Author: Heather Robinson

The sound of joy

Some days are quite simple. Others no, of course not. Life is messy, even in Provence! And certainly a mix-tape of thinking, music, memories and imagined discussions plays on a loop in my head pretty much from the moment I open my eyes to see the day to finally surrendering to les bras de Morphée. But then there are moments when something so wonderful shocks me and everything falls into place. That is why for me, the sound of joy is silence. Not the brass-band fanfare that it is often portrayed to be.

This morning, I woke with my arms above my head, hands firmly in the Namaste mudra. I wondered at the oddity but felt as tangled from my dreams. So imagine my delight when I opened up my email to find news from my Sister, Robin: she is coming to visit in the beginning of July! Any lingering spider-webs immediately vanished like sun hitting the dew. My Sister! Coming here! I shouted out to Remi and he immediately came to join me, his smile mirroring my own. 

I am often asked “Does your family come to visit often?” and I always respond “When they can.” Airplane fares are only increasing and as both my Mom and Sister work full-time, they have tight schedules to wrestle with. So when either of them mention the possibility of a visit I hold my breath internally and try not to show too much outward excitement. Until the ticket is bought. As it was today!
As Robin has her own business (she has her own branch of the wonderful Music Together and is a brilliant teacher), we have always had an especially difficult challenge of finding the right time for her to visit. And so…she has never met Ben. Oh my, can you imagine? He loves the beautiful ladies (my Sister is a looker) and I know that he is going to be her shadow while she is here, pulling out all of his most suave moves to win her over utterly. I cannot wait to for them to meet.

And if that weren’t an exciting enough prospect for my Sister, Robin has only been in Provence at Christmas time. Those of you that have been with me for a while know that those Mistral winds rip and roar all winter long. We have shivered together while I tried to show her some glimpse of the beauty that I know. How I hope to take my Sister for a picnic in an olive grove in the Alpilles and walk with her among the lavender fields. All I know is that I will spoil her rotten. And Chef Remi will too. It’s his speciality.

For those of you that have never lived abroad, it is worth considering what it means to be so far from the rest of your family, something that I have written about often. Leaving your home country is like throwing a net out to sea–and you are the net! Fortunately, I have a wonderful partner in Remi. But he knows as well as I that I will revel in “Sister Time.” July, come quickly please!

Ah, speaking of joy, I would also like to extend my deepest, most heart-felt “Hooray!” to our dear, dear friends Sonny and Michael, who have just remarried. Sonny is a beaming 75 year old bride and as gorgeous as her name would suggest. Michael, ever the suave gentleman, must have been one dignified groom. If only we could have been there to sabrage the champagne. But our friends are forever close in our hearts. Many thanks to you both for showing us that the long path of life is winding but that is nothing to be afraid of.

Let Love Rule…

On a warm September evening…

I will tell you a little story. Some of you may know it already but I find that the best stories bear repeating often. Especially if you have a muddle of a memory like I do, it keeps them alive and in a row, like counting beads on a rosary or a mala. 

Sometimes good does indeed come from bad, light follows the dark. So it was that we discovered Arles. Remi, my incredible professional photographer companion and I had made the long grumbly drive down from Paris, where we had been living together in very cramped quarters for two years. We didn’t dream of the South like others did, didn’t fantasize about Provence or the Luberon. No. We headed to Perpignan for Visa Pour L’Image, widely heralded as the world’s most important photojournalism festival. But somehow the sadness of the photographs that we saw overwhelmed us that year, the peacock strutting of competing photographers clashed as utterly inappropriate. So we left. Before the final ceremony, before the last pop of a champagne cork. 
We drove towards the Camargue with the windows of our old Saab rolled down. Waves of hot wind slapped our cheeks, flamingos flapped off into the distance and white horses stomped through a bleached out landscape like galloping ghosts. It cleared our minds. “Why don’t we stop in Arles?” Remi suggested, breaking a silence that seemed heavier than air. All I knew of Arles was Van Gogh. But that is enough, isn’t it? “All right.” 
The doors opened for us. Literally. We found a charming room available at the Hotel de L’Amphitheatre, one that we could afford, on a busy Saturday night, the first of September. Already as we ran our hands over the cool, cream stone walls and gazed out at the whistling leaves of the platane trees dotting the tiny square below, something was stirring. We got our first glimpse of the Roman Arena as we stepped out into the late afternoon. We let ourselves get swept up in the crowds rolling down the hillside towards the remaining exhibitions of the Rencontres d’Arles, another photography festival and yet a world away. A warm, golden light wrapped around us as did the notes from a jazz quartet that had set up camp on the cobbled street. Inside an abandoned church, we looked at the work of Harry Gruyaert’s “Rivages”. We turned ourselves towards beauty and that stirring surged up into tears. We knew. This was where we were ready to be.
It took us over two years to make the move. At the time, we were travelling nearly non-stop as a photographer/journalist team for different magazines in the French press. But it was worth the wait. In 2005, we packed up a truck, arriving in the dark at 1am with a Mistral wind roaring off the Rhone River to welcome us. Eventually, we welcomed an incredible Golden Retriever, Ben, into our family of two. I am as charmed by those old stones, by that light that is like a friend (albeit a moody one) as I was on the first day. And although I don’t know if I will be here forever as Remi and I are nomads in our hearts, for now I am happy to be Lost in Arles.
I want to thank the lovely Vicki Archer at the exceptional blog French Essence for having mentioned me, this blog and Arles today. I thought it only polite to introduce myself with a little curtsy to those of you that might be visiting for the first time. Bonjour et bienvenue! 


Dreaming of a where and a when

One of my favorite aspects of travelling is imaging myself living an entirely different life in my new found environment. And I like to dream big. It doesn’t cost anything does it? Just a dash of wistfulness perhaps. So be it…

The click of my satin court shoes echoes on the parquet running the length of the chateau. Back and forth I pace, pouting over a disagreement with my portrait painter. How many times must I tell him that I will…not…wear…purple!? I grab my cream silk morning coat and storm out into the labyrinth of boxwoods. He can wait.
From the cool shelter of my Renaissance cave, I turn the pages of an original Rimbaud manuscript that has been brought to me from Ethiopia in a gilded box, pronouncing each poem out loud in a rhythm that descends with the cascading waterfall. Gradually lulled, I curl up on the fur-lined blankets that cover the uneven dirt floor.
I fling open the shutters of my maison du village to twitter along with the birds outside my window and giggle at the burbling brook that spills over from last nights rain. “Bonjour, Madame Robinson! J’ai un colis pour vous!” shouts out the postman. When I open the beribboned box that he places in my hands with a short bow, I am overwhelmed by the perfume of three dozen roses sent all the way from Paris. I burst into song as I turn to close the door, like a joyous Edith Piaf.

My Sister is getting married today. We have opened up the chapel to air and brought the largest table out into the garden. Thirty bottles have been lined up for lunch. In the kitchen I check on les quiches and les gougères, I pour broth over les rotîs, I smooth out the purée. I have already lined platters with asperges, others with les huîtres, a long board groans with les fromages. Next to me, Amandine tries to roll out the dough for her famous millefeuilles while swatting away the minou, who leaves paw prints in the flour. We can hear the first car down the road as the family begins to arrive.

Or maybe I am content just in this little cabanon, working hard to bring the vines back to life, to shore up the beams under the roof, to splatter a fresh coat of lime-wash on its pebbly walls. I listen to the windmill crank, bringing up water from deep inside the earth and know that I have all that I need.

Hoping that you all let yourself dream a bit over the next few days, no matter where you are. Thank you so very much for all of your kind responses to my previous post and for your music as well…

Bon weekend! 

Disappearing act?

Just a wee hello out into the void or perhaps not so. My blog friend Jeanne of I dream of put the fear into me that I had, indeed dropped off the Blogger Dashboard. Off the dashboard and into the fire? I certainly hope not. But while I realize that this may be a sort of “what is the sound of one hand clapping?” kind of proposition, would anyone that does see this mind letting me know if I am indeed “still here”?  I actually thought of calling this post something of the sort but was all too aware that I would be called out for going “deep” yet again. Sigh. My friends. I have had so much goodness coming from you all of late. And for those of you that have asked for larger photos, well, as you can see, it is possible, although they won’t stay at this XL size any more than the gorgeous pivoines could stay with us forever. If only.

And as it is a mega rarity that I put out such a random post, I will take advantage by wondering what music are you listening to right now? I would love to know!

Thanks for being here…

*Update: You are all so amazing! Thank you for the reassurance. Must have just been a coincidence of a drop in visits and Jeanne’s question. But I need to go missing more often. Especially if it is an excuse to hear what you are all listening to–I love how the choices fit so perfectly each persons personality. Brilllliant! *

Cannes and the Ile Saint-Honorat

Sometimes I get the jitters. I see something so beautiful that tzzt, tzzt my brain freezes up and does not compute. Who gets nervous in the face of extreme beauty? Well, sometimes, I do.
Yesterday I experienced one of those moments but for now, I will have to keep it under wraps and protect my memories with the austerity of the body guard above on the Baie de Cannes. 
Oui, Cannes! And although the opening ceremony of the 65th Festival de Cannes will take place this evening (and yes, Francois Hollande was also sworn in as the French President today! Woopwoop!), our visit in April was a world away from glitter gowns on the red carpet. Time to replace the swank of the silent screen with an entirely different power play.
Remi, Ben and I watched the rooftop of the Carlton sink as our ferry pulled out to sea. After 20 minutes of a gentle rise and fall, we had arrived at the Ile Saint-Honorat, a shaded drop of rocks some 1000 meters from the Croisette. So close and yet so far…
There has been a monastery on the island for sixteen centuries. Yes, centuries. In roughly 410 AD, Saint Honoratus came to live as a hermit on the uninhabited island known as Lerina. By 427, monks from across Roman Provence had followed him to found a thriving monastery.
Many trials followed. Despite its eventual fortification, the monks were exposed to numerous attacks by the Saracens, young monks were captured and sold to Spain, the property was pillaged by pirates. And yet they persisted until the French Revolution, when only four remained. The island was privatized and sold. A certain Mademoiselle de Sainval, then a famous actress, turned the chapels into her receiving rooms.

But in 1859, the monastery was bought by the Bishop of Fréjus. Ten years later, Cistercian monks from the Abbaye de Sénanque took up residence, a tradition which has remained until this day. There are 30 monks currently living on the island, which is, rather amazingly in my mind, open to visitors such as ourselves that are looking for a respite, our numbers restricted only by the capacity of the ten ferries that run the course from the mainland each day.

Peace seems to fall from the trees and whisper on the waves. A bit too perfect, it is hard to take in.
Just beyond the neighboring Ile Saint-Marguerite the Alps puncture the sky with their chalky white peaks. Is it mirage? How can the snow and sea be so close?

Words fail me, my eye starts to falter. My camera could not capture the truth of a blue beyond believing no matter how much I wished it to.
Better then to admit defeat and go to lunch, n’est-ce pas?  

Yes, there is one restaurant on the island, La Tonnelle, and it is good. My only advice would be to immediately reserve for lunch upon stepping off the ferry and go early enough to be assured of ordering the menu at 25€ for two courses or be prepared to pay the piper of La Carte. After taking a sip of an  excellent, slighty salty white wine (made by the monks) that I had ordered while waiting for our table Remi turned and said, “You did see that the wine is 9€ the glass?” I nearly did a spit take. Next time, we will bring a picnic.

 
Clouds lowered as we finished our repas and yet the island was all the more appealing for it. 
The many shades and textures of the shoreline popped into relief.

I fingered scrubby brushes of palm while nervously watching Remi caper on the rocks. That man will do whatever it takes to get his shot. No jitters for the professional. Ever. 
As we headed back to the dock, I saw a switch of feathers rustling in an olive grove. A wise pheasant who had chosen his home well. Somehow his presence wasn’t the least bit surprising, only reassuring.

What a dramatic shift as we stepped back upon the shores of Cannes. The silence that reigns on the Ile Saint-Honorat swiftly imploded.
But it is a joyous Super Bass of beachiness that radiates all along the Cote d’Azur, especially early in the season when everyone still believes their luck is too good to be true…
…that they may find just the right wave…
…to surf on a surge of a beauty–the simple kind–all the way home.

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