Month: April 2012

Ooh, I haven’t even been home for a week yet and already I am yearning to go back! Just look at the light, the color of the Mediterranean–can you hear the sweet splash of the waves? Le sigh.

True, I posted a video about this lovely spot at the time but felt that we could all use a bit of beach this Friday. A little reminder that it is now officially time to exhale.

I shudder to think what le Plage de L’Estagnol could be like in say late July. Radios! Empty Pringle cans used as bongos! But in April, ahh, serenity and solitude. The very few people that we passed greeted us with the tight smiles of the smart set. Those in the know.

As I am not much of a swimmer, I can’t say that I minded that the water was too cold even for toe-dipping. 

The wind was brusk but the swing of sand softened my cheeks…

…and the waves were pushed into cyclical Hallelujah chorus. 

For the curious, the L’Estagnol beach is south of Bormes-Les-Mimosas. This is a stretch of sea that has little in common with the overbuilt, Ferrarified coast further up the road. The only touch of “le show” are some phenomenal wineries, whose expansive estates run right down to the shore line. The rolling road of the 42A is one of my favorites to be found anywhere.

We even had a bit of luck on our side. As we pulled into the lane leading towards the beach, we noticed that the gatekeeper had left for the day, meaning that we didn’t have to pay the 8€ entry fee. And if ten smackeroonies sounds like a lot to pay for a bit of paradise, you need to shake the spiderwebs out of your noggin’. Still, who doesn’t love a free ride?

Just don’t make the vital mistake that we did: be sure to bring along a bottle of chilled rosé, a corkscrew and two glasses! 

“You should have seen it twenty years ago,” says our fellow visitor as we all gaze across the hills to the Chartreuse de la Verne. “It was in ruins.” It is hard to imagine now and yet the history of this monastery has been heavily marked by destruction. Having been consecrated in 1174, it was burned to the ground twice in the 13th century, but also in 1318 and in 1721. It was pillaged by the Lords of Bormes in 1421 as well as by the Protestants during the religious wars. In 1790, it was sequestered under the Revolution. Thieving began at that time and didn’t stop until 1959 when a guardian was finally installed, this despite its having been granted Historical Monument status in 1921. It is no surprise that so little was left. 

In 1983, the Order of Bethlehem took up residence in the monastery and a foundation has slowly pulled the stones back into place. Rising out of the Massif des Maures, the chain of mountains that make a final push before falling into the sea, this chartreuse or charter-house is perfectly situated for contemplation, despite being only 30 kilometres away from the bling of St. Tropez.

To arrive at the entryway, we climbed down then up a path lined with chênes liéges, or cork oaks, whose spongy bark is used to stop up our wine bottles. The forest seemed to be listening to our approach.

As we had Ben with us, we took turns exploring the monastery. I roamed the grounds, following the footsteps of a nun who had given me a broad smile. Chestnut trees twisted ahead, their forms a tortured symbol of the lands former state. Fallen treasures from the previous winter strewed the ground like earthy urchins. Ben sniffed happily.

When it was my turn to walk within the quiet walls, I felt a joy wash over me as I watched several nuns decorate the main chapel for Easter. Their heads nodded together and they worked without speaking. We were told that the nunnery welcomes women from all over the world and it is not surprising. What a wonderful place to proclaim faith. Hopefully, this chartreuse will know nothing but solidity in the future.

For just over a week, Remi and I sliced across the roads of the Var region with Ben, our Golden Retriever in tow. Although it is fairly close to our home in Arles, it is a land that we knew only in highway passing blurs. And what a fine discovery it was. Enchanted is a word that is completely appropriate.

Some smarty in a tourism office had come up with the idea that the Var is the “Provence Verte” or green Provence and I can tell you, they earned their pay that day. Gone is the rushed brush of Olé chants and prickly rosemary, of site-lines cut only by a stone block mas and cypresses straining upwards. No, softness is to be found everywhere with the tickle of new buds and the sweetness of a village life that seemed to be much more from the antan, the olden times. 

My ankles wobbled on the uneven paths as my eye zoomed from detail to panorama and back again. Petered out patina, a wash of fallen blossoms…

…hanging gardens to be reclaimed as the sun went down…

…ruins that have forgotten and been forgotten…

…and kittens playing on a lace background. Who appreciates these kinds of things anymore?

Clearly the folks in Collobrières do. Their village radiates a well-kept pride.

But I knew that we had chance on our side. We roamed completely alone and this on a holiday weekend. There was room to see.

We chose a cheery terrace for lunch. And then, ladies and gentlemen, on the day before Easter…

…I ate the Easter Bunny. And he was good. 

The sun was a balm and our shoulders fell with a whoosh. How delighted we were to stumble upon a village that was dream-worthy of the “maybe we could live here” kind. Little did we know how many more we would discover in the days ahead…