Last week, summer made a brief comeback and we decided to take full advantage. While we're doing our best to marshall our car trips, conserving on gas and thus on euros, the call of a mini-trip while the forecast called for lovely weather just proved too strong.
We decided to only venture out on an overnight as the little suns on the Internet weather map were only promising clear skies for a day or two and then small clouds, like little sheep, started gamboling into the picture. The Gorges de Verdon seemed a very reasonable destination, even if we made several stops along the way.
As it turned out, we really only detoured once, to the Abbaye de Senanque, a Cistercian monastery dating back to the 12th century. It shows up in every guide book, surrounded by fields of lavender and I've always wanted to see it. While September is way past lavender season, I'm not typically here when the little purple buds are in full bloom. That happens mid-summer and I'm in Minneapolis, enjoying our gorgeous lakes instead.
The abbey didn't disappoint. Since we decided to leave and promptly headed out the door Tuesday about 10 a.m. based on those above mentioned little suns, we didn't get to the abbey until about noon. Walking into the dark coolness, we found the monks mid-mass and decided to stay until the service finished.
What a difference from the abbey at le Barroux. The music was even more beautiful and the few monks singing--less than 10--filled the church with a rich polyphony that seemed to be coming from a full choir. Here the gate between them and the rest of the worshippers was open, the altar faced the congregation and the mass was in the vernacular--French--for all to participate. The celebrant came forward to shake hands with the rest of us, extending the feeling of welcome. It was lovely and inspiring. Afterwards,we walked the grounds, found their potager (vegetable garden) full of squash and picked up some lavender honey, collected on site, as a souvenir. Then it was back in our tiny Peugeot to see what other wonders were in store.
Checking my watch en route, I realized the luncheon window of opportunity had just about shut tight. It was 1:45, and, at that time, eating in France becomes slim pickings, at best. So, as we passed a restaurant routier, or truck stop, we pulled in and were grateful for the adequate, if not fabulous, meal they offered. For 14euros, the bill of fare included pates and salads from a salad bar style cooler, beef stew, a cheese plate, dessert which we skipped and quarter liter each of wine. Fortified, we continued into the rising landscape towards Moustiers St. Marie, a small town known for its pottery just before the gorges.
Arriving late afternoon, we decided the tiny town made as good a place as any to spend the night and managed to snag the last room in a simple but spotlessly clean hotel. When we checked in, the clerk said she had only one room left and we thought, "Yea, right," assuming it was ploy to offset bargaining on the price. But, soon afterwards, the complet, or full, sign went up and later we heard one man wistfully complaining in the lobby about the dearth of rooms available in town for that evening.
We strolled through the small stores full of either tourist tchotchkes or real, artisan creations, tucked into a lovely dinner, and spent a peaceful night.
The next morning, after avoiding the eight euro price our hotel wanted for breakfast by going across the street to a cafe for the same croissants and coffee at half the price, we headed up and up along switch-back roads for a breathtaking drive. The sun came out after a night of showers and the stream far below, responsible eons ago for the spectacularly craggy landscape, sparkled with an almost turquoise intensity. We drove about half way through the area, gasping at teach turn and then back-tracked to point ourselves in the general direction of home.
But, before getting serious about the route towards Mollans, we spent some time descending toward the azure lake we'd spotted from above, Lac St. Croix. We poked in and out of small, dirt side roads, finding isolated or small, organized camp grounds plus canoe and kayak launching areas. No motorized boats, no glut of resorts, and generally just pristine wilderness for all to enjoy. Sheer loveliness.
Once back, our warm weather turned rainy as predicted and we settled back into puttering in the house. The next few days and nights went ice-box chilly. On Friday, our mason, M Monge, came to rebuild a crumbling inner wall, patch a few cracks and give us answering advice to as many questions as we could think to ask about home maintenance. He's a talented man whose renovated homes always have a whimsical quality to them. His henna tinted black hair matches his twinkling smile and he writes books on the side as well--a multi-talented artist with a trowel.
Then it was the weekend again. We organized for a substantial Sunday lunch with some of my neighbors from Minneapolis, here in Provence for a week before heading to Paris. It was a typical, leisurely affair, lasting about five hours over sparkling wine to greet them, a first course of meze, and then Chicken with Preserved Lemon and Olives, a recipe from my Bistro Chicken book.
As we moved into our last full week at the house, our social calendar filled quickly, a sure sign of pending good-byes.
Next: The turning of the seasons.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
Summer to Fall
We moved from summer to fall last week with crashing storms, a bit of sun and then a day of steady rain. Now, the breezes that brush us while standing in the shade hint of the crisp, cool nights that follow. Pears and apples are ripening along with the figs and it's clear the quinces will follow soon. Our friends with vineyards wait patiently for the grapes to reach their peak. Because the summer's heat was spotty this year, the vendage, or harvest, is weeks later than the past few years. With the storms blowing in cooler air, the vintners will wait a bit longer yet.
These booming tempests put our Mont Ventoux plans on hold as well. Both Thursday and again on Friday, we'd set our alarms for 5 am in anticipation of heading up the mountain to catch the sunrise. Skies need to be clear, not covered with clouds, to see the sun's first rays but that wasn't happening so we headed back to bed each time and decided to give the plan and ourselves a rest.
We discovered Friday morning that thunder wasn't the only thing that crashed during the night; our electricity did too and we were in a state when we discovered our fuse box was the cause, not the power lines.
Now, I don't know from fuses. We had them when I was a child but, at home in Minneapolis, we have circuit breakers instead. Here we have a combo plate of switches that look like breakers but that contain fuses inside.
Our main switch/fuse was tripped and kept tripping every time we tried to right it. We headed to our friends at the hotel for a small electricity lesson on how to sort things out. Bernard kindly explained that we needed to flip all the switches to off, turn the main one to on and then flip the others on--one by one--until one of them triggered the main switch to fail. Then we'd have our culprit narrowed down. So we did and soon had power everywhere but the second floor. Better.
Yes, the whole second floor. The bathroom, WC, hallway, and my bedroom--plus the upper terrace too--are all wired on the same fuse. So, I scratched my head for a while and then realized that my wall electric heater had probably sent the whole mess toppling like dominoes. It had rained in my open window the night before and the heater is hard-wired right below. Why it's there and not in a different spot is any bodies guess and only something the former owners of our house could answer. (Along with why the whole second floor and terrace were on just a single fuse.) But, we let the heater dry out while we went to lunch and all was well when we returned.
And what an excellent lunch! In Malaucene, a nearby village, there's a lovely little spot with a pleasant terrace that serves a tasty, three course lunch for 15 euros. Sometimes the food is better than others but this day everything was spot on. The lobster bisque studded with baby scallops, salmon with Bearnaise sauce and figs poached in red wine took the edge off of two 5 am false starts and our power failure very nicely. Once I added the cost of my share of our pitcher of local rose, my total bill came to 16 euros. Since the sun chose to shine that afternoon before hiding later behind newly arriving clouds, we had a perfect interlude.
Saturday was stinky. There's no other way to put it. It poured steadily most of the day, canceling one of last of the village's evening markets and drenching us as we made our way to friends for dinner. While not the barbecue they'd planned, we had a pleasant evening that made up for the lost day and wandered home under the beginning of clearing skies.
This time of year seems to bring out a rash of vide greniers, loosely translated as attic emptiers. They're flea markets and a village called Sahune had been leafleting our area liberally to let us know their event was happening the first weekend of September. On Sunday,we hopped in the car under spotlessly scrubbed blue skies to see what the town had to offer in the way of junk.
Junk they had, spread on table after table up and down the main street and across the bridge to the display of antique tractors--all six of them. They also had a helicopter buzzing overhead plus a man with a mike hawking tickets for their upcoming town bean feed. No junk for us and we passed on the food as well. We've discovered French group dinners are often like our own in the States--edible but not wows by any means.
Back home in time for a late Sunday lunch, I whipped up a batch of fish soup using bits of leftover mussels with their cooking broth, fresh tomatoes we'd purchased at a roadside market earlier that day, plus some baby shrimp tucked in our freezer. A half hour later, I splashed in a jot of Pastis for extra flavor and we sat and marveled how much difference a shiny day can make in one's general attitude towards life.
Next: The to-do list.
These booming tempests put our Mont Ventoux plans on hold as well. Both Thursday and again on Friday, we'd set our alarms for 5 am in anticipation of heading up the mountain to catch the sunrise. Skies need to be clear, not covered with clouds, to see the sun's first rays but that wasn't happening so we headed back to bed each time and decided to give the plan and ourselves a rest.
We discovered Friday morning that thunder wasn't the only thing that crashed during the night; our electricity did too and we were in a state when we discovered our fuse box was the cause, not the power lines.
Now, I don't know from fuses. We had them when I was a child but, at home in Minneapolis, we have circuit breakers instead. Here we have a combo plate of switches that look like breakers but that contain fuses inside.
Our main switch/fuse was tripped and kept tripping every time we tried to right it. We headed to our friends at the hotel for a small electricity lesson on how to sort things out. Bernard kindly explained that we needed to flip all the switches to off, turn the main one to on and then flip the others on--one by one--until one of them triggered the main switch to fail. Then we'd have our culprit narrowed down. So we did and soon had power everywhere but the second floor. Better.
Yes, the whole second floor. The bathroom, WC, hallway, and my bedroom--plus the upper terrace too--are all wired on the same fuse. So, I scratched my head for a while and then realized that my wall electric heater had probably sent the whole mess toppling like dominoes. It had rained in my open window the night before and the heater is hard-wired right below. Why it's there and not in a different spot is any bodies guess and only something the former owners of our house could answer. (Along with why the whole second floor and terrace were on just a single fuse.) But, we let the heater dry out while we went to lunch and all was well when we returned.
And what an excellent lunch! In Malaucene, a nearby village, there's a lovely little spot with a pleasant terrace that serves a tasty, three course lunch for 15 euros. Sometimes the food is better than others but this day everything was spot on. The lobster bisque studded with baby scallops, salmon with Bearnaise sauce and figs poached in red wine took the edge off of two 5 am false starts and our power failure very nicely. Once I added the cost of my share of our pitcher of local rose, my total bill came to 16 euros. Since the sun chose to shine that afternoon before hiding later behind newly arriving clouds, we had a perfect interlude.
Saturday was stinky. There's no other way to put it. It poured steadily most of the day, canceling one of last of the village's evening markets and drenching us as we made our way to friends for dinner. While not the barbecue they'd planned, we had a pleasant evening that made up for the lost day and wandered home under the beginning of clearing skies.
This time of year seems to bring out a rash of vide greniers, loosely translated as attic emptiers. They're flea markets and a village called Sahune had been leafleting our area liberally to let us know their event was happening the first weekend of September. On Sunday,we hopped in the car under spotlessly scrubbed blue skies to see what the town had to offer in the way of junk.
Junk they had, spread on table after table up and down the main street and across the bridge to the display of antique tractors--all six of them. They also had a helicopter buzzing overhead plus a man with a mike hawking tickets for their upcoming town bean feed. No junk for us and we passed on the food as well. We've discovered French group dinners are often like our own in the States--edible but not wows by any means.
Back home in time for a late Sunday lunch, I whipped up a batch of fish soup using bits of leftover mussels with their cooking broth, fresh tomatoes we'd purchased at a roadside market earlier that day, plus some baby shrimp tucked in our freezer. A half hour later, I splashed in a jot of Pastis for extra flavor and we sat and marveled how much difference a shiny day can make in one's general attitude towards life.
Next: The to-do list.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Back again
Lovely and lush, Mollans welcomed us back with a sunny smile last week and we couldn't help but respond in kind. Despite the travails of modern travel, once we came down the home stretch towards our village and looked out over the vineyards and mountains that surround our little hamlet, we knew the journey had been worth it once again.
Hallie and I met up at the Charles de Gaulle airport, she flying in from LAX via Chicago and I from Minneapolis via Cleveland, of all places. The train was comfortable and speedy as always, making us wonder, as we do each time, just why America can't seem to offer a high-speed version of the TGV, especially now that energy is such a concern. We got off in Avignon with our bags full of bits and pieces, to be met by our good friend Steve for that last leg homeward.
My bag was laden with its usual assortment of oddities. I'd picked up a stack of soft car rags at Costco that we use here for chasing cob webs, wiping up wine spills and just about anything else that comes to mind. I'd also grabbed an industrial sized pepper grinder while passing through the Costco isles that will serve us--the two cooks--well in the weeks ahead. Of course, the suitcase contained more books to help pass the TV-less evenings and seasons one and two on DVD of Northern Exposure to watch on our computer.
We spent the first few days getting settled, making a run to the grocery store, going to the bank for money and to the Public Treasury to pay our water bill, all the ordinary details of opening a home and nesting that could be considered chores but are instead pleasures. After doing our errands, we rewarded ourselves with a stop at the best bakery in our area--right in Buis les Barronies. Walking into the baker's small space, there's something primal and timeless about the experience. Loaves in different shapes, crusty and grainy, wait to be consumed and savored, as did yesterday's breads and as will tomorrow's. Small, yeasty miracles send out tendrils of aroma in invitation and customers line up out the door in response. Deciding is the problem. There's any number of possibilities--part of a large loaf of multi-seeded bread that you purchase by the chunk found its way into our shopping basket, as did the ginger bread. What a marvelous concoction--rye studded with crystallized ginger, candied orange peel and spiced with cloves--and a heady breakfast treat that proved to be just right with our morning cafe au lait.
The next evening, one of our British neighbors, Ian, invited us for a curry, accompanied by homemade chapatis, nicely spicy and the proper antidote to jet lag. He fussed, it showed, and we felt welcomed.
As we did when we stopped for tea at Jo and Steve's. They have walnut trees in their yard and the slices of cake served alongside came studded with nuggets of hand harvested walnut kernels.
We greeted our town back by strolling the summer Saturday evening market, picking up crisp green beans from the elderly women in a puffy hat and other edible treasures along the way. In the evening sunshine, tomatoes glistened, eggplants and figs held a contest for the deepest purple, and zucchinis were as rampant as ever. From there, we drifted to our favorite table at the Bar du Pont to sip a verre (glass) and watch the rest of the villagers saunter by before heading home.
On Sunday, we caught the last of this year's village tours. We have an unofficial historian who, every Sunday in the summer, peppers his attentive audience with enough facts and figure to last two and a half hours. Perhaps because it was the last chance until next year, our tour was particularly well attended, with about 20 of us stopping at various landmarks along the way to listen and learn.
Later that day, we tried to go to a flute concert up in the mountains, held where rock climbers begin exploring one of the many precipices available for their enjoyment. The premise sounded great and the poster advised there would be a ten minute walk. Well, one person's walk is another person's steep climb. Hallie and I took one look at the rock "path" that led seemingly straight upward and decided that perhaps we liked our limbs too much to take a chance. Along with a few other reluctant souls, we watched as a fairly sizable collection of attendees--including dogs, women in flip flops, and a senior citizen or two--scrambled or adroitly sprang up the rocks and out of sight. We finally left and drove around instead for a few minutes enjoying the rugged landscape from the security of our car. The air smelled just as sweetly of pine for us as for them, sans flute it is true, but sometimes it is sound to know one's limitations. I could have managed the up portion but have enormous difficulty getting down even the smallest of inclines and Hallie basically does neither up nor down so we were entirely comfortable with our decision to skip the event.
Now we're one week in, with a pizza Monday and a visit to the Vaison market behind us once again. It's time to let the days lead us where they will along with ticking items off the perpetual to-do list every home owner has. Tonight, Mohammad is coming to get the dimensions for the last, unfinished bit of tiling in Hallie's bedroom (a project started over a year ago so what's the rush) and there's lots more for later musings.
Next: Mount Ventoux at dawn.
Hallie and I met up at the Charles de Gaulle airport, she flying in from LAX via Chicago and I from Minneapolis via Cleveland, of all places. The train was comfortable and speedy as always, making us wonder, as we do each time, just why America can't seem to offer a high-speed version of the TGV, especially now that energy is such a concern. We got off in Avignon with our bags full of bits and pieces, to be met by our good friend Steve for that last leg homeward.
My bag was laden with its usual assortment of oddities. I'd picked up a stack of soft car rags at Costco that we use here for chasing cob webs, wiping up wine spills and just about anything else that comes to mind. I'd also grabbed an industrial sized pepper grinder while passing through the Costco isles that will serve us--the two cooks--well in the weeks ahead. Of course, the suitcase contained more books to help pass the TV-less evenings and seasons one and two on DVD of Northern Exposure to watch on our computer.
We spent the first few days getting settled, making a run to the grocery store, going to the bank for money and to the Public Treasury to pay our water bill, all the ordinary details of opening a home and nesting that could be considered chores but are instead pleasures. After doing our errands, we rewarded ourselves with a stop at the best bakery in our area--right in Buis les Barronies. Walking into the baker's small space, there's something primal and timeless about the experience. Loaves in different shapes, crusty and grainy, wait to be consumed and savored, as did yesterday's breads and as will tomorrow's. Small, yeasty miracles send out tendrils of aroma in invitation and customers line up out the door in response. Deciding is the problem. There's any number of possibilities--part of a large loaf of multi-seeded bread that you purchase by the chunk found its way into our shopping basket, as did the ginger bread. What a marvelous concoction--rye studded with crystallized ginger, candied orange peel and spiced with cloves--and a heady breakfast treat that proved to be just right with our morning cafe au lait.
The next evening, one of our British neighbors, Ian, invited us for a curry, accompanied by homemade chapatis, nicely spicy and the proper antidote to jet lag. He fussed, it showed, and we felt welcomed.
As we did when we stopped for tea at Jo and Steve's. They have walnut trees in their yard and the slices of cake served alongside came studded with nuggets of hand harvested walnut kernels.
We greeted our town back by strolling the summer Saturday evening market, picking up crisp green beans from the elderly women in a puffy hat and other edible treasures along the way. In the evening sunshine, tomatoes glistened, eggplants and figs held a contest for the deepest purple, and zucchinis were as rampant as ever. From there, we drifted to our favorite table at the Bar du Pont to sip a verre (glass) and watch the rest of the villagers saunter by before heading home.
On Sunday, we caught the last of this year's village tours. We have an unofficial historian who, every Sunday in the summer, peppers his attentive audience with enough facts and figure to last two and a half hours. Perhaps because it was the last chance until next year, our tour was particularly well attended, with about 20 of us stopping at various landmarks along the way to listen and learn.
Later that day, we tried to go to a flute concert up in the mountains, held where rock climbers begin exploring one of the many precipices available for their enjoyment. The premise sounded great and the poster advised there would be a ten minute walk. Well, one person's walk is another person's steep climb. Hallie and I took one look at the rock "path" that led seemingly straight upward and decided that perhaps we liked our limbs too much to take a chance. Along with a few other reluctant souls, we watched as a fairly sizable collection of attendees--including dogs, women in flip flops, and a senior citizen or two--scrambled or adroitly sprang up the rocks and out of sight. We finally left and drove around instead for a few minutes enjoying the rugged landscape from the security of our car. The air smelled just as sweetly of pine for us as for them, sans flute it is true, but sometimes it is sound to know one's limitations. I could have managed the up portion but have enormous difficulty getting down even the smallest of inclines and Hallie basically does neither up nor down so we were entirely comfortable with our decision to skip the event.
Now we're one week in, with a pizza Monday and a visit to the Vaison market behind us once again. It's time to let the days lead us where they will along with ticking items off the perpetual to-do list every home owner has. Tonight, Mohammad is coming to get the dimensions for the last, unfinished bit of tiling in Hallie's bedroom (a project started over a year ago so what's the rush) and there's lots more for later musings.
Next: Mount Ventoux at dawn.
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