features: autumn '24

I DON"T KNOW what to call this post. It is a collection of notes et images of things I want to make a note of, that's all. Move along, move along, there's nothing (well not a lot) to see here, one might opine: you'd not be far wrong. Just diary entries sort of thing but I don't keep a diary, just a log to aid my shrivelling recall.  And not in order either (as you will realise I have called this post, features: autumn '24). Anyway, here goes:

Dorte & Søren have done the deed, sold up after quite a few years, to focus on family and a nice seaside apartment they've bought back home in Denmark. This autumn they were in Sablet for just a week, renting part of Terrace Towers, John and Louise's former lodge before the Irish sold it on and bought that new build over the top of the tourist office in Gigondas. Mme M and self secured a lunch appointment with the Danes (plus Terry) at the Bar Des Sports on the day before they left. No images of the event were made I'm afraid and although D&S declare they will come and vacance in Sablet, the chances of coinciding with them looks a bit bleak. Oh well. All good things, etc. We are fond of them and wish them well. 

Change of subject:

LE CRESTET I think may have been the first village I projected myself possibly, ideally living in (in France, that is). It boasts one of the finest views of Les Baronnies known to man and is elegantly quaint with its narrow alleys, rough-stone houses, terraces, church, and overtopped by a moderately restored castle style chateau. It is atop a limestone ridge backed up with pine and oak forest, garrigue style. Picturesque. Mary brought me to see the place back in 1990 (see left) and it set a bench mark of aspiration. Le Crestet looks good from the road approach too, you come at it from down below. 

Trouble is: > s i g h < honey pot. It's rare that there aren't throngs. No shops either (a seasonal restaurant or two) and a long way down to the main road where the village does have a very satisfactory boulangerie, on the roundabout. Not to mention the Crestet Poterie. Or the seldom open chocalatier/icecream maker. Once Crestet sported a railway station down there as well, on the plain, on the metre gauge line (Orange to Buis) described in loving detail in this blog some years back. We have brought visitors to see Le Crestet (the village) but only if we are sure the hordes are minimal. 

We drive up to and round the higher village (numerous times over the years) to reach that other feature of Le Crestet, Crestet Centre d'Art with which we have had a long preoccupation (and as demonstrated elsewhere in this blog). We've not called into the old village for some years then, (last time with Dr G I think) but did so this autumn. Hardly a soul about: it was just like it was when M and your author first took a stroll around, although at that time the place was still being restored, back then, when we were still in our prime… although it was sunnier this visit.  I've taken to it again now. The views my dear, the views. Both of the village from below and from the village on top. But we suspect Crestet is actually mostly holiday homes and lets these days. It is the fate of such enchanting settlements. Tsch! 

But one can't simply waft around pretty little villages all the time, can one? Hmm: we seem to do quite a lot of that. How about some perambulation in the countryside?

See this lovely tree? This was how it looked in autumn 2020…

Disturbances to our Sunday habit of doing the Rasteau round led us to try tracks and pathways nearby, some known from previous explorations, others by trial and error. October can be tricky though: the Fr obsession with shooting things that move (they call it hunting) starts up at this time of year. I wonder how many innocent French citizens (and others) will be shot dead across France this season? It usually gets into double figures. Nothing much is done. 

We didn't get so far down our last track until high velocity rifle fire was heard. We could see chaps in high vis jackets on another route we had tried a few days previously: I am given to believe that these noble sporting types are not allowed to shoot across public rights of way… yeah…right. We retreated and joined the fundraiser going on in Rasteau instead… or rather, went and watched it, such as it was, over a lunch-time bevvy.

Change of subject:

Every village and hamlet should sport one of these compass roses. Need not be as big as this one (well why not if there is space) but it would certainly reduce arguments amongst those who don't resort to smart phone apps and have come out without their 'Silva'™(other makes of compass may work as well).  

This rose is in Suzette, and that hill in the background is Le Saint Armand, so it is. Of course we have (been up it).

soleil • sturnus vulgaris • déluge • brouillard

AUTUMN 2024 AND WE CAME BACK A WEEK EARLIER THAN ORIGINALLY ANTICIPATED… and by a significantly altered route, as you will immediately notice when you compare the proposed return agenda in the previous blog (the autumnal plan) with what we actually did, as displayed here, it stands out a mile! Check it out in your A4 wiro bound Michelin Road Atlas of France, to be fully up-to-speed with this development, of course…

Just in case you are half asleep with the fatigue of keeping pace with Mme Melling and self, I'll briefly point out that our anticipated fourth night was cancelled (in Roscoff); our route was adapted on the road on our first day of return travel as reflected below [we skipped Sète as it was a) as usual: half term, and b) nearly always: market day – both these things calculated to obstruct our through passage].  Weather and distance considerations encountered en route also caused us to refine our plans further between Mont de Marsan and La Rochelle. 

The return visit to Contis, the phare there, the wondrous shoreline before that wonderful tower, that was forfeit. 

Amended, what we achieved was this:

By judicious use of the A9 (and a moderately early departure from 1rueFB) we were able to avail ourselves of a timely petit dej in Marseillan, the home of Noilly Prat and still going even further up in the world. We generally scorn autoroute use, but when we come this way, it does make sense to employ the toll. 

After the statutory visit to the port entrance (see the masthead image) we motored on. I was rather taken aback by the hinterlands of both Agde and Béziers. I couldn't recall them being quite so decrepit and untidy. So quick, off to Barges, Peyriac de Mer and the étangs south of Narbonne. But at Peyriac we found hordes. Half term of course, should have known. Time was when this area was practically undiscovered. Not so now my dears. Oh well. It is the way of things. Nevertheless we took the air (which was still and warm) and fondly remembered the holiday in not-so-far-away Bizanet, when Narbonne and its coastal zone provided us with so much to see and do. This area scored top marks then and still is wonderful (for birds, plants, views, ships, wine and fresh sea air, swimming even). Trouble is, others think so aussi.

From Peyriac then, we resumed our progress through the Corbières (see the route above if you want detail) all the way to the Carcassonne ring road and then to Castelnaudary where we easily located our hotel, parked up outside it, more or less, and discovered it was closed until 17.30, at least. No matter, we are familiar with the centre of the town,  so made confit purchases (tins), took liquid refreshment, noted the awful noise emanating from the fun fair set up where we had expected to park the motor (the town square and adjacent to our overnight stop) – tired of it – so strolled down to the canal bassin, found comfy municipal seating and simply basked in the sun and watched the world go by. The Canal du Midi. Largest canal basin on the endeavour's entire length. Dug by hand. No boats came through. 

As this hotel had, many years back, provided self and the son-and-heir with arguably the best lunchtime cassoulet we have ever tasted, it was perhaps only natural that now as guests we should eat there again. Thankfully the fun fair shut up shop at dusk but neither Mme M or your author felt up to cassoulet any how. We ate well nevertheless, if not particularly exceptionally, save perhaps for the eye watering costings associated with the menu suggestions. A bottle of Pic St Loup for example was offered at a mere €50: we passed on it. The dishes followed suit, rather. We sucked it up. To add a bit of additional style to our table I ordered an Armagnac……

The noise of the fun fair, now abated, was replaced by a cacophony of starlings settling down to roost in the plane trees lining the street outside our window. We adjourned to our suite: they did not disturb us overmuch…… 

Sturnus Vulgaris. Hmm. They certainly know how to put on a shit show. Come the morning we discovered the motor to be utterly polluted with starling excrement, a sight to behold. Thankfully we did not have to leave the Castelnaudary boundaries before we found a car wash and restored the Škoda to something like respectability. We were not the only ones caught out, be assured. Bloody fun fairs. Why couldn't they have set up under the trees? 

After this issue had been addressed at the Lulu Car Wash and I had run round the bodywork to complete the job with the motor's towel (a bit half hearted they were, at Lulu's), we took horse to Mont-de-Marsan, through some of our most favourite rolling countryside, namely Gers, with long views of the freshly snow dusted Pyrenees, blue grey silhouettes, always pleasing to see. Dropping round the southern flanks of Toulouse you see. Sorry, no snaps taken to confirm the majesty of that distant range of mountains, you'll just have to take my word. Samatan for refreshment (we have done similar before), Auch passed through and before we knew it we were approaching Monty. 

The notion of making an excursion at this point, to reinstate our original aspirations to visit Contis, was briefly considered but we concluded it would add a further sixty miles to our day, there and back compounded, and as we had then got rather entangled with Marsan's central road network, and felt that when we could park we should seize that chance, Well, we did that, and took a shufty at the town instead. 

Nice river (Le Douze); one or two good buildings, rather a lot of naked women (in bronze), pink fountains (breast cancer awareness month). Not exceptional as a town but pleasant enough. The administrative capital of hereabouts. 

The selected hotel wasn't in the town. My heart sank. A long time since we last put up with a facility situated in a peripheral industrial zone. And again, not staffed until about 17.00. But it was fine. Brand new, squeaky clean, and here's the thing, just 150 metres from a new Japanese restaurant. We went there. It was very good, a new experience, even if we didn't quite get value for money, our fault I guess, novices, don't ask.

And so to the third day on the road. Up early, very dark. As we rose it began raining. Our coats? In the motor. It got harder and harder (for us to leave, and the downpour). Déluge. We simply had to make a start. I dashed for the car, leapt in and drove almost into the hotel vestibule. Mme M slung our luggage on to the thankfully vacant back seat and leapt in…… and away. Awful driving conditions and the sun seemingly giving it a miss today.

Things did improve, of course they did. But it did rain almost more or less continually for the 200 mile drive through Les Landes to the Gironde Ferry. They improved further at Belin-Béliet in particular where Mme Melling zipped into an open boulangerie and acquired exceptional filled baguettes (well mine was). They improved again when we took time out to consume the repast, at Hourtin Plage, a place we had previously bypassed in favour of the forest road to Hourtin lighthouse, one of this western coast's phares built to provide navigational certainty on a mostly unlit coastline. The rain assured we had our lunch stop entirely to ourselves, the way we like it, unless in the market for a café-crême. Not sure the coastal security shouldn't have had someone looking out for surf dudes, mind – but there was not a soul about. Plenty of surf, but no dudes. And it rained. Not sure either that Mme Melling even got out of the car, at Hourtin Plage. 

We resumed. We took a detour here, an alternative there, and finally came out at Fort de Verdon and thence the Pointe de Grave. One could hardly detect the opposite shore at times (see below) but sharp eyed Mme Melling detected the ferry-in-service coming across from Royan to fetch those who would wish to be conveyed back there,  We were assured of a transit across the estuary mouth, and then be able to proceed to our third hotel stop in La Rochelle. For a few minutes, whilst we embarked, the rain abated. We boarded, were transported, arrived, disembarked, motored on (in the rain again) – and finally sank into the comforting embrace of one our favourite and regular stop-overs, where the vehicle also gets treated to underground shelter from the elements of the day. That's in La Rochelle.

All that now remains to record is the 300 miles, La Rochelle to Roscoff. Done it before, but just a minute, wasn't that to an overnighter at Yffiniac or Roscoff or Guingamp prior to a morning sailing, or for an overnighter on an overnight ferry? Today we are going for an afternoon boat, and moreover we need to be dockside not much later than 14.00, for the 15.00 departure. We set off the earliest yet, but are not out of La Rochelle before we are up to our eyes in……

Thick fog. Not the first time this, but this time the fog does not clear with the arrival of the day. If anything it just gets a bit thicker. At St Hermine we stop off at the cross-roads boulangerie, where we first refreshed in spring (see snap below) and the same outlet where I was discouraged from seeking-a-sandwich on the way south, back in September. Now we consume excellent croissants, satisfactory coffee and obtain sandwiches of good quality… we muse about lunching at Le Surcouf in Roscoff (or at least I do) as the fog swirls around outside……

So… For 210 miles (we are now growing aware that we are running things a bit fine) we drive through fog. Mostly medium thick to thinnish but without benefit of sunlight, views, aspects, or sense of place. Those choice baguettes, filled with flavour, nutrition and promise, remain untouched. My planned Surcouf oyster lunch? No chance. Somewhere north of Rennes we suddenly emerge into a sparkling blue, sunlit scene. No further brouillard or even cloud besmirches or encumbers our onward progress. We arrive outside the port of Roscoff with time to purchase a 5kg sack of the excellent sweet onions they grow thereabouts; we check in with fifteen to thirty minutes to spare. Result!

The Ste Hermine sandwiches are addressed/dispatched as our maritime conveyance puts to sea. Hours later, after we have wandered the deck a bit (can you believe, one cannot get a french cidre on this french craft?) and slumbered a while in our day cabin, we dock in Plymouth.  It isn't even raining which must almost be a first. For the first time too, on this vessel, we are directed to drive right off the back, without the doing of a U turn (I notice these things, but have not noticed the ferry has reversed up to the loading and unloading ramp: you see, we came on board through the bow doors and were not required to go up the ramp to the upper car deck. So did not need to come back down again. Do you follow me?). Off promptly then, queue a bit, clear customs, then motor back to our Devon estates, where the effect of our extended absence will be all too apparent in the light of our first day back – in the garden that is. No doubt about that…

ventoux '24

WHEN Mme MELLING AND YOUR AUTHOR first set out to establish a domestic foothold in the Vaucluse or Drôme regions of France, one of our stipulated requirements was that the property we sought should be graced by a view of Ventoux. Many of the potential properties we inspected did indeed boast such a vista but fell short in other respects (or were beyond our modest means). Why was this requirement made? Because dear subscriber, this wonderful hill dominates so many aspects of the south west Fr. countryside we have holidayed in over the years, that we got into the habit of expecting a view of Ventoux from our rentals, as of right,  and some of those we obtained were very memorable, believe you me. So we looked for a such a fortuitous gaff in lots of villages, like Brantes, like Savoillan for example – but in vain……

OK… so in the final analysis 1rueFB in Sablet fails on this pre-requisite, it's true, and until we finally plumped for this address we were still holding on to that 'in-sight-of-Ventoux' stipulation. But we failed. To be fair, we don't have to go very far out on to the Plan de Dieu before we can see Le Géant over the top of the Cheval Longue, the intermediate ridge that obscures Sablet from being spotted from the top of the mountain, and vice versa.

We visited the summit of Ventoux twice this year (2024): in spring, and as described here, in Autumn. 

It has been announced, since we've returned to the motherland, that the Tour de France is running a stage up the mountain in 2025. It will be the eleventh T-de-F summit finish on the hill whilst the race has also passed right over the top on eight occasions to finish elsewhere. The first ascent was in 1951, since when it has become a firm favourite, almost an institution for the greatest bike race in the world. But I'm not going to provide a potted history of the T-de-F up on Ventoux, you can sort that out for yourself if the mood takes you. Wikipedia covers it adequately I think.

No, the purpose of this brief posting is to act as an aide memoire to your author and record our trip up the hill, given that it was our last excursion of the autumn before we got down to the business of packing up for shipping back to Blightey. You can  read it if you like, be my guest. First, a week before, we had driven round the north flank of the hill, along the Toulourenc, the most beautiful of valleys, a favourite place. See the picture up top: I add the image here to demonstrate Ventoux is quite chunky if seen from the north side, close to. 

On summit day, we took ourselves off to Bédoin for breakfast and then up the aforementioned. It was delightfully quiet. Autumn gathered pace as through the trees we progressed. There were cyclists pedalling up the D974 but not so many as to make one nervous of their weaving and stalling. We negotiated them safely and some restorative road edge corrections being made above Châlet Reynard to arrive at the higher levels and the turn off. 

We were gratified to note that the concrete and tarmac dump on the upper plateau has been cleared, as foretold by notice in the spring and the terrain thus sullied, restored to oolitic naturel. Don't believe anybody that pronounces the summit of Ventoux as barren. It isn't, there are a wide variety of alpines to be found, otherwise why would sheep and chamois bother going up there? You have to look, mind. And at last there is some physical discouragement by crash barrier to a growing trend for some motorised muppets to stray off the black-top. Tidy. But above all a bit of conservational sorting. About time.

Cloud obscured the communications tower that blots the summit proper, off and on. We went over the top and dropped down to the lower ridge, then walked back up to the summit to ensure The Family Seat was still holding out. It is, we sat carefully on it and remembered past visits to it, as you do. 

Our return to the lower levels of Provence was down the north side via Malaucène and back to Sablet (to begin sorting the place out for our winter absence, what joy). The poles are still extant, even some replacement ones, adjacent to The F-S, situated as it is only a few metres west and below where some triumphant young chap (who knows who that might be) will be winning the race stage of his life next July… unless the Mistral precludes a summit finish, as it did in 2016, when we road-sided the stage and it had to conclude at Chalet Reynard: not covered by one of my posts, you'll be relieved to note. 

the north side of le géant

new poles • family seat • wind chill factor • big view • final bend

aix and pains

 

THE CULTURE THRUST this autumn was brought on by a vague aspiration, when showed a poster in a street some place, (Bonnard Et Le Japon) to use the excuse of visiting a Bonnard show in Aix, to break out and stop being so bloody parochial. Then when Prof Hickman – with whom I have enjoyed exchanging nuggets of wisdom of late, interspersed with examples of inperpitude (on my part) – as I was saying, when Hickman suddenly decided he wanted to see the show again (a second time) and would come from Paris, on the TGV, day return, for heaven’s sake, it was all firmed up and the day and date fixed in stone by the necessary securement by John of his first class day return some months in advance! It has been a fixture for a while but fair dos to John, he didn’t hold our feet to the fire on it, and we did want to see him again this year, and Pierre Bonnard in Aix, well why wouldn’t you, Aix being a mere 90 minutes away from Sablet? You been there? It is a town-and-a-half!

We went. We met up as planned and JH was clearly both very well acquainted with Aix, fond of it as well and ready for another long look at the particular take on this post-impressionist’s output, associated as it has been with the influences of Japanese art and print-making in particular.

The exhibition was a bit of a scrum. Far more punters than had been anticipated. And I was up the creek with leg pain, numbness and the jolly old pins and needles. I thought I would have to cry off within ten minutes of entering the exhibition. Mary found me a pouffe to perch on in the mêlée which I rested on until shoved off it by a witch, by which time I had recovered enough sensation in my legs to know I might hobble around the show after all, and did so without too much further difficulty, although all of the viewing was coloured by discomfort, right up and until we finally emerged, reached the head of the queue, and got shown ‘our’ table in the rather grand garden restaurant of the gallery for us dinners. Hickman wanted a garden table but that entailed a further thirty-five minute wait… so we settled for a table in a magnificently decorated interior salon (in wedgewood blue and white, rococco style). Civilised. If a little OTT.

Impeccable table service and the most exquisite salad dishes I think I may have ever tasted. We concurred. Splendid. And John wangled (after similar good tarts and a bit of pleading) our coffee out in the garden courtyard, a lovely space filled with rather splendid people and dashing service providers. Genteel! No plastic chairs neither. My God, I have almost forgotten the pleasure of having decent food and decent wine and decent chat and decent service at an almost decent price without pressure or overtone. A glimpse of another life! Albeit where denim jeans, shirts even,  are in the ascendency, to which I modestly subscribe.

I was a bit challenged of course by the hearing issue but there Prof Hickman goes before: I am sure we exchanged views at times that failed to connect as intended but what the hell. John suffered the ignominy of being asked to pipe down a tad  by an attendant, in the hubbub of the gallery rooms when he was extolling the virtues of Bonnard’s affections for his muse and later his wife (Bonnard’s that is, stay with me) as seen in the paintings set before us. Didn’t bother John! He is the consumate Bonnard enthusiast, after all. Polite smile, one raised eyebrow, where was I, what was I saying……

After we had settled up then (après our menus de jour, I'm back there now) and we made to leave the Hotel de Caumont we noted absolute droves, round-the-block hordes, clamouring and surging to get into the presence of the Bonnards in the Bonnard show, in its final day or two. We shuddered. Glad we made it the morning call.

We left them to it. John went off to see his brother-in-law,  resident in Aix whilst we, the Sablet contingency, went off to set free the motor from the underground car park so that we could ride back along the A7 toll to Vaucluse and 84110.

So that was our trip to Aix en Provence. We drove through to the middle and the car park most adjacent to Hotel de Caumont (the gallery) and returned therefrom. No mooching the streets, no post show coffees and cakes, no revisiting the churches, streets, fountains and the boulevards. Lovely views of Montagne-Ste-Victoire on the way in of course. What is the matter with us? Well I think the gallery experience was plenty this time, Aix is not unknown to us from the past but seemed a whole lot busier than heretofore, with those weird electric buses in their exclusive lanes and all.

So we passed up the Aix reaquaintancing this time. Pity.

What was the show like then, I hear you cry! The show was well produced, properly supported by back up notes and observations. The paintings were generously accessible. The rooms were rather small for this sort of exhibition but not inordinately so. But oh dear, too many people, too many smart phones and too little looking. I am not a fan of the current surge for art. I suspect it. Doubt it. Think it is box ticking, often. etcetera. Sorry. Didn’t invest in the catalogue either, to add to the others that gather dust forever after.

Pierre Bonnard was the first post impressionist to (hem hem) 'blow my mind'. I visited and drank in the extensive retrospective of Bonnard’s work, in particular his bathing paintings, at the Royal Academy of Arts in 1966. I was but a foundation first year arts student, and was captivated. I wrote my first extended essay as required by art schools still, in those days, on our Pierre. What aspect of his output– I cannot recall. That’s why Hickman’s enthusiasm (commitment too, he is a patron of Bonnard’s home gallery after all) rang bells with me also. At the show I saw in ’66 Bonnard had not yet been in his grave twenty years: he was almost current! Hickman was up in Manchester finishing his first degree incidentally round about then m'thinks. 

Since then PB may have slipped in my ratings somewhat, when ranged amongst his more formidable predecessors and contemporaries. But never for colour and atmosphere, obsession and love, even. I think some of his work is less than successful, unfinished, unresolved etc. But he is still division one, without a doubt. And I still love many many of his bathing paintings. I’m not a scholar of PB, I’ve forgotten most of what I knew of him once. I’ve not sought him out either. So this show slightly disappointed me but also gave up some thrills. Your author is not going to produce a critique here though, get out of it, find some other sucker! If you can get to see some Bonnard, take the chance. Always: if you’ve the time and energy these days, which might be quite a big ask.  

Here endeth the rant. And also my favourite canvas in the show, by a short margin, below.  And Professor H lives in the environs of the Bonnard scene, left… as you do… that's in Paris of course, Port (or is it Place?)  de Clichy I understand. 

Thanks for popping down, John. Good move!

he came he went: a reflection

THE SENIOR SIBLING took ship with us, as previously described, once more – on this autumnal visit to our southern estates, his fourth visit no less, his first being by air in 2018, thereafter by road (riding shotgun) and returning by rail. We had very little persuasion to apply to my brother regarding using rail to make his returns to the motherland: he saw the sense of it and accepted our point blank refusal from thereon to pick up visitors gracing us with their presence from airports, which we despise. We did it twice for Dr B, I seem to recall, and it was the decider: no more visitors by air if you please (although if they make their own way to 1rueFB, to and from, we might still be tolerant to a degree but I doubt it: best not put it to the test). 

Both Terry and Doc B are seasoned travellers of course so they have no fear when it comes to meeting travel head on in a country that trades in a foreign lingo. True, bro expressed some nervousness about the weird ways of Ouigo but disguised it well, and of course, his three experiences of this cheap and ‘cheerful’ TGV (sardine) alternative all seemed to have worked reasonably well. At least, that is what he has declared. I’ll tell you this: in all frankness, I would have been the ultimate bag of nerves at such a endeavour, it is so long since I set foot on a train let alone a froggie go-quick! And I hate travelling solo too, always did. I salute our visitors who come and go this way (friend Anne must take the gold star in that respect although I think she eschews Ouigo utterly; she of course is at home with the language, speaks it well I am given to believe, so stuff like TGV vagaries are a piece of cake to her, and ditto the son-and-heir when he pops down for his annual inspection). 

Anyway. Terry came and went. Visitors to this post may now go and get a pression, pastis or noisette (the choice is yours, we’re not paying) because the rest of this rant simply flags up what we entertained our visitor with; mostly low key stuff I am afraid, no massive château tours and benchmark exhibitions with us to stimulate the pulses hereabouts, that’s for sure. If you want that pay up at the travel agency of your choice and let us know how it was for you. We are the retiring type (Mme M demurs from this so make that singular). 

Glad to have you with us T, hope it wasn’t dull. 

I am indebted to Dorte and Liz for the representations of social jollity reproduced above, recorded on the occasion of an apéro to which we were invited, chez Roberts, together with Dorte and Søren the Danes, already sold up, and here as mere tourists from now on…… things are changing fast, I very much fear…