Virtually every literary work published about France, sings the fervent praises of Provence. I was yet to experience the allure of this famous and much written about province and my excitement grew as we approached the departure date of our southern escapade.
I had been thorough and meticulous in my planning of our little séjour, so desirous to achieve perfection in every detail for both Jean and I. We had worked long and hard to arrive at this moment and we desperately yearned for a romantic interlude far from the chains of our now, highly successful business.
I had scoured endless guidebooks and magazine features, searching for that ultimate, peaceful solution. Led by the names of villages I had noted in the pages of Peter Mayle books, I eventually reserved a suite at an authentic Mas Provençal, close to the renowned, antique-rich village of L’isle-sur-Sorgue. It lay within easy driving distance of all the major tourist haunts and would therefore secure us a prime vantage point to start our little adventure.
I had paid a substantial deposit for our accommodation, after securing a decent discount with the owner. He had agreed, as a fellow tourism operator, to reduce the otherwise expensive tariff and I happily mailed off the hefty cheque in anticipation. I had informed him of our approximate arrival time, so I felt sure all would be well on our day of arrival.
‘It’s rather expensive, considering it has the same star rating as us.’
‘Well … that’s Provence for you. They can afford to rip people off down there, because they are guaranteed of a full house at almost anytime of the year. It’s not as seasonal as Corrèze, so they hike up their prices,’ replied Jean.
‘At least he gave us a discount … though the reduced price is still dearer than our full tariff. Oh, well … we’ve saved for this, so I’m not going to get all stressed about the price of things. It’s going to be perfect, just you wait and see.’
‘I’m sure it will, Chérie,’ and with that, he hugged me hard and kissed my cheek. ‘I can’t wait,’ he whispered tenderly.
‘Neither can I!’
Provence is quieter in winter and the villages are void of the hordes of noisy tourists that they are obliged to embrace during the warmer seasons. We had chosen to visit the region purposely at this time, knowing that we would be free to amble the sleepy village streets without the jostling of foreign tour buses or masses of day-trippers.
As we entered the centre ville of L’isle-sur-Sorgue at mid-afternoon, we realised the village was still slumbering from its midday meal.
We decided to take a well-needed stroll through the peaceful streets and stretch our car-lagged bodies. It was a brilliant, clear-skied day and the glacial chill that slapped us, as we stepped from the car, would have frozen the balls from a brass monkey, as my Devonshire-born Granny would have eloquently put it. We held onto each other, coat collars dragged high about our ears, trying desperately to stay warm.
‘My God it’s cold. The wind chill factor must be sub zero for sure.’
‘Don’t be misled, Marisa. Provence can be one of the coldest places in France when the winter Mistral blows. People don’t realise how unforgiving it can be and all those English tourists that dream of fairytale lives in Provence, rarely understand how cold and miserable it can get. That’s why there are so many abandoned homes, during the colder months. Once they survive their first winter, they usually end up packing their suitcases and searching out warmer shores. Did you know that the suicide rate here rises considerably when the Mistral blows?’
‘Wow! I didn’t know that. How depressing!’
‘Yes, in local legends, they speak of the Mistral winds sending people round the bend, pushing them to insanity and beyond.’
‘That’s incredible. You never hear about that, when people speak of Provence. It’s all sunshine and Rosé, lavender and Pastis. What a fairytale.’
‘That’s right … it’s all just a myth. Well not entirely … it’s gorgeous here most of the year and its beauty is unmistakable. Plus, the people are renowned for their gregarious, Mediterranean character and their laid-back savoir vivre.’
‘That has to be true, otherwise people wouldn’t flock here in their thousands every year, seeking the consummate Provençal way of life.’
‘True, Chérie. That’s what we’ve come for… a little taste of the south. Hey, look the cafés are opening, let’s warm ourselves with a little beverage. This Mistral is giving me a headache.’
‘I’m right behind you.’
We entered the sun-bathed interior of the canal-side Café-Restaurant, to the twinkling of a tiny bell. The swarthy, unshaven barman smiled softly, nodding his welcome and approval. A sleepy-eyed waiter approached to take our order.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur-dame. Vous désirez? (Hello Monsieur, Madame. What would you like?)’
‘Deux Chocolats chauds au Kirsch, s’il vous plaits. (Two hot chocolates with Kirsch liquor – a clear cherry liquor).’
‘Bien sûr, Monsieur. (Of course, sir)’
‘Yum … I love hot chocolate with Kirsch, especially on a day like today.’
‘I thought we should kick start the afternoon with something delicious and warm. Keep us going until dinner.’
‘You’re full of good ideas, aren’t you darling?’
‘I try.’
We let the delicious heat of the sweet, liquor-laden beverage slither down our throats, whilst staring onto the gently glistening waters of the neighbouring canal. The soothing warmth of the pale, winter sun penetrated through our clothes and thawed our frozen limbs.
‘Just what the doctor ordered, n’est ce pas?’
‘Absolutely,’ I sighed.
‘Though I suppose we should be making a move soon … it’s almost three and Monsieur Pascal is expecting us around that time, isn’t he?’
‘You’re right. I told him around three and by the time we find it …’
We set off carefully following the instructions Monsieur Pascal has forwarded me, yet we managed to lose ourselves up mystical country lanes on several occasions.
‘Half of these laneways aren’t marked on this map. It’s very confusing.’
‘Don’t worry Marisa. We’ll get there. It must be around here someplace. We’re definitely in the right general area.’
‘Wait a second. Look … over there to your right … I can see a sign of some sort.’
It was indeed the green and gold sign of the ‘Gîtes de France’ association, so we drove past the timber gates and down the rocky driveway, towards an assembly of mismatched buildings. There was a large, wooden barn to the left, a generously proportioned farmhouse in the centre and several, modern motel-style studios to the right. These otherwise banal studios overlooked a winterised swimming pool and paved terrace.
‘Surely this can’t be it? The guidebook described it as an authentic Mas, but apart from the main house, the rest is a hideous attempt at seventies chic.’
‘Are you sure this is the place? Maybe we made a mistake?’ asked Jean.
‘I’m not sure, but there’s one way of finding out. I’ll go and see if I can find someone,’ I said, as I opened the car door.
‘Okay Chérie. I’ll wait here.’
I ventured down the gravelled path leading to the large timber barn. There was a persistent tapping emanating from the interior and it suddenly occurred to me, that Monsieur Pascal had mentioned he also restored antique furniture as a professional side-line. This must be it! I thought, instantly disappointed.
‘Monsieur… Monsieur Pascal …,’ I called above the clatter of hammer and nails.
‘Oui …,’ came a voice from beyond the timber walls. ‘Qui est la? (Who’s there?)’
‘Madame Raoul … Marisa … de Treignac.’
‘Ah, Oui. Madame Marisa, Bonjour,’ he replied, now standing before me and extending his slender hand in welcome. He reeked of turpentine and his hands were stained yellow from walnut oil.
‘Bonjour Monsieur Pascal. We are so happy to be here. It wasn’t easy to find, with all those little country lanes shooting off in every direction. I’m sorry if we’re a little later than predicted.’
‘Late? You’re not late … anytime will do. Here, I’ll show you to your studio … follow me.’
He took off in the general direction of the units, passing swiftly by the main farmhouse, to my regret. I beckoned to Jean, who joined us, a perplexed expression on his face.
‘Bonjour Monsieur. I was just showing your wife to your studio.’
‘Merci Monsieur, but my wife was under the impression that we were staying in the original, Provençal Mas?’
‘Ah, yes … well … the Mas is here, as you can see … but only my wife and I reside in it. The accommodation is in the new studios that adjoin the main house. They are very comfortable, you’ll see,’ he replied, lacking any true conviction.
‘I see. Never mind. It’s probably just a misunderstanding, though the guidebook clearly states …,’ I added, but was instantly stopped in my tracks by the view before me.
Monsieur Pascal led us to a studio about half way along, overlooking the blanketed pool. He turned the key and led us inside. We both stood quite still in the centre of the room, neither of us prepared for what we saw. He pointed out the main features of the otherwise, barren room and turned to leave. It was then that I found my tongue.
‘Monsieur Pascal, it’s freezing in here. Isn’t there any heating?’
‘I forgot to turn it on … don’t worry it won’t take long. It will be nice and cosy in here if you give it an hour or so,’ he replied nonchalantly.
‘I told you of our arrival time. Surely you could have warmed the room in advance? I booked ages ago.’
‘I told you … I forgot what time you said you would be arriving,’ he argued.
‘Fine … fine. Well, we’ll just have to wait, won’t we?’ I smiled at Jean, hoping he wouldn’t bop Monsieur Pascal right on the nose.
‘Bon … I’ll leave you to settle in … I have work to attend to,’ he said, leaving both of us in jaw-dropping silence.
I walked around the one room studio, searching for any glimpse of authenticity hidden amongst the stark, modern interior.
‘Look, Jean … there are Provençal-style cushions on the lounge chairs,’ I smirked sarcastically.
‘Big, bloody deal!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a joke. This place is as Provençal as our apartment back in Neutral Bay.’
‘I know … look … I’m as disappointed as you are, but what can we do? I’ve already paid a hefty deposit that he is unlikely to refund, at this stage. I suggest we just enjoy ourselves as best we can. Look, I suppose it’s only a place to sleep, at the end of the day.’
‘Yes I know that … a bloody expensive one, and not nearly as lovely as back home. They should be ashamed of themselves charging what they do. Les salauds! (The bastards!)’ he swore.
‘Listen Jean, Why don’t we both take a nice, hot shower and change into warmer clothes. We’ll feel much better and then we can get out of this provincial icebox and discover the village properly. Look for somewhere to dine and not think about the adorable, Monsieur Pascal and his you-can’t-stay-in-it Mas Provençal for a few hours.’
‘OK, Chérie. I’m not going to let that bastard ruin our holiday. You go first and I’ll fetch our bags and things out of the car.’
I shivered as I lay my coat on the bed with its frightful, replica bed-head and stingy, feather light cover. For someone who supposedly dealt in antiques, I couldn’t spot a solitary one. At this point in time I think the oldest and most attractive thing in the room was me! He must keep the good stuff for himself, I thought, as I undressed and headed for the tiny cubicle he called the bathroom.
I stood naked in the middle of the tiled floor, instantly realising there wasn’t a towel or soap anywhere in sight.
‘What the bloody hell … Jean, is that you?’ I called angrily.
‘Oui, Marisa…what’s wrong now?’
‘There aren’t any bloody towels or soap in this place … I can’t believe this. What’s he playing at?’
‘Calm down Marisa. Call him … he’s probably forgotten, that’s all,’ Jean replied, trying desperately to quell my anger.
‘My God … this is ridiculous. No bloody towels, no soap, no heating, no Mas… what’s next? No sheets on the bed?’
‘Maybe we had better take a look-see, just in case?’
We both yanked on the patterned bedspread, hoping we wouldn’t find a bare mattress.
‘Thank God for small mercies,’ I declared. ‘Aren’t they generous in Provence, they even gave us sheets to sleep on. Oh, and look … a thin, woollen blanket … how perfectly cosy!’
‘How on God’s earth did he get his star rating? He must have bribed the judge.’
‘I can’t see how else he could have ended up with such a high rating. It’s ludicrous. This place is unworthy of any rating in my books but Monsieur Pascal rates as the most unqualified host you’re bound to meet. Look, I’m going to call him and demand some towels. I’m freezing my butt off.’
‘Go-ahead darling, but please, try to stay calm.’
After explaining our complete and utter disappointment to the otherwise nonplussed Monsieur Pascal, I closed myself in the bathroom and ran the hot water.
‘Here are your towels, Chérie … oh, and some soap … though I think you’ll probably want to use your own. It’s just some cheap stuff. Doesn’t smell that nice.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I swore. Thank goodness I always come prepared. Too bad if you don’t.’
‘Oh … and by the way Marisa, he asked what time we wanted our breakfast delivered?’
‘Delivered? What do you mean … delivered?’
‘To the room. He said he brings it here.’
‘But there’s nowhere to eat in here. Not even a little dining table. You’re supposed to be served in a dining room when you go to a Bed and Breakfast…like we do at home.’
‘I know darling, but obviously that’s not what happens here.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ I declared, now hot with rage. ‘We’ll eat in the dining room if the last bloody thing I do!’
Jean knew better than to contradict me when I was in such a mood, so he closed the bathroom door and left me to my own devices. I huffed and puffed like a Mallee bull under the steaming, hot water. This self-serving bastard wasn’t going to get the better of me.
‘I’m going to drop in on our dear Monsieur Pascal for just a minute Jean,’ I said, as we approached the car.
‘Don’t go getting all worked up Marisa. It won’t do you any good.’
‘Don’t worry … I’m just going to sort out the breakfast arrangements. I promise you I’ll be quick.’
I rang the bell of the Mas and a softly spoken woman came to the door.
‘Bonjour Madame. Can I speak to Monsieur Pascal, please?’
‘Bien Sûr, Madame. Un moment, s’il vous plait. (Of course Madame. One moment please.)’
Monsieur Pascal approached the doorway hesitantly. He knows I’m mad, I thought.
‘Monsieur Pascal, I have a problem with our breakfast arrangements.’
‘What’s wrong now, Madame Raoul?’ he queried impatiently.
This man was really getting up my nose. And that wasn’t a good place to be!
‘Well, firstly, I expected to stay in a Mas, which apparently, I’m not. Secondly, I would expect the very minimum of fresh towels, soap and heating for the price you charge. But, I will by no means and under no circumstances, eat my breakfast perched on my knees in my bedroom. It’s outrageous. You are required by the standards set out in the manual of the ‘Gîtes de France’ to serve us in a dining room, and that’s where I want to and will … eat!’
‘But Madame, we never heat the dining room in winter, especially for just two people,’ he replied, expecting that to be a good enough excuse.
‘Too bad. You are making false economies here, Monsieur Pascal. Either you heat the dining room and serve us there, or we leave here and now, our full monies refunded’
‘Very well … very well,’ he consented. ‘What time would you like breakfast?’
‘8.30am would be fine, thank you. I’m glad you see my point of view,’ and with that, I turned and walked to the car, where Jean waited anxiously.
‘What the hell happened there? You looked pretty red faced.’
‘Red faced…that stupid hyena … he wouldn’t know how to run a B&B if it jumped up and bit him. Anyway, after a bit of gentle persuasion, he has agreed to serve us breakfast in the dining room … he’s even going to turn on the heater. Whoopee!’
‘Good girl Marisa. I’m proud of you. Bloody thieves, they don’t deserve to earn a living. They’d steal your well-earned Francs and give you nothing in return.’
‘Enough of that, darling … I hear the bubbles of the Kir Royals calling … let’s get out of here.’
The next morning, we awoke to a sun-soaked room and the sound of twittering birdsong. After a quick shower, we were both hungry for breakfast and made our way to the dining area at the far end of the unit complex. We had passed it the night before, so we knew exactly where to go.
We were surprised to see another couple already seated, as Monsieur Pascal had led me to believe that we were the only two guests. We took a table in the sun and awaited Monsieur Pascal’s arrival.
‘He must be cooking or making coffee, I suppose.’
‘Look, here he comes now. Why is he carrying a camping thermos?’ queried Jean. We both looked on in silence.
‘No … I don’t believe it. He’s serving those people with a thermos … not even a bloody coffee pot.’
‘Don’t look now, but it’s our turn,’ Jean joked.
‘Bonjour Monsieur et Madame Raoul. Lovely morning?’
‘Bonjour Monsieur Pascal,’ we replied, unimpressed with his false airs.
‘Would you like thé ou café with your breakfast?’
‘Café, I suppose. That is, if it’s real coffee?’ I asked, sarcastically.
‘Bien sûr, of course it is … I brewed it freshly this morning,’ he replied annoyed by my stinging remark.
‘All right then. Coffee for two.’
He promptly turned and disappeared into what we supposed was the kitchen. We took this time to inspect our surroundings. It was a pleasant enough room, but lacked the warmth and charm of a true Bed and Breakfast. It was light and sunny and fortunately had an agreeable outlook, but apart from that, the interior was as thrilling as the adjoining, lacklustre studios and was absent of any personal touches or interior design.
‘Pretty ordinary, isn’t it? It’s slightly prettier than our studio, but compared to our place in Treignac…it’s a dump.’
‘You’re right. Though I’d still prefer to eat in here, than on my knees in the other room. He could do with your help in the interior decorating, Chérie.’
‘Thanks,’ I blushed. ‘I must admit; give me twenty-four hours and a few thousand francs and I’d have this place looking like something out of … Provence. For example.’
‘Very funny Marisa. Though, you’re right … oh, look … here comes our pretty thermos of coffee.’
We sat in dumbfounded silence as Monsieur Pascal deftly laid a small, metal tray of pastries and bread on our table, accompanied by a tall, self-pouring thermos. Even the jams were shop bought. And the individually wrapped butters were cold and hard as chicken pellets.
Monsieur Pascal didn’t wait around for comment or question. He disappeared the moment he finished serving us our meagre breakfast, and I use the word ‘serve’ extremely loosely.
‘Did you notice how he took off in a rush? I think you really scared him yesterday.’
‘I darn well hope so. He deserves a swift kick as far as I’m concerned.’
‘This coffee isn’t that bad … it’s drinkable. And the bread and pastries are fresh, though they’re nothing compared to René’s.’
‘Yes, it lacks that “Raoul” touch. No wonder we do so well, even in the back-hills of sleepy Corrèze.’
‘No more talk of business or home, we’re here to have a good time and I’m determined that’s what’s going to happen. Bon appetit!’ said Jean, raising his non-descript coffee cup in salute.
‘Bon appetit, darling. To better days!’
‘To better days!’
The following days were spent rambling through sinuous country lanes and byways. We touched on the main tourist sites to satisfy our curiosity, then ventured off the main roads into tiny hamlets and over ancient stone bridges. We picnicked by dormant lavender fields and dined in quaint, family-run restaurants. We had wonderfully animated conversations with jolly restaurateurs, who were thrilled with our winter patronage and invited us to take digestives en famille, by the fireside.
Provence showed us its quieter, true self. The façade of summer falsities gone, it was the real face of Provence that we discovered, under a pale winter sun.
The names of villages and hamlets reel through my mind. Bonnieux, Gordes, Aix, St Rémy de Provence, St Paul de Vence and one of my personal favourites, Rousillon.
Rousillon is a tiny village of simplistic beauty and is surrounded by towering Cypress trees and rocky hills. It is within these same hills that Rousillon has found its fame over the centuries. They consist of the most incredible coloured earth, which is ground into age-old pigments, their potent powders used in paints or to colour the renders of villas and palaces alike.
I collected several paper bags of coloured earth myself, on the slippery, sandy slopes, determined to create a work of art for my own home back in Treignac. I would take my own little slice of ‘natural’ Provence home with me, in all its ochre, yellow and cobalt splendour.
I instantly understood why we associate all things Provençal with ochre and earthy colours. These have been the shades and nuances of the terroir for time and memorial. The people have lived on these ochre-riddled grounds for centuries and our flamboyant 21st century designers haven’t invented a thing.
Within days of our return to Corrèze, the much-maligned Monsieur Pascal now closeted in the back corridors of my mind, I commenced work on my art project.
I had noticed that every Provençal village and township we visited was adorned with the most delicately decorated sundials. They embellished the crumbling façades of homes and civic buildings alike and sat proudly on even the most modest of village squares. It was obvious that this ancient design of light and time was a culturally important symbol of the region. There were so many of them and their designs and colours varied with such enormity, that it made my choice a difficult one. In the end, I opted for a beautiful pattern that I found photographed in an architectural book. By adding some carefully chosen Latinate words, taken from an Italian love song I had learnt as a teenager, I managed to make the design, my very own.
A wide expanse of plastered wall in our formal lounge had remained sadly blank since our installation and I decided, with Jean’s accord, to make this my giant, indoor canvas. I know that sundials are meant to be outdoors, for obvious reasons, but it seemed such a shame to paint this beauty where it would be battered by the elements and left to fade into obscurity.
It took me a week to pencil sketch the actual design onto the wall, as it was larger and more intricate than I had imagined. I then threw myself into the unknown realm of mixing a water-based paint using my collection of powdered earth and ochre. It was trial and error at first, but as I progressed, I felt that every new brush-stroke drew the gentle Provençal sunshine into the granite walled rooms of our home.
I’m no artist and my attempt was nowhere as refined as the stunning examples I had seen in Provence and yet, the completed work was everything I had wished for. I only hope that its powdered beauty will remain untouched for decades to come. I pray sincerely, that those who are blessed to dwell in this glorious home, in years to come, feel the same warmth emanate from its surface and allow it a life infinite.
‘Nel sole, Nel vento, Nel sorriso, Nel pianto’
‘In the sun, in the wind, in a smile, in a tear’
My favourite French party drinks
KIR
1 part Crème de Cassis liqueur 3 parts dry white wine
KIR ROYALE
1 part Crème de Cassis liqueur
3 parts Champagne or Dry sparkling wine (if really necessary!)
And in winter
CARDINALE
1 part Crème de Cassis Liqueur
3 parts Dry red wine