Author: Heather Robinson

Batten down the hatches

Because it’s the Feria! Yes, yes and no thank you. For those of you that have been following for a while, you might remember the chaos at Easter that I wrote about 
here and here as well. Now, normally, this Feria is not as, let’s just say it, all out pagan as in April when the desperate hordes rip out of their cocoons to suck all of the life out of the air after a long Mistral-logged winter. But then again, this will be the first Feria spent in our new apartment, which is a mere 20 meters (or yards if you prefer to think in football field terms) from the Place du Forum, aka Party Central. Oh my. Tonight is for the locals, so it will not be a barometer of what is to come this weekend, although it worries me slightly that our quiet café across the street is, for once, bolting down its tables and chairs. Ah, what is a little lost sleep you might ask? All too true but my goodness will it get…messy. 
We have our dear, dear friends Sonny and Michael coming for lunch tomorrow (yes, the rosé has already been chilled) and I will be content if they get out before the madness starts, say at 3pm. Our handsome caviste or wine merchant Jean-Michel, admitted that yes, he will be going out tonight “just to get the temperature of the Feria this time around…but not too long…I have three more nights to follow!” “Ah, so it is for professional purposes?” I asked winsomely (or what I hope was winsome and not overly sarcastic). “Mais oui!” Jean-Michel is, needless to say, born and raised in Arles. 
That is also the case for Thomas, the 20 year old who cut my hair yesterday at the hair salon “Cheveux des Anges“, or “Angel Hair”. Now, I really detest going to the salon with an intensity bordering on dentistisme. Sadly, I have had too many horror-show experiences (the worst a coked up newbie just across from Le Bon Marché who kept cutting up, up until I yelled “stop!”) and do not enjoy the chit-chattey pressure in the least. So I took a book and the young man was charming, accommodating while expressing his intense interest in travelling to New York. I think that I convinced him that he should take a round trip for LA with a stopover in the Big Apple on the way back. Something tells me this boy could be thrilled by the West Coast, something that no one aspires to here. At the very least I hammered home the point that it is now that he needs to cast his net far and wide. Can you imagine being 20 again and having so many possibilities in front of you that you have no idea where or what or who?
But perhaps, no, it certainly is, the mentality that we need to keep at hand. So many possibilities. Such a big, wonderful world. Just perhaps not exactly right here, not this weekend…

Ashleigh & Burwood

Those of you who read my blog on a regular basis know that there are some genuinely kind people in the world, precisely because you all are exactly such people! But in the rush and push of everyday, it can be all too easy to focus on the negative, la galère, the struggle. This I find is especially true in pessimistic France.
So how lovely to be given a gentle reminder of how present goodness is. 
The other day I opened up one of the last of the moving boxes and immediately was enveloped by a familiar perfume–a forgotten box of “The Ocean” incense by the exceptional firm Ashleigh & Burwood out of London. It had been given to us as a gift and we had used it sparingly as it is our favorite. Only three cones were left. I lit one and as the gentle veil of smoke wafted over me, I set about trying to find more of this delightful fragrance.
Ah, my disappointment surged when I saw on their website that they don’t seem to make it anymore! Just in case I wasn’t seeing it (their range is quite impressive), I sent off an inquiry to their Customer Service department. To my delight, a charming gentleman named Alex responded promptly. No, they had stopped making that fragrance some time ago, but along with his managing director, he had found a deluxe gift set and a box of incense sticks and would he happy to send them to me pronto! He believed they were the last in existence! Wouldn’t he prefer to keep them “for posterity”? No, he felt that it was better that they go where they would be appreciated. And so, just like that, a box arrived at my door this morning.
Isn’t that fantastic? And what made the gift even more special was the delightful exchange between Alex and myself. I tried to explain why this particular fragrance was so special for us. That Remi and I are a team of photographer and travel writer (Alex later perused Remi’s websites) and “The Ocean” took us to some of our favorite destinations quicker than the crunch of a Proustian madeleine. Especially as we are not taking the plane as often as we would like these days, we are so grateful to be transported to, say Bora Bora…

Or Bali…

Actually, the description on the box is a perfect way to describe its appeal: “borne on the wind, the calm open scent of freedom with a touch of fine ocean spray under an endless blue sky”…yes, please. La liberté!
That the scent of “The Ocean” had not wavered or faded over the years attests to Ashleigh & Burwood’s commitment to quality. We already know that their customer service is exceptional but the prices are very reasonable to boot. To discover their products, please see their websites in London and in France:
 http://www.ashleigh-burwood.fr/

Wishing all of you in the States an excellent Labor Day! I am sending out gratitude and respect to all of our workers and for those that have come before us as well.

Les Baux

I take Les Baux de Provence for granted. It is so close to Arles that I forget that it is the second most visited attraction in France. Or maybe that is exactly the reason why I choose to forget it. The run of shops selling ceramic chanting cigales embarrass me, as do the bonbon bins piled high with fluorescent treats. There is little in this “grab for the gold” that corroborates with the sites phenomenal past. So best to go in winter, when at least the howl of the Mistral winds covers the Muzak and keeps the largest of the tourist buses in the valley below.
For you do have to go up, up to reach the heart of Les Baux. It was exactly its position on high that called to its first inhabitants as long ago as 6000 BC. An oppidum, or hill fort was built in 2 BC and the rocky outcrop (which is the source of its name in Provençal) has been inhabited ever since. But not without its ups and downs. 

Certainly its most glorious period came in the Middle Ages. The Lords of Baux, whose lineage is believed to have descended from Balthazar, one of the Magi at Bethlehem, ruled 79 towns and villages over a region that stretched beyond Provence into Italy. They had a fearsome reputation and were willing to go to war at the drop of a gauntlet but they were equally voracious in love. The songs of their troubadours are still strung and woefully warbled.
But even the greatest of fortunes can fade. Battles can be lost. By the 15th century, the Lords were at rest. Fortunately, Anne of Montmorency took over their castle in the 16th, transforming it into a Renaissance masterpiece. Again, the power swirled upon the hill, until Cardinal Richelieu, in fear of its strength, had the castle destroyed once and for all in 1632. From there it was left to ruin, rediscovered and acclaimed by the Provençal poets Frederic Mistral and Alphonse Daudet but uninhabited save for a band of beggars. That is until after the Second World War, when Raymond Thuillier brought the likes of Picasso and Churchill to this sleepy corner to eat at his restaurant, L’Oustau de Baumaniere. And the world followed suit. Only in France could such a site be saved by the heft of a golden spoon. Les Baux de Provence has been a marquisate of the Grimaldi family since the 17th century. Prince Albert of Monaco is the current marquis and sightings of the Royal Family in the tiny chapel for Christmas Eve service have also added to the village’s timeless allure.

A bit of advice on visiting. If you must go during the summer months, I strongly urge you to go either very early or very late in the day. If you wish to see the castle, I would suggest the latter as the ticket price is greatly reduced one hour before the official closing time and once inside, you are welcome to stay as long as you like. And that, my dear friends, means that if you plan wisely and tuck a bottle of rosé in your sack, you may have one of the finest apéros imaginable with thousands of years of history all to yourself.

Back Light

A truly stunning morning. The heat has broken. Friday’s rain wiped away the white smudge in the light and something has changed. Yes, I know that autumn, my very favorite season, is on its way because of that subtle shift towards gold in the air. 
And so a walk with Ben was in order. Sunday mornings are always the best time, less horn honking, less tourist pushing. Just the bells of St. Trophime, calling and calling the faithful then thanking them heartily.  I could feel that sound in my bones as I headed up the hill towards the Arena, watching the shadows bend as my path did. At one moment, the ringing was so loud that Ben startled and looked up at me with wide eyes. “I know, Ben, it’s the bells”–I always talk to my dog at length wherever we are. Just another one of those wacky ladies, I suppose.
I am certain that Remi will criticize this post as he has similarly in the past: “Stop only looking up!” But after so many years of living in New York City where I spent so much time looking at my feet, it feels wonderful to change my sense of orientation. Happy to see. And I do look straight ahead, at the details. Grapes dangling over an arbor in a small square. Or even down at the mix of pastels swishing in Van Gogh’s garden at his former hospital. Beauty is after all, the best treatment there is, no? 
In between two seasons, with a new apartment, a happy dog at my side, a Sunday full of promise.

Domaine d’exception

From time to time, we all need a friend to point out what is hidden in plain sight. And so we were herded into the Range Rover and conducted into the heart of the Alpilles. Turning off of one of our favorite roads, one that we had taken many times, we bumped along in unison, down a 4 kilometer drive over shaggy garrigue covered hills, twisted dry creeks, slowing only to roll carefully over the lowered electric fence that hopes to keep wild boar at bay.
The steeple of Notre-Dame de Pierredon rises so unexpectedly out of such a rough terrain that it could be mistaken for a mirage. And yet this church is an unmistakably solid stone, garnered from the surrounding cliffs. It is believed to have been built in the 11th and 12th centuries, replacing a Roman temple and–undoubtedly helped by its isolation–has remained intact ever since. Another Romanesque treasure, one that Remi had heard of but as it is located on a private property, it is one that we had given up hope of seeing.
Luckily for us, the property on which the church is located has been bought by an Italian businessman who has cultivated 10 acres each of wine and olive oil, which is now sold to the public.

The church is used as an exhibition and tasting space and was surprisingly packed with visitors when we arrived under the glare of the noonday sun. Better to take refuge in the sacristy with it rolled iron sconces and piles of freshly cut lavender.

The church was given to the Chalasien Order in 1205 and the monks built a large adjoining abbey. Their faith, similar to that of the Cistercians, called for a deep respect of the land. It was tended to with great care.  It is a tradition that has lasted through the centuries and today, as evidenced in the magnificent grounds at Pierredon. Color, contrast, shape and form delight at every turn.

Contemporary art dots the property, pulling the eye down a shady allée and through curly-topped orchards. I love that the current owners seem to have a greater sense of humor, or at least of joy, than their ancient predecessors!

Speaking of former owners, our friend told us of his experience the first time that he came to Pierredon. After World War II, the estate was bought by the painter Jean Martin-Roch, who became something of a recluse–but of a rather different sort than the hermit monks. One day when our friend was out hiking, he came a little too close to the property and was greeted by the sight of a rangy Mr. Roch emerging with a shotgun in hand! Needless to say, apologies were sputtered out and a hasty retreat followed. 

The remains of the abbey have been incorporated into a lovely residence that extends behind the chapel. The care that has gone into the property’s renovation is evident throughout. For more information and additional photography, here is the link to their website: Abbaye de Pierredon.

I have rarely seen an estate that wears its elegance so lightly. Even the roses at the top of each row of vines spark the eye, as does the gorgeous sculpture in the midst of the lavender field. The Abbey de Pierredon may well be one of the best-kept secrets in the Alpilles, but I have a feeling that it won’t be for long…

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