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After waiting for nearly an hour, the crowd grew restless as they pressed towards the front of the Town Hall. The riders raised their lances (used to prod their keep) and the spectators clapped and stomped with impatience. Finally, the mayor sailed onto the balcony with a wide grin and announced that Astrid Giraud, had been elected as the 21st Reine d’Arles. The crowd burst into cheers and then a softly sung rendition of the Coupo Santo, the Provençal anthem. I could still hear them singing as I headed through the shady back streets toward our apartment. I find this holiday so beautiful and a wonderful antidote to the brutality of the Easter bullfights. It is Provence at its most elegant and most proud. When Remi and I first moved to Arles, we were travelling the world to cover such people, who held their traditions tightly to their chests in the midst of a cookie-cutter world where we are pushed more and more to resemble each other. How surprised we were to find the same importance so close to home. It still delights me. My best to the new Queen!

Saved. I have to say that was exactly what Remi and I felt when we received the invitation from our friends to come and stay with them in the country for Easter. We had felt as if we were being cooked under the pressure of the Feria and I was worried that one of us would snap. A town of Arles’ size has a hard time containing the energy of a million pastis fuelled visitors and by Saturday afternoon, I could tell that trouble was brewing in the streets. We both sighed in sync then started grinning as we pulled beyond the police barriers and left the chaos behind. 

The Alpilles isn’t the most famous corner of Provence, but for me, it is its heart. The olive groves and vineyards are actively farmed, the homes lived in instead of being a showcase for two weeks out of the year. There is a charm, a douceur that I have never felt anywhere else. And that certainly pertains to hospitality as well. As soon as we arrived, we were immediately shown to a cocoon of a guest room. Everything possible had been thought of to make us feel at ease. We have spent many long afternoons at this wonderful home but it was the first time that I slept there and the experience left me feeling slightly dizzy. Such a drastic shift towards quiet and peace. To be served foie gras and champagne and a gateau de poisson (which sadly translates to an unassuming “fish cake”) in a lobster sauce that I will dream of for months. Conversation a plenty but also knowing when to be left  to have time to breathe.

There is nothing more enjoyable than going on walks in the open–more of that to come. Beyond their wonderful property, we were also shown the Chateau de Manville, a 16th century stronghold from the time of King François the First. The patina from such a date can’t be invented and although they are more recent, I could imagine that these moss covered roof tiles would tickle the fancy of some of the interior designers that visit this blog. As for the stone wall, I couldn’t help but wonder if it had come from a previous outbuilding of the chateau? On the other side of the iron gate, a small creek rustled and irises swayed in a slight breeze. 

The light seemed to trill, fingers pulling harp strings, as we headed back to their house. In good company and with the knowledge that we would be well taken care of. Remi and I don’t belong to such a luxurious realm but are fortunate to have friends that are generous in sharing it with us. Such a break, a relief and I am very grateful to have had such a wonderful experience. Sometimes the best travelling isn’t what we planned for, just something that provokes a shift inside, no matter how subtle.

The sacred and the profane collide up against each other during the Easter bullfights, le Feria de Pâque. A million visitors pour in to Arles from all over the world for this weekend, which opens the season of la tauromachie. Have I been to a corrida, where the bull is slaughtered? Yes, I have. Remi and I try to not judge the traditions that we experience in our travels elsewhere in the world and so felt it was important to go at least once to witness this very controversial art (as it is defined in Wikipedia). I won’t go back. Although I had to admire the courage and at best, the élan of the torero, or matador, there is nothing to be said for the bull–despite the audiences cheers to the contrary–nor of its heart-rending moans in its final moments. After two hours of watching man face his death, a palpable excitement bursts from the spectators in the Arena with the brashness of the trumpets that sound endlessly. Les aficionados, that have included the likes of Picasso and Hemingway, are ready to assuage their thirst for life. And so they drink it down, at the bodegas or open bars throughout the town. More come to party than for the bullfights and it can be as equally messy as the bull’s blood. Think of Spring Break but amidst adults who are definitely old enough to know better. 

There is one exception and that is the bodega of Les Andalouses, located in the desacralized Frère Prêcheurs church, the walls of which line our garden. Thursday evening draws those that follow the traditions involved with la tauromachie with a nearly religious fervor. Perhaps it isn’t so strange after all that the event is held in a former church? As Remi was firing up the BBQ, we could hear the stomp of flamenco dancers resound. “Go” he encouraged and so I did for just a moment as I love to watch the proud swirl. It was an elegant crowd, one that was waiting patiently for the cue to pair off with their partners. Back in the garden, as the music echoed around us, the conversation turned to how surprising it is that this festival, which at its height becomes absolutely pagan, is held at Easter in a country that is still profoundly Catholic. So much so that last week a band of men, their faces covered in ski caps, burst in to the Collection Lambert in Avignon to smash Andreas Serrano’s Piss Christ, which is being featured in a current exhibition. Another example of controversial art. The attack was a very organized affair, one that came the day after over two hundred protestors gathered to demand the photographs removal. This weekend is a revealing glimpse at the dichotomy of this country, one as surprising as the hole in the church wall that let us watch the dancers turn late into the night.