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Grapeageddon, our second vendange

Eh, oui. It is that time of year. 
One of the gorgeous aspects of this house we rent in Provence is its courtyard, half of which is dominated by a giant olive tree, the other through an ancient vine that snakes over a wrought iron trellis. Both provide glorious dappled shade, a precious commodity during this past blaze of a summer.
And while that sun often taunted me into hiding behind closed shutters, it certainly did an enormous amount of good for both the olives – which are looking splendid – and the clusters of hanging grapes that glowed like edible chandeliers. 
I remember that the owner of the house had said that the vine is fruitful every other year or so. Last autumn we had been so disappointed when the grapes turned into mildewed globs practically overnight. The harvest then was easy, smelly but easy. Remi extended his trusty trimmer and I was on clean-up crew.
However, this year, well, of course, we wanted to save as much as we could but it was time they came down, not only as they were perfectly ripe but the bees were starting to eat more than we were. So today was the day. Some inner voice suggested that I put on an old t-shirt and Remi blocked off the area from the dogs as grapes are not good for their livers, no matter how much they love the taste.
I rolled open a grocery bag and extended my arms, trying my best to catch the mana from heaven as it rained down, pelting my face, my hands and the pavement. And how I laughed while doing so. It was ridiculous and by the end I looked – if you will excuse me for saying so – rather like a giant had used me for a handkerchief. We recuperated enough grapes so that Remi will be able to make a second go with his jelly, this time promising to actually stir the agar-agar so that we are not stuck with ten pots of rather delicious sauce for ice-cream.
As I am typing, I can see the last rays of the sunset reflecting off of the building en face, the one that they call “Le Chateau” and perhaps it is. As I told Remi earlier today after la vendange was finished, I feel lighter. There is less literally hanging over-head, just the promise of my favorite season in front of me and more importantly, that of some incredibly important visitors arriving within the week.
Let autumn in.

Ps. For my fellow antiques lovers – and I know that you are many – my friend Ellie is having a phenomenal sale at her shop on Have Some Decorum. I honestly don’t know how she finds such exceptional pieces, many are finer than anything that I have seen during fourteen years of antiquing in France. Her readers are chomping at the bit so much may be already sold when you see this but if you are interested, then by all means quickly click: Here.
Happy Labor Day Weekend to those of you that are celebrating…and happy Happy to everyone else…

Celebrity sightings in Provence

Well, now that got your attention, didn’t it?
Mm-hmm, I see. Kids, don’t forget that I come from the press where we know how to toss out a line all the better to real ’em in. 
And while I am on the subject of the press…I know that some of you already follow Remi on instagram  but for those of you who don’t, he is wrapping up a gorgeous storytelling on one of my favorite places that we ever covered together, the Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania, as a month-long tribute to honor Cecil the Lion and all that he represented. If you are interested, you will find him @remibenali. Bravo, coeur, for all that you are doing and for taking it to 31,000 followers around the world everyday.

Where were we? Ah, yes, celebrity sightings. What, getting a bit impatient are you?
Yes, the bright lights do tend to love the bright light of Provence and my beloved Arles especially is having a “moment” this summer.
So now, who exactly was the famous person that was spotted beyond the crowd in Arles today?
Well, I hate to let you down but it would turn out to be…
Me.
Or at least that is certainly how I felt, fluttery and full with recognition. My doctor (whose family has been doctors for generations, including one of Mr. Van Gogh’s main doctors but don’t let that diminish their reputation) is mere steps from our last apartment near the Place du Forum. As I am redhead loyal, I still go to her even though there is a doc even in our tiny village. I was quite a bit early and so thought that I would poke around the old neighborhood, for I needed a dose of its buzzy energy. Happily, my copine, the very talented Christine Millerin had already opened up her atelier and invited me to have a tea across the street at the Cuisine de Comptoir where the handsome owners, Alex and Vincent, both gave me “les bis” the South’s quick triple cheek kiss. While we perched on the tiny terrace in view of her shop in case she had customers (a very, very Provençal thing to do), I was given the same treatment by the lovely Sophie Lassange who has her workshop next door and even a big hug (highly unusual for France) by Sylvie who was our post-lady for ten years that we lived in Arles (we used to joke that we could only rent in her postal zone).
It felt rather wonderful. And while there are kind folks that do regularly say hello to me in the village – and of course, there are those, as we know, who do not *cough* – I do miss being a part of that neighborhood and its everyday pleasantries that are enough to make even a dull day feel special and a shy person like me, a star.
Oh, all right, I won’t just leave you with false hopes, that wouldn’t be right. So who have I seen? Sarah Jessica Parker in St. Remy (mirrored aviators, flowing sundress) and Ines de la Fressange in Arles (dressed ex-act-ly like she proposes in her great book). Et pour mes lecteurs français, je peut ajouter Edouard Baer qui a une maison à Arles et il y a quelque mois, Remi a vu Mika sur la Place du Forum – mon dieu! Dommage que je n’était pas las…Of course, after many years of living in Manhattan I am Pavlovian trained to pay no attention to such things. No, instead you will find me face up to the big blue, staring at the sun…
A final Pop of Summer…
…et bienvenue septembre! 

Provencal charm at the Domaine de Valdition, part deux

I have to say that it is beyond amazing to me that I am now at the point, four and a half years in with Lost in Arles, that I need to update posts! But there is something of the “I am still here!” Happy Birthday tune to be sung about it as well, isn’t there?

When out with Remi in the pups roaming the Alpilles, I reminded Mr. Photographer that we were close to the Domaine de Valdition and why not stop by and pick up a little something to parch our dry throats? *hint, hint*

It was only after I stepped into the cool of the boutique (kept purposefully darkened during the blare of our summer, so I hope you will excuse the grain in the photos, I tried, sans trépied) that something seemed a bit off…
…despite the really gorgeous elegance around me that I had remembered from my last visit…full of pretty much everything that you could wish for to make a Provençal kitchen homey…
…from sets de table proclaiming that tomatoes have been harvested “since always”…
…ceramic hens and delicate candle holders to light up the terrace at night…
…to a range of local honey both sucré and a bit salé…
…and not to mention the absolutely quintessential tablecloth so that all of your meals are comme il faut!
It was all intensely familiar and yet…”Is this the same bou…” I started to ask a young woman whose face I recognized as she served a tasting from behind the counter. “Ah, non,” she quickly cut me off to end my confusion, “we moved the boutique two kilometers up the road from where it was before.” Oh, thank goodness, I haven’t completely lost my mind…yet. 
The new boutique and tasting room is just as wonderful as before – truly one of the prettiest in this corner of Provence – but that doesn’t change what we were really there for, the wine. I am happy to report that the Domaine is continuing to bloom, winning a bronze medal at the prestigious Concours Général Agricole de Paris for their 2014 rosé Tradition (yes, we bought a few bottles of this). 
The estate is huge, covering 90 hectares with a highly unusual amount of varietals for these parts – especially when you consider that Valdition’s wines are nearly all bio or organic. Here is a list of what is grown on the property:
  1. Cabernet-sauvignon, Carignan, Cinsault, Grenache Noir, Marselan, Mourvèdre, Petit Verdot and Syrah for the reds.
  2. Bourboulenc, Chardonnay, Chasan, Clairette Blanche, Grenache Blanc, Macabeu, Muscat Petit grain, Roussane, Vermentino,  Viognier and Pinot Grisfor the whites.

If you would like to find out more, then by all means please read my initial post about the Domaine by clicking here.
I definitely stand by what I wrote in 2012: “There is something so timeless and beyond time about this special place.” And I most certainly recommend that you stop by when you favor our fair corner of the world with a visit.
Domaine de Valdition
Route d’Eygalières
13660 – Orgon
Tel.: +(0)4 90 73 08 12
http://www.valdition.com/

* As always, this is not a sponsored post – my goodness, I wish! – Just my hoping that you discover all the best that Provence has to offer…Salut! 

Encore une fois, merci

The worn stones were cool on my bare feet as I skipped down the circular stair, hand on the iron rail. Bump, bump. Bump, bump. Ben and Kipling were lying close together on the black and white tiles at the bottom. Both looked up at me expectantly so instead of turning into the kitchen to get that glass of water, I sat down in between them and buried my head in Ben’s neck while petting both of them. Having two dogs makes one ambidextrous.
At some non-verbal cue, the agreement had been made and they both started to demand their dinner by dancing around me, Ben crying out his woeful “Woowoo”‘s and doing the slow tail wag. Kipling kept slipping his head under the crook of my elbow to flip it up then tickling the back of my neck with his whiskers. I squealed into giggles and finally gave in.
When they heard the magic word, “Ok” we all scooted out into the courtyard – Ben clearing the three steps down in one joyful leap and then twirling, twirling while I gathered up their plastic food bowls. I sat back on the front steps after feeding them and looked up at the sky. Blue, soft with whispered clouds. Within a minute, they were finished and Kipling, our rescue dog, had come over to say his thank you as he always does. Clearly, he doesn’t take being fed as a given. Ben sat down next to me, upright proud and again I was surrounded with a simple solid love.
All was quiet. One of the neighbor kids whizzed past our gate on a trotinette, just as the breeze kicked up and flirted with the tumbles of grapes that we are going to need to harvest soon. In the distance, I could hear one of the village’s pair of doves calling to the other patiently.
And then I remembered that today should not have been this idyllic Saturday but rather could have been a day of unending tears, of international mourning, of families desiccated and the asking of bitter “why?”s.  Just as it was last January here in France and has been all too often everywhere as of late. Our world is so precarious and often we are wrapped tight in one fear or the next. Not so for the brave young Americans – US Air Force member Spencer Stone, National Guardsmen Alex Skarlatos and student Anthony Sadler on his first trip to Europe – as well as 62 year old British consultant Chris Norman and the as yet unidentified French Rail employee who was the first to try and subdue the terrorist on yesterday’s TGV to Paris.
Gentlemen, you are heros. And while you have already been lauded and thanked by fellow survivors on the train to Presidents Hollande and Obama, I won’t take this moment of peace for granted but will say encore une fois merci, this time from me. I thank you with all of my heart.

This was not at all the post that was planned for today but I couldn’t quite write about some fun address here in Provence. Thank you for understanding and have a wonderful rest of your weekend…
Heather

Summer’s Zenith in the Alpilles

“Can you feel it?” Remi asked. We were standing in our courtyard with glasses of wine in hand at the end of the day and faces turned upwards. Because we can often read each others thoughts, I knew what he meant. “Um-hmm,” I responded. The shift had already started to occur. 
August 15th is a holiday for the L’Assomption de Marie in France, just as in Italy it is the Ferragosto. In Provence, the date holds a more practical meaning – the end of the big vacation period when the highways are declared a “journée noir” with traffic jams that can stretch out over hundreds of kilometers, an event which is usually accompanied by a change in temperature. Often it is then that the big storms will roll in as if to thunder-clap proclaim, “L’été est bientôt fini! It is time for you all to go back to your workaday lives!”
But these photos were taken before, right when the season was at its zenith. 
Remi wanted to retrace some of our favorite spots here in the Alpilles for a project that he is working on (that I will tell you about soon) and asked if I wanted to come along. Especially as it was predicted to be yet another day when the temperatures were expected to reach 100°F, the prospect of seeing beautiful scenery while ensconced in the only air-conditioning available (our car), I responded with a cheerful, “Yes, but let’s take the boys too.” I think that by that point, we all were a little tired of being closed up, literally, in our shuttered home in retreat from the spindly heat, a little outing would do us good.
I was right. I love our Provence.
The light was slicing bright and the air so dry that it seemed to hover slightly over the parched yellow grasses. The sky was too blue, also just out of reach and we all felt the need to retreat into patches of shade from time to time. A deserved break from the zig-zag lines of a brash summer day. 
I was shooting blind, unable to see my camera’s reflections, aided by Remi’s estimates about what my settings should be. And so these photos all look too stark to me – slightly unreal – and just as I have been longing for relief from the heat, so too am I ready for a little kindness on the eyes.
Happily, it is here. Or the promise of it is. August 15th did not let us down this year and that shift that we sensed is upon us, leaving us scrambling to bring in the cushions during a surprise evening rain yesterday and shifting our timing so as to get back from the garden before nightfall falling faster. Sunsets have returned. I feel like I can think again but have loved these languorous last days. 
Instead of the song of the cigales, I can now just barely discern a quiet ticking of time numbered.
It is quite something, our connections to the seasons, isn’t it? Apparently, our clocks are not so internal after all.
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