Author: Heather Robinson

After the coldest, gustiest winter that many can remember, a bit of a reprieve. It arrives every year around this time, a gift from Mother Nature to encourage us to hold on a tad longer. Imagine the clouds evaporating to reveal a story-book blue, temperatures jumping to 15°C (59°F!) inciting folks to fill up the café terraces, hungry for a bit of light. 

We made the most of it. Saturday we held the last of our winter get-togethers after the market. Glasses of cremant raised, we toasted that the worst has passed with a cheer. A table full of the usual suspects kept us picking for hours. Two of Remi’s tartes—fruit de mer and provençal tomato, oysters, two kinds of olives, crudités, salmon stuffed with cream cheese, dates stuffed with roquefort and wrapped in bacon…a cheese plate that was forgotten about completely, samossas from my new Vietnamese vendor (who gave us a salad yet again). And for a wonderful treat, our friend Anne brought along her made from scratch batter for the most delectable crepes topped by her always stellar apricot jam. Sigh. Alas, the photos are all too blurry as much cremant had been consumed!

Nearly all of us reunited that evening for a bal populaire, a village get together, that is put on each year by the world music festival Les Suds, also as a promise of fun things to come in warmer climes. The band was all horns, the music a cross between flamenco, Italian pop and polka! And yet, everyone was dancing, so desperate for a chance to be out, to let off a little steam. All ages and styles mixed and moved and shouted out. As always, we left while the party was still good (a mantra of mine).

Our Sunday drive was a meander through the Camargue, the marshy park land to the South, towards Aigues Mortes. Saint Louis built the fortified walls in the 13th century and it was the departure point for the Seventh and Eight Crusades. Less hard to imagine that sea used to come up to the walls when you see the presence of water constantly interacting with the sky in the surrounding region. 

We don’t get often enough to the Mediterranean, despite it being forty minutes away. But timing was on our side yesterday evening as we passed the beach at Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer just as the sun was flaming into the pink of the flamingoes that line the local lagoons. How happy we all were to be calmed by the swish of the surf, the simplicity of a horizon extending off to Africa. 

This morning the gray was back in the form of a cottony fog clinging to the banks of the Rhone River. So it was just a taste, not a meal. But enough to fill us all with a boost of the hope that is Spring.

My goodness, I have been a bit remiss in writing. I have things to share but have been perhaps caught up in a bout of winter sluggishness. A bit of sadness too as Emma, my Mom’s incredibly loving Golden Retriever, passed away. She will be missed as she gave unconditional love to everyone who crossed her path. Sometimes I think we all forget the power of being kind.

As the sky opened into a downpour, Remi headed home with our moving mop of a Golden but I had a mission in mind. Customers had to shout at the vendors to be heard and yet everyone wore a goofy smile at the ridiculousness of bending about to avoid bumping umbrellas. At the very least, I thought it polite to stop by the Vietnamese dumpling seller that we had first visited last week. Loyalty is no joking matter in the Provençal markets. So it was a big deal to convince Remi to give this new vendor a try. Her truck is blue and beaten up, looks like nothing (but as any foodie knows that is a good sign). We often get Vietnamese food on the weekends as a treat and were delighted when she had immediately shoved two piping hot samosas in front of us to nibble on. Her cooking is fantastic, simple but with the exact clean taste that we knew in Vietnam. She was clearly delighted to see that she had, indeed, won a new customer and set about asking a rapid-fire list of questions. Within minutes she had decided that I should teach English and promised that she would keep an eye out for possible students. She told me of how she is putting her son through his studies in Paris, paying 1000€ for his miniscule apartment. As she gathered up my purchases, she placed the above chicken and shrimp salad in the bag as well. “This is from me,” she said simply. Sometimes the surprise of unexpected kindnesses can change your world around. 

How wonderful to come home to a roaring fire and such a luxurious lunch..for practically nothing. As we settled in for one of our long eating and talking marathons, Remi made one of my favorite declarations. “Nous sommes quand même les Rois du Pétrole”.  It translates to living like a king! An oil magnate! Here in Provence, that is one of the simple joys that is available for everyone to appreciate. Yes, of course, now I remember…

And I’m not talking about a sparkly sentimental sort of magic either, but we’ll get to that in a bit. 

Arles is really at its most quiet. Certain restaurants and shops are closed and there is not a soul to be seen wandering the streets most mornings. Definitely a shocking shift after the rush of Paris. So it was with a bit too much enthusiasm that I yelped out a “Yes!” when Remi asked if I wanted to go exploring with him for the day. The goal? Two medieval churches in the Drôme Provençal. The Drôme, though not technically in Provence, holds nonetheless all of its charm. Hills lined with shorn lavender fields and vineyards roll out one after the next. Rusty flower distilleries vie with stone farmhouses and fortresses. We pulled off the highway at Montelimar, known to anyone driving down from the North as the spot where the sun pops out from behind the clouds. Works every single time. 

First up was Comps, after a brief stop at a bakery in Dieulefit that proved, sadly, that yes, it is possible to get bad food in France. Barely edible food actually. And can you imagine how much we had been looking forward to munching our quiches alone with such a view?

The church is a prime example of the Provençal style of medieval architecture–no frills, decoration or spiky gothicness here. Call it the Little Black Dress of ecclesiastical design (yes, yes it is Fashion Week in Paris!! I can’t help it! Ahhh!). Perfect for the region, which still seems much more modest than the showier (and greater known) areas to the South. I truly fell hard for the lay of the land–a calming mix of pine and oak trees. For those of you that have been following for a bit, this is also truffle country. Signs declaring “Absolutely No Foraging!!” followed us throughout the day and I couldn’t help but be a tiny bit hopeful every time Ben sniffed around at the base of an oak. “Get the truffle! Get it!” I hollered encouragingly. Alas, Ben is apparently not a truffle hound in the making….

By 3:30, the sun was already starting to dive between the folds of the highest hills, so our timing couldn’t have been more fortuitous to have arrived at Notre Dame la Brune d’Aleyrac with the last rays of the winter day. We first made out its roofless form from the road above. All bones of stones from a distance. A spot of crumbled past in the valley below.

And yet, this Notre Dame has been drawing worshippers for one thousand years. Pagan, then Roman, then Christian. The secret to its longevity lies at the end of a steep drop opposite the nave, where a sacred spring burbles and gushes, infusing the stones with an incredible peace. I have been lucky enough to visit some of the world’s most sacred places–Tibet and Angkor come to mind. And this small ruin had that same strong pull. Indescribable yet irresistible.

Somehow, it seemed as if there were still a roof overhead and the altars in place. That a fervour was still very much alive. And so it is, for some. For on the rocks surrounding the source were offerings the likes of which even Remi had never seen in France. Seashells, a bracelet, a white flower that looked less than a week old. Magic. And as I promised, nothing of the sham about it. When Remi and I pulled ourselves away from the site, finally, once the light had folded into itself and the cold had come on, we felt as if we were rejoining the world. As if we had been to another place all together during the time that we were within what is most certainly a house of faith. 

As it is January, that means rain but we were delightfully spared, save for a misty morning that included our one cultural stop, a visit to the Musée Carnavalet (one of Paris’ best-kept secrets, hidden in the Marais) to see a once-in-a-lifetime exhibition on the history behind the trunks of Louis Vuitton. Isn’t it just so beautiful? True, I would also give up our cosy studio for a chance to sleep in the former apartments of Madame de Sévigné!

Rushing, walking so fast with my heart in my mouth in an effort to soak up as much of the city as we race from one meeting to the other. But what sights on the sidelines. I have a special connection to Notre-Dame. Once, a long time ago, she was there for me when I needed her. I don’t know if I would be living in France today in fact if it wasn’t for her kind graces. I thank her silently each time I see her.

 Isn’t life endlessly bewildering? What on earth was I doing there? As the South American scientist droned on about pottery shards I began to dream about…