Pont D'Avignon

Once hosting 22 arches, it was built over 8 years at the beginning of the 13th century when Saint Bezenet laid the first large stone himself, alone.

Sign Of The Times

Playing harp and texting friends in Avignon

Resting after a long climb up to the Count's Castle at Vaison

Vaison La Romaine

The bridge leading up to the old town and castle with monument carved into the wall to remember the floods

Provence

We are staying in Northern Provence, in the Vaucluse area (which means 'closed valley'), and the term describes accurately where we are situated, nestled amongst large foothills and various lush vineyards, with a small mountain overlooking our farmhouse complete with Roman castle ruins, and the larger Mont Ventoux in the distance. Mont Ventoux gets its name from the french word for wind which is 'vent' as apparently it is very windy at the top. During mistral season the wind is massively strong at the top of the limescale mountain. This was also where the sport of mountain climbing was born. The writer Petrarch went up with his brother in 1336, and according to historians, this was the first recorded experience of anyone climbing a mountain simply for pleasure. It takes around 5 hours to walk to the summit of Mont Ventoux, but not so energetic travellers will be relieved to know a road has been built to the top as well. According to Eyewitness Travel Guides, until 1973 there was a motor race on the south side of Ventoux, to the top. These windy and steep mountain roads are often included as a challenging stage of the Tour de France as well. Not sure if we will make it up there even by car with our carsick prone family.

We are staying in a remote restored farmhouse near the hamlet Merindol-des-Oliviers, a place where there really doesn't seem to be much happening. The sound of 'les cygales' (crickets) is overwhelmingly loud when we arrive, but you soon get used to them. Then, sometime in the early evening, they all of a sudden just stop, and it's a relief when you can once again hear yourself think. The view from our outdoor terasse is exceptional, short green trees in perfect sandy rows paint the landscape in soft mounds, with the larger white topped summit of Ventoux in the distance. We are virtually hovering on a cliff, and have warned the children not to venture too far. We go on a few adventures which basically lead us from vineyard to vineyard, and Noah becomes obsessed with taking pictures of grapes, and some very good ones too. Gail and I are determined to find our way up to the ruined castle on the hilltop overlooking us. We start our incline hoping to be in the right direction and half an hour and a bit of luck later make it there, to the 'Vieux Ville'. It is slightly eerie, with a miniscule graveyard across from the ruined castle, covered in scaffolding and quite unwelcoming with it's 'Interdit' signs on the door. Strangely there is a lone motorhome parked on a ledge alongside the castle, and a mailbox at the start of the path leading to the ruin. As we walk along we see there is work underway here as well, with signs of 'private property' and 'danger'. From what I could read of the French historical signpost in front of the castle, 7 strong men performed its demolition in 1700 something, for a reason unknown at this time. We did not dwell there long however, as soon as I mentioned that it felt like we could be in one of those weird horror movies, with this lone camper van luring us in from our naive curiousity, surely hosting some crazed serial killer waiting for stupid tourists like us to wander slowly uphill to a demolished and relatively unimpressive castle..... we were outta there!

The whole area of the Vaucluse is embedded with Roman influence. From the great theatre in Orange and the ruins of Vaison-La-Romaine to Carpentras there is evidence of Roman history and culture. Vaison-La-Romaine is our nearest town, and we feel very lucky to be so close to such a beautiful, historical place. The Roman remains here have been virtually left untouched, it is an archaeologist's playground. The town's origins go back 2400 years alongside the river Ouveze which burst it's banks in 1992 in the worst flood France has ever seen. They have recuperated since then, but remember the tragic day with a plaque engraved on the stone wall above the bridge stating 'Souvenions nous' (Remember Us).

We all make our way uphill in the scorching heat to the medieval quarter of the town. The narrow lanes and alleys provide a labyrinth of lovely terrace houses combined with art galeries, creperies, and ice cream shops. We finally make it to the top (even Ruby who has a burst of energy and nearly runs up the stairs!) and enjoy another stupendous view. The ruins of the castle atop this hill was built in the 12th century by the Counts of Toulouse, and partly reconstructed in the 15th century. Unable to walk around the ruins, we were more taken in by the estates attached to vineyards with pools scattered in the landscape, imagining a house of our own there one day...

The town itself hosts many souvenir shops as you would expect, and the pottery is too colorful to resist. We buy some, along with pretty packets of lavender and herbs de Provence of course, and I am tempted by an expensive Moonstone ring. We attend the weekly market and it is one of the best I've seen in France. With only a few bits of food intended to buy, we end up getting most of the souvenir requirements for home in this bustling place which sells everything from tablecloths to wooden salad tongs made from olive wood to pots of fresh paella. We eventually end up at the poissonerie to get the sought after sea bass I was determined to barbeque and end up paying a huge amount for two very fat fish. The fishmonger however provided us with a bit of a show gutting and scaling the fish, which made it almost worth it. Almost....as the kids and Gail did not eat a bite and I should have just bought one of the fat flippers and saved 25 euros.

Next we visit Avignon, the walled city. I sing the french song 'Sur le Pont....Avignon' the whole way and drive the kids crazy, but I've heard Ruby singing it at school, though she doesn't seem to appreciate it now. The town is bursting with the festive fever of theatre shows, with performers everywhere providing glimpses of their productions and handing out leaflets, the most interesting being 'Les Monologues de Penis', an offshoot of the women's version apparently, but what made it interesting was the naked actor covered barely by a cardboard box handing out the brochures. At least it kept the kids entertained whilst we had lunch.

As ever, entranced by the souvenir shops selling the same ceramic crickets in each one making the same bloody annoying noise (who would ever buy those??), we tear the children away and convince them to have a tour of Le Palais des Papes (the Pope's Palace), for a little bit of culture, forced though it may be. This is a 14th century fortress built by the Popes of Avignon who lived there for 100 years from 1309. Each of us had our own audio guide, even the children, and amazingly the kids lasted more than an hour.

Though it was almost impossible to sleep comfortably and the kids were eaten alive by all sorts of strange bugs, we were sort of sad to leave Les Rouviers. Our regular Boules and Uno games in the evening with the odd disco to Greenday, some strange rapper singing about handlebars, with some country thrown in, made for amusing entertainment. But the Welch's European holiday had almost come to an end and it was time for us to move on....

Giverny

After finally learning how to say the name of this town properly (Jah-ver-nay), we have decided to take a day trip to visit Monet's gardens.  The kids are too excited for words, as you can imagine, to see a garden full of flowers and lilypads that some famous artist painted a long time ago.  No matter how much history and culture we try and feed them, whilst living in such a historical country, they are still more excited by ice cream and carrousels.  

The drive is quaint and not nearly as far outside Paris as we thought.  We arrive in under an hour and the kids are already whinging about what is there and what they're going to do there.  Sam soon realises this is not a 'kids day', it's a parents day and therefore decides to make it as painful as possible for us.  Even one of the American tourists appreciates his charm when after some loud whinging she says 'well aren't you delightful'.  Anyway, we press on and try to teach our kids about the beauty of nature and why Monet wanted to paint such landscapes.  Not sure if they realised this when we left as thier only desire was to get back in the car to continue watching the movie they had started on the way.  

So that leads me to ask, is it even possible to teach our kids about culture nowadays, or are they too screen focused and full of hydrogenated oils and E-chemicals to care?  We leave feeling a bit cheated on our experience but at least I got some cute photos of Ruby with some pretty flowers, and we picked up some lovely cushions as a souvenir.

A Night In Paris

How much can you cram into one night in Paris??  When you sort of know where you're going, you're with a willing partner (who happens to be a travel writer writing an article on doing things in Paris without a guidebook), and the weather is fine, a lot can be seen and done.  There's endless places to discover in Paris, tiny side streets, new cafes that are old really but new to you, and for me this evening, a small, quirky anglophone bookshop nestled away on Rue Parcheminerie in the 5th.  The large Canadian flag outside Abbey Bookshop dominates the small street, it is almost impossible to miss yet I seem to have done easily over the past two years.  

As I walk down the crowded, narrow lane I can hear a loud English voice reciting something.  People are milling about drinking red wine from white plastic cups, and there are slabs of wood teetering on towers of books outside the shop carrying huge chunks of cheese and saucisson.  They are listening to the freckle faced man describing an unfortunate situation with sheep and shit, using many expletives in the process.  Quite expressive in his reading, he shocks the ignorant people walking through who have stumbled across this little street.  Some stop and listen and laugh (presumably anglophone), whilst the French or other Europeans look a bit disgusted with his f'ing and blinding.  He is an author promoting his book on what is their 19th anniversary of being open.

Brian, the Canadian owner, is intrigued as to how I never heard about his shop, and jokingly asks his French assistant in charge of marketing how this could be so.  We decide that it's a combination of foreign ignorance and bad luck but on the bright side contains the appealing possibility of delightful discovery in a place that isn't in your face....or something like that.  They immediately put me on their mailing list and invite me on their next 25km hike outside Paris.  The Canadian friendliness in a European city is very much welcomed.

Before heading to a restaurant for dinner Roger (my writing instructor from my writing course in Norway) is keen to check out the Samba dancing on the Quai near Institute Monde d'Arab.  I've always wanted to do this.  We jump on our velibs and ride along the river, the warm air turning to a welcoming breeze as we pedal faster.  On such an evening the quartier was heaving, but we dove straight through the crowd.  They do this dancing every night in the summer when weather permits, the quai is transformed into an open-air dance floor.  Roger takes many pictures and I wished I had my camera too.  Then he invites me to dance and I remember he told me he took Salsa lessons in Argentina.  A bit hesitant but in we went, joining the other already sweaty and very good dancers.  I wish I could have relaxed a little bit more and let loose, but I was a bit overwhelmed by the crowd and quality of dancing around me.  We caught the last song and the music stops abruptly at 11pm.  People continue to hang out and dance and drink by the river.  We jumped on our velibs again and headed toward the Marais for dinner.  We stop en route at Hotel De Ville which is beautifully lit up and Roger takes more photos of me on the velib and tells me I'll be in the Daily Express next weekend.  Not impressed, I take some of him to use instead.

Maite, the French girl from the bookshop, recommends a restaurant on Rue de Montmartre called Le Tambour.  The plastic chairs and tables with umbrellas outside put us off a little bit, but are encouraged more when we go inside to eat.  Cute and kitsch with friendly anti-tourists signs on the door to the toilet and above the kitchen, you get the feel of a different kind of French flair, hurried in the staff's rushing about, but laid back in atmosphere.  Service is unbelievably quick and the food is good.  Whilst eating the tables fill up around us as more and more people come in to eat their dinner at midnight.  The very cute French waiter handles it all with ease, shouting 'C'est chaud' about everything he carries so people make way, even if it's two cold glasses of beer.

Then we head to a bar called 'Le Coeur Fou' (The Crazy Heart) which was apparently going to be called 'Craps' until someone saw a movie of the former name and changed it.   After an expensive cocktail, Le Coeur Fou surprisingly announced last call quite early and we ended up at a nightclub called The Social Club.  We paid 12 euros each to get in so we decided we better check out the funky DJ called Barbie something.  Little did we know it was gay and lesbian night, or if it wasn't their night it was definitely a place favored by them, more lesbian than gay really.  We had a beer each and got into the groove of the music.  The consistent thumping of the dj's bass gets under your skin, and after a few songs we were drawn to the dance floor.  It is so easy to lose your sense of time and space in this kind of atmosphere.  Your head automatically thumps along to the beat, you close your eyes and seem to go up to another world as the soul core of the music reaches up through the floor to your feet and reverberates through your body.  Everyone is dancing alone and dancing together at the same time, we are all in harmony with each other, moving to the same beat, on the same plane.  Time is irrelevant in this place, and before we know it it's 4am.  I feel I could stay longer but know I will have a difficult time getting home.  Taxis always a nightmare in Paris, we jump on yet another bike and go our separate ways, I have at least a 30 minute bike ride ahead of me, but it is a lovely evening (or morning!) and I need to cool off from all the dancing.  

As I ride past the Eiffel tower just after 4, I see it all lit up blue for the first time and am mesmerized.  The atmosphere in Paris even at this time of night is one of frivolity, with friendly 'Bonjour Madame's' from everywhere, people on the street, in their cars, or other fellow bike riders.  I do not feel unsafe in the least, a woman on her own at such an hour, you can't help but feel at one with all the other late night partiers, slightly fizzled from their night out.  At this point I did wonder if riding a bike slightly drunk was illegal, but managed to make it home, unscathed, by 4:30, only my feet aching from my high wedge sandles and from biking and dancing all night.  My amazing (and slightly worried) husband offers to park my bike so I can rest my weary feet and I am asleep by the time he gets back.

I love this city...