main dishes, but the kitchen did a nice poached fish for Mom with steamed green beans, and John and I had grilled beef, which may have come from one of the unlucky bulls of the Camargue. Wine was included in the price, and Mom and I split a carafe of a decent local rosé. Unfortunately my last shrimp, upon being decapitated, squirted its brains all over Mom's shirt and into her wineglass, so I traded my glass for hers. I didn't finish the wine, as the shrimp-brain overtones were just a bit too much.

However, a sign on the wall had caught my eye, and I ordered a digestif of an interesting herbal liqueur made by Jean-Claude Blachère called "The Liquor of the Guardians" (referring to the horsemen who manage the herds in the Camargue). It's made of thyme and rosemary and jasmine and lavender, and is sweet and spicy, but not too sweet. It got better as the glass warmed up. I was hoping to find a bottle to take back to Tours, but may have to go to the source and order it on line. The friendly waiter brought out all sorts of bottles of other liqueurs made by that company, including an eau-de-vie with gold flakes in it. If we hadn't had to leave, we might have tried more of them ... another reason to come back to Provence! There are so many, and I will use any or all of them as an excuse to return.

We walked randomly yet purposefully up the streets to the top of the hill where the old castle and fort look out over the surrounding valleys, and the paper mill on the border of the river that, um, perfumes the air of the village. There were many women wearing headscarves here as well, and men in long coats that buttoned up the front. But the streets were pretty empty and we could wander where we wanted to without jostling anyone else. A quiet town, especially compared to the tourist-filled places we've been seeing, with stone arches connecting the streets, and plane trees shading the open plazas.

They're in the middle of renovating the castle (a process that has been going on for a hundred years or more) and it will have a sound and light show soon, and new walking paths, and a bridge over some of the ruined bits, and people in period clothes doing demonstrations and leading tours. According to the informational sign in front of the locked barbed-wire topped fence, anyway. We were just glad to be there at the top of the hill in the sunshine surrounded by the piled and fallen stones.

We're leaving Provence tomorrow morning, after having seen only a fraction of what's here. We could probably have spent the entire week in a 5-kilometer radius, exploring small towns and hidden wineries, following the sheep-carved trails up the rocky hillsides, painting the poppies and irises that charm artists past and present, and eating such good food. And we could go back to the blue of the Mediterranean, or comb the white hills in the Digne area for fossil ammonites, or search out the red cliffs of the ochre mines around Roussillon. La France tricolore, c'est bien ici en Provence.

The Graveyard at Comps, France

We stopped because we could, on the way back from the Pont du Gard. We'd gotten caught in the rain at the bridge, and were damp and chilled, but not as cold as the occupants of the crypts at this roadside cemetery. Because Mom and I both like walking around looking at grave markers, and because John is willing to go along with pretty much anything, and because it wasn't raining at the moment, we parked and went in. The crypts and grave markers were dated no earlier than about the late 19th century, and most of them seemed to be from the early 1920s onward. I saw a photo of a young man with a very 1970s haircut who died in the 1970s before he turned 20, and there were lots of photographs taken by Louis Daguerre's invention around the turn of the century (the last century, that is) and placed on marble slabs with plaques for "our dear mother" and "beloved father" who died at the age of 67 or 80 or 95. And then the rain started again, and we got back into the warm car, shivering and alive.

The Fields of Provence

The poppies, the poppies ... I want to live where there are fields of poppies. I want to get up in the morning and have my coffee and go out to herd the sheep and the long-horned goats to a new field to graze, and come back for a long leisurely lunch with wine and coffee.

The last lamb stood yelling after its mother at the other end of the field, looking over at me at the edge of the road and then back to the herd moving farther away, and then maaa-ing again in indecision as to whether to try to catch up, or go back to the farmyard. Mom says that the last she saw of it, it was heading back to the safety of the barn.

It wouldn't be an idyllic life I'm sure, for me or the last lost lamb, but when the sun is shining across the olive groves on a May morning in Provence, it's pretty damn close.

Sending Water To Nîmes

You know, I could quote you the French tourist office and Wikipedia about the Pont du Gard, built over the Gardon River two thousand years ago as a three-tier aqueduct by soldiers under the command of Emperor Claudius, perhaps, though they're not exactly sure. Or I could just let you be amazed by the pictures, as we were by the real thing. It's an incredible piece of work, and only gets more marvelous as you get closer.

We walked along the banks of the river with the tiered blocks rising higher and higher overhead. We'd gotten there in the middle of the morning, and there weren't many people when we arrived, so it was quite peaceful, and we could hear the river running and the birds singing. After the three or a dozen busloads of schoolchildren arrived, it was much less peaceful.

There's an archaeological site nearby where they've discovered cave dwellings dating back about 20,000 years, so the history of the region definitely predates the Roman era, but the remnants of stone left by the prehistoric denizens aren't nearly as impressive as the engineering feat spanning the gorge nearby.

There's a lot of graffiti chiseled into the stones, and some of it dates back to the 19th or even 18th century. According to the information sites, some of that graffiti is instructions for the builders, though that's so old there's probably not much remaining.

Hic cum parentibus Elisabeth.

Aix-en-Provence, Maius MMXIII

Buried under the cobblestones and concrete of Aix-en-Provence are the hot springs that give the town its name, the Aquae Sextiae discovered (so Wikipedia tells me), or at least named, by Roman consul Sextius Calvinus in 123 BCE. The hot springs are now a super-fancy spa. Water spills out from fountains around the town, and occasionally fell from the air as we drove there and back, though the rain thoughtfully held off for our actual visit. We found a spot in a parking structure and went to the Cours Mirabeau to see the weekly market.

Not a food market (that was elsewhere) but a cloth-and-clothes market, for the most part. Mom eyed the scarves, having realized as I did that without a scarf one is not au courant with French style, but she didn't find one. We bought sachets of lavender in cloth bags, and I bought an apron with chickens on it. Yes, a chicken thing, but I don't have an apron, and I found that I prefer cooking in one. I might eventually end up in an apartment again in Pau, with roommates or otherwise, and it's best to be prepared. Plus, chickens!

And then, having nothing particular to do and specific landmarks to look for, we just started wandering through the streets. Aix-en-Provence is a good town for wandering; there's a university there, and a big library, and I'm sure more that we didn't get around to seeing. I could go back. I could live there. I wonder if they have an interesting continuing education program at the university? Let me check ... hmm, IT systems administration, library science, marketing - no, nothing about food, dairy or otherwise. Ah, well, there will be another reason to go back to Aix-en-Provence in the future, I'm sure.

We stopped for lunch at one of the many bistros on the Rue d'Italie; John had rabbit in mustard sauce, and Mom had a salad with warm chèvre, and I had some frites with the rough garlicky tapenade that came with Mom's salad, and we split a small carafe of local rosé. And then we started walking again, heading towards the old Roman hot springs and public baths.

We stopped at a bakery on the way, and I wish I'd written down the name of it. This young man makes the pastries and breads himself, including the seasonal Provençal specialty, the gâteau de Pentecôte (Pentecost cake) called a colombier. A colombe is a dove, and this represents the Holy Spirit descending on the apostles 50 days after Easter, causing them to speak in tongues. The cake is made of candied melon and ground almonds and sugar (and he said no wheat flour, so I'm holding him to that, though an online recipe calls for it) and inside there is a small figurine of a dove. Whoever finds the dove in their slice will be married within the year, he said. We're saving it for Sunday on the boat - I think it will go well with champagne.

We were constantly peering up alleys and into courtyards, and found an interesting outdoor art exhibit with a large papier-mâché skull, and a set of three spindles with pages from books stacked on them. We passed by several churches, though we didn't go in to any of them, and looked for scarves and dresses for Mom. She didn't go for the jewel-belted belly-dancing outfit we saw in one shop window, but even I was tempted by that one.

The Thermes Sextius is now a huge and expensive spa, and the last bits of the Roman baths are set behind glass windows both inside the spa building and outside in the parking area. The outer windows are all covered with moss and condensation, so we went gingerly inside the spa - I mean seriously, the place looks as if they'd charge you to breathe, it's so fancy - and considered the rocky pools surrounded by ferns. The spa offers massage services and water-bath options, and it might be fun to have a Roman-style hot-and-cold-bath-with-massage treatment some day. Another reason to go back; there are always reasons to go back, but so much to see still in the future!

It took us a while to find the parking structure again, but that meant we got to see even more interesting streets and structures. A pair of women were carrying a mirror along the sidewalk and when they stopped for the light, I asked them if they'd tip it forward a bit so I could take our picture. They glanced at each other with the "oh dear, another weird tourist" look I'm getting used to when I make these requests, but then smiled and did so anyway. Then finally we were back in the car, giving thanks that there was a public toilet on site, and programming the Garmin to get us back to Le Paradou.

But we told Garmin to take us via some of the villages in the foothills, rather than by the autoroutes, so we saw the area around Pertuis, and went in and out of the village of Cadenet; we'd given that as a "go by this place" point but that meant the GPS insisted on taking us into the center of town and then turning us around to go back the same way to get to the next spot we'd specified, Cavaillon. It took us quite a long time to get out of that town, because there was road construction near the center of town, and the GPS kept directing us in circles. We crossed the river Durance five times in succession, and did a few circuits of the roundabouts before we managed to escape. I keep thinking that if we had a line connecting all of the places we drove, the scribbles and loops we make when we get stuck in situations like this would be pretty funny to see, afterwards.

The towns are built up on the hilltops, often with ruined forts or castles crowning the summits. Houses seemed to be built wherever there was enough of a flat place to hold them to the side of the hill, sometimes, as well as down in the valley. You could see traces of possible cliff dwellings, maybe dating back thousands of years, or maybe just a convenient place to store your wine, after you'd carved out a few hundred blocks to build your house below.

We stopped at an organic winery, the Domaine de Valdition, which has been in the same family for over five centuries (the original land grant was given to a bastard daughter of Francis I by her royal father, according to the website). They produce both wine and olive oil, and we tasted some of each. I liked the single-varietal green olive oil from the Bouteillan olive, which was grassy and fragrant and left a scratchy feeling in my throat afterwards (totally normal, said the vendor - that's what it's supposed to do). Mom bought a bottle of the oil pressed from black olives, and we bought a bottle of an exceptionally good white, the "Vallon des Anges" made of Grenache blanc, Clairette, and Vermentino grapes. I don't know my cépages but those are ones to remember, especially when combined by experienced winemakers. I would go back there, too. They tucked a small jar of green-olive tapenade in the bag as we left.

All of the fields are spattered with poppies in deep reds or bright red-oranges. Cézanne and Van Gogh came here to paint, and if I could paint I'd pick this spot, too. On our drive to the coast earlier this week we passed a man setting up his oils and canvas, his wife settling into a folding chair in the shade with a picnic basket by her side and a book in her lap. And I could come back here to do that, too.

I could live in a place surrounded by fields of poppies, and ancient ruins, and modern vineyards, and good cheese that I can't eat. But there's always the bull sausage from the Camargue (I'm really digging that sausage - we need to get more before heading north tomorrow). And now it's 10am and we're heading out for a quick trip to see a Roman aqueduct and to get lunch, after which we'll spend the afternoon doing laundry, shopping, and packing for an early start tomorrow.