France 2023

A Brief Stay In Paris: The Journey Begins

If like me you’re a lover of train travel, a trip on Eurostar always feels special. Maybe it’s something to do with us Brits being islanders, but the very thought of boarding a train in one country and leaving it in another is one which is full of excitement and possibly even romance. However we’re just a little bit gutted to find we’ve been allocated the only seats in the carriage which aren’t next to a window – somewhat bizarrely, this is the THIRD successive Eurostar trip where this has happened. Given that there’s 90-odd seats in a carriage we are either seriously unlucky or we’re missing the clues when we book on the website.

An outdated video plays on a loop on the carriage screens, informing us rather belatedly that there is a pandemic on the loose, including the fact that it is compulsory to wear masks on board (it isn’t), that social distancing is enforced during boarding (it’s not), that there is hand sanitiser provided in the carriage (there’s none) and that a specialist cleaning service is ongoing during the journey (there isn’t one). We can’t help but think that somebody somewhere needs to update the video content.

No matter: Paris is its wonderful self from the moment we step out on to the streets of the Bastille neighbourhood which is our base for this brief visit. There’s just something unique about Paris, an almost tangible set of characteristics which combine to make it welcoming, engaging and instantly recognisable. 

It’s all here straight away: corner cafes with tables and chairs facing out into the street, maroon coloured awnings above inviting bistros, wicker chairs saying “sit here and drink beer”, white aproned waiters jinking between tables while balancing impossibly loaded trays. Traffic hums, sirens wail, an ageing busker entertains the crowds with tunes on his squeezebox. It takes just a matter of minutes, literally, for us to feel the full joy of the Paris vibe. We love it here, we always will.

Paris this time is really only our launch pad for the trip ahead of us: we are here for less than 48 hours with only one full day to reacquaint ourselves with this enchanting, enthralling city. We’ve heard so many people say they don’t like Paris and yet we ourselves cannot fathom why that would be so, what’s not to love about it, guys?

With limited time here, we opt not to seek out any new experiences but rather to simply revisit a handful of Paris’s major attractions, starting with a walk from our Bastille base up to the Seine and along the Rive Gauche to Saint Michel, bracing ourselves as we approach the damaged Notre Dame for the first time since the dreadful fire. 

Gratifyingly there is an obstinate pride about the ravaged building, its iconic towers surrounded by tower cranes, its new timbers exposed and its skeletal shape protected by temporary roofing. Hoarding around the site is an open air museum telling the story of the rebuilding project, a step by step guide to everything from clearance of debris to heavy construction to painstaking restoration of artworks and statues, every step faithful to the original design. Each word tells us that the project is being completed in the right way: let’s hope so.

From Notre Dame we make our way, almost inevitably, to the Sacre Coeur and to Montmartre. The splendour of the former can never be compromised, with its towering interior, magnificent mosaics and stained glass windows, and its whole sense of hilltop majesty, but Montmartre has seen changes and has become a slightly different place. The seating of canopy covered restaurants has expanded to cover most of the central square where traditionally a multitude of artists were absorbed in creativity.

Now, their numbers lessened and their pitch pushed to the periphery, the remaining artists sketch the faces of willing tourists rather than create images of landscapes and cottages. One way and another the commercial tourist dollar has won its battle against artistic talent: Montmartre is still lovely but not quite the bohemian enclave which it once was.

If the intention is to fill our brief time here with the most iconic sites then of course we have to take in the Eiffel Tower. To our surprise, the entire park in which the tower sits is now fenced off and visitors must pass through security gates to gain entry, a hardcore sign of the changing times in which we live. The Tour Eiffel is as popular as ever though, the thronging crowds eager to snap their obligatory photographs before the looming dark clouds turn to rain.

In these first 48 hours we’ve managed to consume croissant, quiche, brie, a crepe suzette complete with Grand Marnier, steak-frites and, naturally, a few glasses of Bordeaux – stereotypical French hallmarks coming in by the bucketload. 

Being in the Bastille/Gare de Lyon neighbourhood is pretty damned splendid – cafes and restaurants abound and everything which is typically Parisian is on the doorstep. We start our second evening here with drinks at “La Fée Verte”, (The Green Fairy), a quirky little bar which specialises in serving absinthe – a drink which is illegal in numerous countries but thrives in this entertaining corner of the world. We don’t “do” absinthe this time, having indulged on a previous visit, but watching the clientele go through the ritual performance of preparing the drink in these throwback surroundings is a fascination in itself. 

Tuesday evening brings the first thunderstorm of the trip, rain pouring from the awnings and pounding the streets, leaving them awash in minutes. Hurried souls dash between doorways holding anything from brief cases to plastic bags over their heads, feet splashing in the gathering puddles. By morning all is gone and the sky is blue as we prepare to make our way to the train station and say goodbye to this magical city, the sunshine hopefully a foretaste of our Mediterranean summer. 

The journey begins. 

Southwards To The Lavender Fields: From Paris To Provence

If one of our hopes for this adventure was to find quaint provincial towns with ancient and historic centres, then as we carry our backpacks from the bus station through the winding narrow streets to our apartment on the third floor of an ageing town house, we are overflowing with the feeling that we’ve hit the jackpot straight away. Welcome to Aix-en-Provence, where the squares are oozing splendour in the hot afternoon sun while the ancient plane trees which line its boulevards offer shade to anyone with a bit of time to spare.

The bells from the clock tower resonate down the tight streets as we find our way to our next “home”, swifts and swallows swoop and screech between the lofty houses, waiters wipe down tables in readiness for the evening custom. “This is perfect”, we say to each other more than once as this gorgeous town welcomes us through its characterful alley ways and leafy boulevards. This place feels special.

And as we take our first wander a short while later, those first impressions are seriously enhanced. Buildings with histories lean forwards to guard the tight streets, leafy squares are alive with early evening chatter, the stories of centuries whisper from tightly shut doorways. Footsteps echo on cobblestones, the scent of roasting garlic drifts down the streets and now and again the sound of laughter drifts around the corners.

Before we had even arrived here, the pretty Provence countryside had been rolling past the train window for quite some time before we reached Aix, fields of sunflowers shining bright yellow alongside the various purples of the lavender rows, while farmers on combine harvesters cut down golden corn in the vast open fields. An occasional wide river cut between the fields, quaint villages cried out to be investigated, farmhouses nestled in the rolling hills, until eventually the train began to slow down on its approach. We were so ready to explore even before we saw the town.

TGV stations tend to be outside of town, away from the main centre and the local station, and here in Aix it’s a bus ride into town once we are off the train. After making the one scheduled stop between the TGV station and the town,  the bus driver forgets to close the luggage door, and as the bus gains speed a female passenger calls out in panic as about a dozen suitcases crash out and spill across the roadway. Like everyone else, we rush out to survey the damage but thankfully our backpacks are still nestled safely inside, unlike the ejected bags strewn in a haphazard line along the tarmac. Well, there’s something we haven’t seen before!

The gorgeous town of Aix-en-Provence is not only instantly lovely but has a cultural heritage and history which is both long and deep. This is the lifetime home of Paul Cézanne who was born, died, and created works of art in houses among these winding streets, home also for a while to Émile Zola, and the chosen base for sculptors, poets and writers, many of whom came here to study in the famed universities and found themselves inspired by the local beauty.

Cézanne too studied at the university here in his hometown, at first in Law, a subject from which he withdrew a year before potential qualification, and then in the Arts. Unlike many impoverished artists throughout history, Cézanne managed to achieve a certain level of recognition and income from his work during his lifetime, though he never acquired the wealth and prestige of his close friend Zola. The enormous values and adoring recognition of Cézanne’s work were to come, unfortunately for him, long after his death due to pleurisy.

The universities endure to this day and every evening the ochre coloured squares fill with students, giving the town a youthful yet studious feel. There’s a lovely buzz but it’s never rowdy, in fact we get the distinct feeling that these thronging bars are filled more with intellectual conversation than they ever are with revelry. 

But somewhere out there beyond the confines of the lovely town of Aix lies the renowned Provence landscape, inspiration to countless artists and a favourite destination of so many travellers. It’s time to find out for ourselves if that reputation is justified…..

…. There is not a breath of wind. The sun beats down from a cloudless sky and caresses our faces with its dry, loving heat, the only sound is the constant, incessant humming of bees – bees which are so intent on their proper job that they’re never going to trouble intruders like us, they have far too much to do. The lavender scent fills the air, baked even more potent by the insistent sun. It’s a heady, intoxicating odour.

We are so lucky to be here at this time of year. Gabrielle our guide tells us that these fabulous lavender blooms appeared only a few days ago, and then will be harvested within a fortnight at most. This is a short time span; there is only a very limited part of the year where this part of Provence has such a vivid look. We are seeing the lavender fields of Provence just as Cézanne did: lines of deep, deep purple against the verdant green of the rolling hills. It’s beautiful.

As the lavender dispels its beautiful colours and scents and the sunflowers shine their impeccable yellow, the almond trees have long shed their pretty blossoms and started the business of creating nuts while the olive trees and vines work towards their respective seasons of produce. Around them all, the rolling hills creep upwards as they become foothills to the Alps, rivers crash through gorges, rocky outcrops survey the agricultural landscapes from above. It’s all stunningly lovely.

We take a break at Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, an excruciatingly quaint village which is in every way the epitome of a perfect mountain setting, the stream drawing a straight line between the two halves of the village as it cascades down its rocky path, ochre buildings huddled together in their confined space, traders selling honey…jams…olives. Tourism has obviously arrived, but nevertheless this little village looks just as it must have done a very long time ago.

From here we head to the Verdon Gorge, the “Grand Canyon” of France, and then further on to Lac de Sainte-Croix, a lake which is as sumptuously blue as the Mediterranean itself, nestling beautifully between its towering sides. Provence is such splendid country, with so many delights: beautiful scenery, rolling hills, sumptuous villages, ancient towns bursting with history. 

As we meander down to the shores of this amazingly blue lake, it’s a toss-up between being in the water or on it; after some deliberation we opt for “on” and spend a delightful hour negotiating its rippling blue waters on a pedalo, of all things. It’s actually lovely, admiring this wonderful scenery as our little craft bobs along the waters.

This incredibly blue lake is as beautiful as any of its better known Italian counterparts, the gorge is deep and spectacular, the waters as inviting as the ocean. There is a truly unique beauty about the countryside of Provence, enchanting and endearing and endlessly changing. We can only wonder how magical it would be to spend a whole year here and watch the changing seasons pass through.

There are already two different elements to this region which have completely won our hearts and ensured this lengthy trip is off to the best of starts: Aix the town for one, and Provence the region for the other, both so wonderfully charming and so indisputably beautiful that we are already fearful of leaving too soon.

But then again, we aren’t finished just yet…

Fountains & A Festival: Avignon & Aix

Aix-en-Provence is known to some as the “city of water” and to others as the “city of a thousand fountains”, both nicknames stemming from the numerous natural springs dotted around town. In fact, there were once more than a hundred fountains here, though probably not a thousand, and nowadays something like 30 remain. Losing ourselves in these quaint streets, emerging from beneath plane trees to bright sunlight and from narrow alleys to open squares is utterly delightful; Aix is so very attractive, a lovely, welcoming town.

Each of the fountains in Aix tells a story, each has its own character, but perhaps the most quirky is Fontaine Moussue, the “mossy fountain” which, as the name would suggest, has been completely smothered in moss growth over the years. This fountain is fed by the waters of the Bagniers spring, so warm that apparently the fountain sits beneath a cloud of steam for most of the winter – that must be a sight to see. Allegedly, Cocteau once commented that there are so many fountains in Aix that “a blind man would believe that it always rains”.

There’s no sign of rain this Saturday morning as we make a relatively early start and head to the Gare Routiers for the 8am bus to Avignon; on the way down we find that the two main squares of Aix have been cleared of cafe tables and repopulated with flower and produce stalls as the town prepares itself for the weekend markets. Away from those squares though Aix is eerily quiet and the screeches of the overhead swifts seem to be twice as loud.

And so to Avignon, which is in the throes of its annual Arts festival, the scale of which has to be seen to be believed. The city is awash with posters promoting dozens of different shows, temporary ticket booths in the streets have lengthy queues by 10am and almost every street seems to be home to either a permanent theatre or a festival-specific venue. Or both. Characters in costume tout tickets for their show, performing miniature excerpts as part of the sales pitch: this must be what Edinburgh feels like during the Fringe.

Someone tells us there are around 950 performances of the various shows during the three weeks of the festival, and that doesn’t include concerts by the many local bands performing gigs over the same period. This is some festival. Avignon is doubly alive: theatre goers filling their boots with shows while tourists like us gaze awestruck at its history-soaked buildings. 

And those buildings are not just spectacular but unique in history. In the early 14th century, under intense pressure from French royalty and with an increasingly fractious relationship with the city of Rome, Pope Clement V, a Frenchman himself who had been elected Pope in 1305, moved the Papacy away from Rome and relocated to Avignon in 1309. Rome was finished, Avignon was the new epicentre of the Catholic faith. This was no short lived Papal tantrum either, it would be a full 67 years and 7 Popes later that the power base returned to the Vatican. If they hadn’t gone back, the Vatican could well now be a ruin. Or even the site of a shopping mall. Imagine that. 

The most obvious legacy of this unique piece of history is the fabulous ancient buildings of immense dimensions which dominate the centre of Avignon. The Palais des Papes, a colossal and rambling set of giant lofty buildings, provides an absorbing opportunity to wander through its mighty spaces and attain some level of understanding of the those grandiose times. Though much restoration work has been carried out, the ancient construction retains as much of a sense of scale as it does its unique history.

Avignon still nestles within remarkably well preserved city walls which to this day still form an unbroken ring around the centre, though of course now the greater city has expanded a long way beyond its original confines. Despite the expansion this is one impressive line of defence to have stood the test of time as well as this: it’s substantially intact.

In front of the Palais and the adjacent cathedral lies a large square which slopes gently from top to bottom and side to side; cafes fill the lower end while towards the top, steps lead up to the lovely Jardin Des Doms with its stunning views of the city and beyond. Beneath these lovely gardens the city wall follows the line of the Rhone as it flows majestically through town, past the famed bridge and on towards the sea. The commanding Fort Saint-André sits beyond the river as if still waiting to deter invaders.

Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, the neighbouring village, and the fort, lie just beyond the island of Barthelasse within the Rhone, which at 7 square kilometres is the largest river island in France. From these gardens we are compelled to make our way to the bridge: it is, of course, obligatory while visiting here to walk out on to the famous Pont d’Avignon, look out across the Rhone and resist the temptation to sing that song – though it has to be said that several of our fellow, French, visitors don’t even try to resist and belt out more of the lyrics than we would be able to recite.

In fact, the Pont d’Avignon, correctly named Pont Saint-Bénézet, has a significant set of stories to tell from its long history. For one, it took centuries to build and rebuild due to both geological and human resistance – even the Pope sent in the troops to halt progress at one point. When eventually completed, the bridge spanned 900 metres across 22 arches. Successive storms and high waters continued to inflict damage upon the ill-fated construction until eventually, in the mid 17th century, it was finally abandoned. All that remains now is the small St Nicholas chapel and a dead-end stretch of four arches, effectively an elongated stage for singing THAT song while the family laugh and  record it on video.

Avignon and our base at Aix-en-Provence are extreme cultural havens, especially at this time of year with the festival in progress in one and the overriding sense of cultural history in both. 

Before we leave Aix-en-Provence behind, we should return to the town’s favourite son, Paul Cézanne, as inescapable here as, say, Shakespeare in Stratford-on-Avon or Dickens in Broadstairs. Uphill from the centre of Aix, Cézanne’s self-designed studio remains as it was during his most productive years, the place where he created many of his best known works, including the many paintings of Mont Ste Victoire visible across the fields. The studio is still packed with items which were the subject of Cézanne’s still life paintings, including a terracotta jug which featured in more than twenty of his works.

This is a wonderful little town in what is obviously magnificent country. We’ve only been here a few days but we are truly enchanted. It may be time to move on now and leave this lovely town of Aix-en-Provence behind, but we’re not moving too far. Provence has hooked us and the flexible nature of this trip has already shown its benefits – neither of us have any desire to leave Provence behind just yet.

Let’s see what else lies in these gorgeous pastures.

FOOTNOTE: For those who can remember that we don’t have much luck with gadgets or technology, the curse has struck again. We were only on Day 4 of what will be a 100-day-plus trip when Michaela’s beloved camera decided to keel over and die – just outside of its warranty period as per bloody usual. Unfortunately we’re going to have to rely on iphone cameras for a while until we can source a replacement.

Black Bulls, Roman Ruins And A Missing Ear: From Aix To Arles

It was a waiter in Aix who first gave us the idea.

“If you love Aix”, he said as he put down our sparkling golden beers on the table, “then please go to my town, Arles. It is even more beautiful than Aix”. Well, it’s going to have to go some to achieve that, but maybe we should give it a go – why not? And so we hatch a new plan.

Counter intuitively, all the websites tell us it’s quicker to make the journey between the two towns by taking one train down to Marseille and another back up country to Arles, which feels a bit like going from Surrey to Sussex via London. It’s all going well until just after we board the train in Marseille, when loud alarms start to sound around the station and the word “evacuate” comes over loud and clear in several languages. Apparently there’s some kind of bomb scare in the complex and we spend the next hour or so with hundreds of others hanging around outside the locked doors of the station while gendarmes and pompiers sweep the area. Ah, c’est la vie.

As a result we’re about 90 minutes late arriving in Arles but the sun has lost none of its afternoon power as we wander off the main road and into the tiny street where our next bed awaits. Another apartment, another amazing location. It takes us just a few minutes to believe that the smiling waiter back in Aix may just be right.

Eager to get out and explore, we are inevitably drawn towards the Arena – more of that in a minute – where the sound of some sort of announcer is audible from several hundred yards away. Clearly something is going on in there. Who cares what it is, let’s hand over some euros and go see what the noise is about. Inside the splendid Arena – more of that in a minute – is a bullring, a lively, vociferous MC and a group of fit looking lads all dressed in white.

Now, before the “cruelty to animals” lobby shut this post down, there are significant differences between Provençal “bull racing” and Spanish bullfights – for a start, the men here carry absolutely no weapons and there is no intention to hurt the bull in any way. On the contrary in fact, this is all about the young men of Arles being quick and agile enough to race to the sides of the ring and vault the fences just before something terrible happens to their backside.

The black bulls of Provence are smaller, faster and quicker to respond than their Spanish counterparts, and it’s sometimes a close run thing between pursuer and pursued: the reaction of the crowd when one of the young men only just escapes a buffeting suggests that there is a certain schadenfreude in the entertainment here. These guys are as agile as gymnasts and as quick as sprinters; the bulls are equally animated and the whole thing is an enjoyable spectacle. In truth, the aim is for one of the guys to snatch a ribbon from the bull’s head and gleefully leap the fences, trophy in hand. Of course, the men win every time.

Once it’s over, the white clad boys, clearly shattered now, receive a ripple of applause. The three participant bulls, though, are paraded to a standing ovation which they – honestly! – seem to play up to.

Anyway, let’s get out and explore this town. Arles became a place of huge importance within the Holy Roman Empire as successive Emperors ordered the construction of more and more of the city as its standing grew. Having first been occupied by the Romans in 123BC, Arles was to become a significant city within twenty years. In the battle for supremacy between Julius Caesar and Pompey The Great, Arles backed the former whilst nearby Massalia (Marseille) supported Pompey. Backing the winner was to pay off as Arles was subsequently rewarded with sizeable investment whilst Massalia was by comparison left to rot.

The 21st century legacy is a small town with an astonishing number of well preserved Roman remains: a compact place which brings delights around every corner. 

First there is the aforementioned Arena (told you we’d come back to it), reminiscent of the Colosseum in Rome and, more so, El Jem in Tunisia, both of which we have visited in the last year or so. Close by is a marvellously preserved amphitheatre, currently complete with stage and light rigging in readiness for music concerts, and atmospheric subterranean crypts where the dripping waters give a cave-like feel to the atmosphere.

The list goes on: large scale remains of Roman baths built at the request of Emperor Constantine I, the beautifully adorned St Trophime Church with its ancient cloisters, and an extensive and fascinating Roman necropolis, Alyscamps. Alyscamps was for a long time the most sought after burial ground for Europe’s wealthiest people, with bodies shipped from across the continent in order to be ensconced inside sarcophagi here. The site is mentioned in Dante’s Inferno, and it is even said that Jesus Christ himself attended the funeral of St Trophimus.

Drawn in a large part by the unique and beautiful light of Provence, artists have for centuries gravitated to this region and specifically to Arles, which lists Van Gogh, Picasso and Gaugin among its former citizens, to name just three. It was here in Arles, in fact, that Van Gogh cut off his ear as his mental state deteriorated, and after two spells inside an institution, his fate was finally sealed when inhabitants of the town drew up a petition to have this troublesome character “sectioned”. The downward spiral which ended in his death by suicide had begun. We haven’t come across any reference as to where the ear ended up. 

On a more positive note, Van Gogh produced around 300 works in just over a year here – some of his most recognisable paintings feature scenes within the town. The famed “Cafe de la Nuit”, now predictably renamed Cafe Van Gogh, is instantly identifiable even without the reproductions of the piece which hang on its front wall. It was amongst the trees at Alyscamps that Van Gogh and Gauguin first painted together; Van Gogh found its atmosphere to have a peaceful and calming influence on his increasingly troubled mind.

The roles played by the town of Arles in the history of the Roman Empire, Catholicism, culture and philosophy are far too deep for us to detail here, Wikipedia is a much more thorough source of information, but it’s fair to say that it is very easy to lose oneself in history as you wander the short distances between these amazing sights. Such meandering is hugely enhanced by the fabulous streets between those UNESCO World Heritage sites, where tightly knit houses sport pastel coloured window shutters and drape colourful bougainvillea and other flowers into the narrow streets.

Little wonder that artists were drawn to Arles, every street within its centre looks like the work of a great painter – or looks like a street waiting to be reproduced on canvas – so much so that the streets somehow have a familiar look even if you’ve never been here before. 

Even the food is a step up. With Provence’s worldwide reputation for delicious dishes, we were surprised to find the menus of Aix dominated by pizza and pasta, maybe the consequence of a young student population. Here in Arles the choices are much more in line with our high expectations. We are so very pleased that we took that waiter’s advice and made the detour to Arles, a gorgeous and fascinating little town. 

Carcassonne And On: Wine, Music, Food, Wine…And More 

Walt Disney is said to have loved this place so much that he modelled the castle of Sleeping Beauty on it. Up there on on the hill it looks like everyone’s idea of a fairy tale setting, with its perfectly cylindrical turrets pointing upwards so precisely that it’s tempting to look out for Rapunzel letting down her hair or some other damsel in distress calling out for help in the hope that her knight in shining armour appears over the horizon. The damsels, though, are tourists, and so for that matter are those coming over the horizon.

Carcassonne is a town of two halves however you look at it. The “Cité”, the ancient fortified city on the top of the hill, is a beautiful place to wander, very much in the style of other citadels around the world with a labyrinth of streets radiating towards or away from the castle itself. These streets and their tiny squares are filled with cafes, restaurants and shops selling local produce; they are also filled with tourists ambling slowly through. It’s a beautiful place but it does get very busy by day.

Meanwhile, down in “ordinary” Carcassonne, the “ville basse”, or lower town, which itself has a history dating back to the Middle Ages, is an absolutely typical French provincial town, far less touristy and a great town to explore. Two rivers and a canal thread their way through, ancient bridges and gateways lead from the ville basse to the Cité, and, in the centre, a large tree-filled square is THE place to watch the world go by. 

Right now though there is an extra bonus. We are in the midst of the French holiday month, during which a large proportion of the population traditionally head for the hills or the beaches. One consequence of this is that every town seems to be in the throes of a festival of some kind: Aix, Arles and particularly Avignon were all in overdrive with one branch of the arts or another, and here in Carcassonne the medium is music.

Down in the squares there are free gigs each night, two of which are particularly good, a rock band going by the name of Just Delayed and a well respected avant garde performer named Dominique A: both of these keep us entertained for the full show. Up in the castle grounds, though, another much more grand concert venue has been put together in the most amazing setting – and there are some serious names among this season’s performers.

Bob Dylan and Steve Hackett have already played here this month, and next week both Tom Jones and Joe Bonamassa are on the gig list. As it happens, we will be back here in Carcassonne to coincide with both of those last two – and would probably give our right arm to see Bonamassa, whose music we listen to regularly at home, in a setting as fabulous as this. The concert is unfortunately though predictably sold out, but we’ve put some feelers out with a local facilitator called Vincent – “if I can find, I will get” – just in case. He isn’t hopeful, but you never know your luck….

There’s a reason we’ll be back in Carcassonne so soon. There we were, pondering over the where-to-go-next possibilities, unable to shake off the feeling that we’re not finished with Provence, when we hit upon the idea of hiring a car and driving back across the region to pick up some of the places we have missed over the last two weeks. And, with the further unshakable thought that we have some unfinished business with the wine, the metaphorical pin in the map lands on….Chateauneuf du Pape. Wine mecca. Wine paradise. Oh the joys of travelling unplanned.

And so we’re off across country, avoiding not only the autoroutes but even the Routes Nationales, taking a circuitous and very long drive back from Occitania, through the Languedoc National Park, along the D-classified roads all the way to the rocky hills of the Rhone Valley. All the way, in fact, to the home of some of our very favourite wine from anywhere in the world. The most unmissable aspect of the long drive is the incredible amount of square miles eaten up by vineyards, the massive amount of land covered by the trade really is quite staggering.

The little hilltop village of Chateauneuf du Pape is as cosy and picturesque as its wines are delicious; a fabulous little place of just 2,000 inhabitants where there is absolutely no doubting what is its claim to fame: it is unashamedly all about the wine here. We have Pope John XXII to thank for both the summer retreat which gives the village its name (Chateauneuf du Pape = “new castle of the Pope”) and for planting the original vines on these perfectly conditioned slopes. 

Caveaux are everywhere throughout the village and, strange as it sounds, the “degustation”, or wine tasting, is free of charge in every one of them, each proprietor hoping to tempt the punter into buying a crate or two in return for a few gratis tasters of his best. If so disposed, you could tour this village and tank up on top quality wine without parting with a single euro – until, that is, it’s time to eat, when the restaurants will happily come between you and quite a lot of your euros. We should point out though the food is of outstanding quality too.

Visiting the Chateauneuf wine museum is an absolute education. We learn of the blended grape varieties which go to make those classic Chateauneuf notes, the time honoured methods used in its creation and the natural conditions which make the Rhone Valley such a perfect location for viticulture. The museum is good grounding for setting off on a tour around the caveaux – and, by the way, this remarkable village is filled with people quaffing wine from around 10am onwards. Full bodied red with your croissant, Sir? Oh go on then.

The sunshine which bathes Chateauneuf du Pape for 2,800 hours per year is working its magic right now, too – these baking hot days are tempered only slightly by the Mistral wind which is a weak version of its often ferocious self at this time of year, rippling flags and rustling trees but blowing warm air rather than doing anything more threatening. This dry, baking heat is so different from those sweaty, humid days in Asia.

Despite the heat, we know a hike is calling, and with the Sentier Viticole, the “vineyard trail” just a short distance from the village centre, we set off on Sunday morning with a plentiful water supply and a modest sense of adventure. Once again the sheer expanse of vineyards is astonishing; for much of the hike there are no other crops to see, just miles and miles of stony ground and orderly lines of vines, bunches of tiny young grapes gorging on the sunshine.

The air is thick with the chirping of cicadas, their deafening cacophony of sound an incessant high pitched buzz sounding something like a dangerous electrical discharge, and the heady scent of sun-baked pine trees, a smell which for both of us so readily brings back memories of childhood Mediterranean holidays. It’s so hot today that the pine scent is rather like that of newly cut wood at a sawmill. The cicadas, known locally as cigales, have no concept of personal space or apparently our presence: our faces and bodies are regularly battered as these weighty insects rebound off us in full flight and in huge numbers. The whole thing is like walking through an insect hailstorm: it’s essential to keep your mouth tightly shut as you walk through repeated squadrons of these blighters.

It’s worth noting the welcome role these little beasts play though: cicadas are much loved by vineyard owners as they spend much of their day devouring those smaller critters which may otherwise destroy the fruits of the vine. Everything has its role, huh. Cicadas are a crucial part of the viticultural ecology, so esteemed are they in fact that even the local beer here pays respect: it’s called Bierre des Cigales and there’s a graphic of a cicada on every glass.

It’s been so worth retracing our steps across Provence, we feel like we’ve done it  a bit more justice now, at least for a first visit, though we both have a feeling that we may be back someday. It’s a beautiful area. The wine’s not bad either – did we mention that?

By the time we slump into the shaded seats at La Part des Anges, Erica the rather brilliant waitress quickly fetches a couple of glasses of Cigales beer and asks why we’re looking quite so exhausted. In my best Franglais I recount tales of our morning’s hike as her jaw starts to drop. She thinks we’re completely mad for having been out there for a few hours under the baking sun in this heatwave, and tells us that our time would be far better spent drinking wine instead of wearing ourselves out.

OK Erica, you win. Fetch me a glass of your finest red.

Southbound Again: Wine Into Water

It’s getting pretty hot now. The dashboard temperature gauge blinks up to 37 on the drive back across country and we are hearing whispers of a Mediterranean heatwave which could at the very least break the 40 barrier in the coming week, so the vaulted ceilings and tall windows of our next apartment are a welcome sight. This place must have been a truly grand townhouse in its day. Built in 1735 and not converted to apartments until 1980, it’s our guess that the original owners, a family named Roques-Guilhem, had the 18th century equivalent of big bank accounts.

The airy living room is a blessing: since leaving Paris two weeks ago we’ve not had the benefit of air conditioning in any of our abodes and have had only portable fans and dehumidifiers on wheels to keep us cool. Noisy fans and sweaty rooms don’t equate to peaceful sleep, so the new place feels good even though it’s another one on “AC-free” list.

Here we are back in Carcassonne, returned from our sortie deep into wine territory and back on to our intended southbound trajectory, one full day back here before the journey continues. En route back to Carcassonne we take a small detour to the magnificent Pont du Gard, and what an incredible sight it is. What remains of Pont du Gard today is impressive enough, but the engineering marvel that it once was just sets the mind racing.

At 160ft above the river, this is the highest ancient bridge in the world, and by some distance the highest aqueduct the Romans are known to have ever built. What a feat its construction was: carrying nearly 9 million gallons of water every single day along its 31-mile length to bring much needed water supplies from the springs near Uzès to the dry city of Nemausus (now Nimes). The two towns are only 12 miles apart as the crow flies, but with a straight line waterway an impossibility due to the mountainous terrain of the Massif Central, the Romans were forced to devise the much longer curving route. 

The drop in altitude from start to finish is only 56 feet, meaning that the gradient of this aqueduct was more gentle than virtually any other, which in turn meant that a large continuous flow of water was essential for the whole incredible concept to work. A structure like this with today’s resources would be an amazing achievement – for such a feat to be completed 2,000 years ago is just mind blowing. Today the triple tiered construction stands over the valley with a mighty presence, looking over a pleasant stretch of river where locals and visitors alike bathe in its shadows in the cooling waters of the River Gardon. The unforgettable moment though is when you first enter the valley and set eyes on this monument to human endeavour: it’s a truly emotive sight.

Back in Carcassonne and sipping the first Pelforth beer of our return, Vincent the Facilitator is soon in touch. He’s not been able to secure any concert tickets on our behalf, in fact he tells us they are mostly “nominative”, and we know what that means, so it seems that the great Joe Bonamassa will have to do his thing tonight without the honour of our presence up in the castle. So near yet so far. Then, just a couple of hours before start time, I get an email from a website where I’d left another line of enquiry: one single seat has become available at the princely sum of £253. We demur.

So for our final afternoon in Carcassonne we take a boat trip on Canal du Midi, which turns out to be more than the simple boat ride we thought: we hadn’t realised that the modest looking canal passing through the town locks was part of quite such an important and historic waterway.

The canal forms one section of a route created over 15 years from 1666 to 1681, the brainchild and ambition of many an Emperor and leader way before its completion during the reign of Louis XIV. By building canals linking with the Garonne, the major achievement of this waterway was to form a passage between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, so saving the hugely lengthy trip around the Iberian peninsula and through the Straits of Gibraltar. 

Its 150-mile course is still navigable today, though only of course to launches rather smaller than the merchant ships which once made their way through. A journey through its full length wouldn’t be an easy or quick trip though, with 63 locks to negotiate along the way. As is so often the case with mammoth engineering projects such this, its designer and chief engineer, Pierre-Paul Riquet, didn’t live to see his dream fulfilled and died just eight months before the canal was opened to traffic.

On our last night in Carcassonne, the Gadget Curse strikes again, and my iPhone resolutely refuses to take a charge, rendering it useless. Just over two weeks in and we are now minus one camera and down to a single phone. Aren’t these things meant to come in threes?

But it’s time to move on again. Carcassonne’s breakfast cafes are only just opening up as we trudge through town to the train station, the delicious scent of freshly baked croissants drifting across the square. The first train, to Perpignan, takes us past vast lakes where flocks of pink flamingos feed at the water’s edge, and along the shores of what this morning is a surprisingly grey looking Mediterranean. After Perpignan we leave the coast and head inland, up into wonderful mountain scenery as we enter the domain of the Pyrenees, fruit trees replacing vines and castles and monasteries looking down from the towering mountains. Yet again we are spellbound by the beauty around us.

The little station at the end of our journey carries the name of both of two nearby villages, but turns out to be in neither of them, and is instead amongst the pines and hemmed in by mountains. Sitting in the sun outside the deserted rural station, we might be in the midst of stunning scenery but what we are not, of course, is in the heart of civilisation. Our next bed is some 6 kilometres away through the valleys; there’s no bus stop, there’s no taxis. The ticket office man just shrugs his shoulders when we ask (note: we were to discover later that the bus stop is only 10 minutes walk away – he could definitely have been more helpful!). There are, though, some phone numbers for taxis on a poster on the wall.

“Ce n’est pas possible”, says the first, when we call.

“Non”, says the second, rather more gruff than is necessary.

“Ce n’est pas possible”, says another.

The fourth is a dead line. This could take a while……

Into The Pyrenees: Mountain Hikes And Marvellous Trains

After a run of apartments we’re now in a middle sized family run hotel in the beautiful Pyrenees mountains in Vernet-les-Bains, a quiet and ancient hot spring spa village nestled among the towering peaks. We arrive with the mountains basking in the glorious afternoon light of bright sunshine, then watch in delight as the evening casts the mountains as yet darker shadows against the darkening sky. Overnight, cool mountain air fills our room through the open door to the balcony – it feels so long since we felt cool air – and by morning the silent giants form a blurred jagged line in the misty light. 

Mountain views from a hotel balcony are so special, they just have a way of making you feel alive. From everywhere in the village you can hear the rushing water of the young river which dashes over the rocks through the centre: at this time of year the sound is a playful chuckle rather than the roar of winter. Great setting, wonderful scenery.

Catalan influences are creeping in, too. The menus here are in French first and Catalan Spanish dialect second, and, joyously, not much English. Town and train station name plates are in those same two tongues, conversational French is laced with Catalan words and phrases. Red and yellow striped flags flutter alongside the tricolour. When one evening a band takes to the stage in the village square and plays sardana music, there is no doubting we’ve entered Catalunya.

Vernet-les-Bains sits 658 metres above sea level but is dwarfed by its surroundings with pine and oak clad mountains towering above the village on all sides. This is terrific hiking country, marked trails leave the village in various directions, so off we go to tackle a circular route rising at its highest point to Pic de l’Alzina at 1,017 metres. The views are, of course, beyond magnificent. It strikes us just how well sound carries in locations such as this: high on the trail more than 300 metres above the village, we can clearly hear the sounds of disembodied voices and barking dogs below.

I’m not a great fan of swimming pools, but as we look down on Vernet-les-Bains from up on the mountain, the bright blue rectangle of the public pool makes the thought of resting in the sun and cooling off in the pool after our hike seem like a good idea. We eagerly change clothes and head off for a dip or two – except when we get there, I’m not allowed in. Michaela’s swimsuit is OK, but my swimming shorts – you know, the kind of swimming shorts worn by men the world over and particularly by self-respecting gentlemen above a certain age – are, apparently, not acceptable. I protest more in surprise than anger, but it’s a very definite “Non!”.

Apparently the only way this stern female gatekeeper will let me in is if I pay 8 euros to hire – HIRE, Godammit ! – a pair of tight fitting speedos. Why on Earth these people think the French public will be happier seeing me in a pair of budgie-smuggling skimpies rather than a decent pair of respectable shorts is beyond me…unless snaring the odd 8 euros from unsuspecting visitors is motivation enough for this obtuse policy. I decline the opportunity and forego the swim, figuring nobody – nobody! – wants to see that.

And so to the event that was the primary reason for choosing this particular part of the Pyrenees, “le petit train jaune” or “little yellow train”. We owe a huge debt of thanks to Helen aka The Venomous Bead for being the first to tell us of this wonderful train journey; until Helen’s prompt we knew nothing of its existence, yet it turns out to be another fabulous day on what is so far a splendid French adventure.

This unusual train which despite being a tourist attraction is still operated by SNCF as part of the main network, has been making its steep journey up into the Pyrenees since 1909. When we first researched the train following Helen’s tip-off, we so wanted to grab seats in one of the open carriages, and despite a bit of a scramble at the start point at Villefranche-de-Conflent, we snare a couple right by the edge of one such carriage. Perfect, just what we wanted.

We opt for the full journey, just over three hours each way – so wonderful are the views, so exhilarating is the journey, that the six-and-a-half round trip never once becomes tedious or pedestrian. You don’t need to be a train enthusiast to be thrilled by this experience, but, if you like me you do indeed love rail travel, it’s an absolutely brilliant day. In the first half of the outward journey, the train pulls up some significant inclines as it moves through spectacular Pyrenees scenery, crossing gorges and clinging to mountainsides with giant drops just at the side of the track.

The views when crossing the amazingly high Pont de Cassagne suspension bridge are akin to the view when taking off in an aeroplane, and catching a glimpse of the rest of the train as it curves over the Pont Séjourné bridge is a classic and dramatic railway snapshot. This surely has to be one of the World’s greatest train journeys.

Starting at Villefranche-de-Conflent at 427m, the track rises to Bolquère-Eyne, which at 1,593m is the highest train station in the whole of France. From here the track descends only slightly, ending up at Latour de Carol Enveitg, where connections exist to both the French and Spanish rail networks, making this the only station in Europe, possibly the world, with three different gauge “standard” tracks at one station. By “standard”, we mean conventional rail tracks rather than rack railway etc.

The return journey is no less exhilarating. Again we snare seats in the open carriage – in the hot sun for most of the trip but boy that air is a LOT colder at the highest point – and soak up all the panoramas from the opposite viewpoint. Incidentally, this trip is amazing value for money, the whole return journey of over six hours costing only 10 euros per person. If that’s not bargain enough, I get a 10% discount for being over 65, and then as yellow train passengers we also receive 10% discount off an already cheap lunch at the far end. You really can’t beat that for value for a fabulous day out.

I have been so looking forward to this day, and it has been infinitely better than even I anticipated. Waiting for the outbound train in the morning sun, I felt full of childlike excitement: on the platform, a German guy of similar age to me was obviously feeling just the same and danced a little excited jig as the train pulled in, much to his Frau’s amusement. I know just how you’re feeling, bud.

Including lunch at Latour de Carol, the trip is more than eight hours in total, yet even after a journey of this length, it still feels like it’s over too soon as we pull back into Villefranche and walk away from the quaint station.

Unfortunately the bus timetable doesn’t quite correspond with the yellow train’s return and we miss the bus by a whisker despite hurrying up the hill. This forces us to wander into Villefranche and suffer the torture of spending an hour drinking beer and wine in its gorgeous little square. This torture is so bad that we end up staying much longer than an hour and order tapas, at least one carafe of the house red and, eventually, grab a seat on the last bus home. It feels like one of those magical days of travel.

A good portion of the evening is spent talking through today’s experience, and how good it can be when being part of the travel blogging world can bring you a day like today. Big thank you again to Helen, without whose tip this day wouldn’t even have happened.

Last Days In France: Down The Valley Of The Têt

Dark clouds sometimes gather over Le Canigou, the iconic mountain of the Eastern Pyrenees which looms over our village, and during one evening we catch the sound of distant thunder rolling around the towering giants, but Vernet-les-Bains stays dry. The last drop of rain we saw was when the heavens opened in Paris almost three weeks ago; the summer sun has been in charge since then.

Our village of Vernet-les-Bains is so good, its beautiful mountain setting enhanced by the little square where Bar Chez Jean-Louis serves beer to weathered old guys endlessly puffing on cigarettes and the tapas bar next door gives us a little foretaste of the Catalan cuisine which lies ahead. Breakfast is great too: just grab a croissant from Marie the boulanger and take it to whoever is doing coffee this morning, it may be Jean-Louis or it may be someone else, but whoever it is, they don’t bat an eyelid if you bring your own food from Marie’s. 

And who wouldn’t love a village where the chicken rotisserie has a name, and a logo, like this:-

While Vernet-les-Bains is delightful, the neighbouring village of Villefranche-de-Conflent is so picturesque that it threatens to steal the show. Sitting where the River Cady joins the River Têt, hence the “conflent” bit of the name, practically all of the village still sits within the fortified walls with barely a handful of buildings on the outside. The encircling rivers, mountains and walls make it virtually impossible for anything to change here and so this ancient village remains all but untouched by development.

This place is in the heart of historically disputed territory, the many wars between France and Spain rendering these parts both a battleground and a prized possession. Villefranche has been ruled at different times by the Celts, Romans, Visigoths, Moors, the Spanish, the French and Majorca, and only when Catalunya was split between Spain and France and a boundary drawn after the Treaty Of The Pyrenees of 1659 was Villefranche finally placed under permanent French rule.

Such exposure to warfare called for the construction of serious defences, the walls which wrap around the village are double width with passageways between – passageways which enabled its defenders to move unseen by those laying siege and then fire on them as they advanced. These walls are so well preserved that now, for the payment of a small fee for upkeep, you can walk a large part of these ramparts, still hidden from view just as those embattled soldiers were centuries ago.

Walls were not enough though, as Villefranche’s position in the bottom of the valley rendered it vulnerable to attack, and so construction of Fort Libéria was necessary. In came battlement expert and military engineer to Louis XIV, one Sebastian de Vauban, who designed the innovative and peculiarly shaped fort, using the limited hilltop space to great effect. 

Later, in the 1850s and with Napoleon III fearing further onslaughts, and in order to facilitate movement between village and fort, a subterranean staircase was built inside the mountain, through a steeply rising tunnel. Known as the “Tunnel of a Thousand Steps”, though there are actually 734, it’s a pretty remarkable secret passage. We ascend via the exterior stony path and return down to town via this eerie, gloomy stairwell, imagining as we descend the history within the ancient stones of this odd innovation.

Part of the fort’s history is the tale of the Villefranche Poisoners, a group of Catalan ladies imprisoned in the fort after a conspiracy to poison Louis XIV’s representatives in the garrison, in protest at the suppression of Catalunya. The men who appropriated the poison were tortured horribly before execution, but six women charged with concocting the poisons were imprisoned within the fort. Chained to a wall in perpetuity and provided with minimal rations, two of these women survived, incredibly, for more than 35 years – the last one dying after 42 years in chains. Just imagine living for 42 years chained to a wall.

Villefranche-de-Conflent itself is a charming collection of ancient dwellings huddled along tight lanes. Quiet courtyards hide between the houses, the church and its lofty belfry look down on the quaint square, wrought iron signs hang from shopfronts. It’s ridiculously pretty. Admittedly there’s a tourist element to those shops, but, you know, there’s a reason that some places attract more visitors than others – they are special.

It’s a quiet Sunday morning as we leave the Pyrenees behind, for now, and take the train down the Têt valley – journey time 49 minutes, cost 1 euro each – to arrive in the city of Perpignan just as the lunch cafes fill up with families. Perpignan’s shops, and half its restaurants, are shut. Those eateries which are open are obviously getting their just rewards as tables fill up and the carafes are quickly filled with rosé; parents and grandparents eat, drink and chatter while the kids play games, chase off pigeons and then come back to the table when it’s time for ice cream. 

Expecting nothing much more from Perpignan than a one night stand on our journey south, we are surprised and delighted by the beautifully adorned cavernous cathedral, and even more so by the Palais des Rois de Majorque (Palace of the Kings Of Majorca).

The palace is hugely impressive, having been built at the end of the 13th century when Perpignan was the capital of the Kingdom of Majorca, as decreed by King James II of Majorca, which was a province rather than just an island back then. Later, and again after the signing of the Treaty Of The Pyrenees, the French strengthened its fortification – and again it was that man Vauban who was brought in to do the job. Clearly Vauban was worth his wages, with so many of his creations still intact several centuries later. Military architecture as an art form, perhaps?

Away from these sights, Perpignan is, we find, just a little bit edgy. The streets of the old town seem to switch from modern day retail to decidedly unsavoury in a matter of yards: turn the wrong corner here and you are immediately on your guard. Large ragged dogs roam unfettered, odd looking characters lurk in doorways, broken beer bottles lay amid the litter on the paving slabs where inebriated young men swig beer from cans – yet within two minutes and around one corner, smart shops sell designer clothing at inflated prices and there’s not a trace of danger. There barely seems to be a boundary between the two extremes. We get the distinct feeling that it’s best not to wander too far after sundown.

Perpignan is the final call of what has been a rather brilliant French section of this adventure: it’s goodbye now to lavender and sunflower fields, farewell to the wines of Côtes du Rhone and Chataeuneuf du Pape, and au revoir to cassoulet and bouillabaisse. When we wake next morning we will be heading across the border to Spain. Next stop Barcelona.