Un weekend en Provence

We've had a busier week than expected since last we blogged so brace yourself it's a long one, for a quick hit take a look at this. After we published the last post, an old colleague of Katie's who lives in Provence got in touch and kindly invited us to stay, so we leaped into the car and drove down there for a wonderful long weekend in lavender country.

Before we drove down to Provence we made the most of an increasingly rare warm Alpine day, returning to our favourite mountain hang out in the Nevache valley. We fancied a snack as we arrived in the village and attempted to buy a pain-au-chocolat from the boulangerie, only to find they had sold everything save a solitary, sad croissant. The paucity of stock in local bakeries has become something of a bête noire for Katie, who has become maniacal about beating the smug early birds who nip in there and buy up the whole place. For example, the very nearest bakery in La Salle sells out of all pastries by around 8.30am (but they can be gone by 8am at the weekend). And if you're a fan of a pain-au-raisin (as Katie is), you can forget it - they are rarer than an albino peacock. The boulanger artisinal in Monetier-les-Bains makes just TWO OR THREE every day (and not on Mondays or Tuesdays). Katie has circumvented the problem by ordering the cursed things in advance, so who's laughing now, eh? Someone clearly has too much time on their hands. 

Delicious pastry snail

Back to Nevache... we walked out of the village towards a waterfall and did some scrambling up a land-slid mountain path to sit at the top and eat our picnic. 

We perched on that little rock on the upper left

We gave Charlie a lacklustre lesson in foraging (we're such London folk) which mostly involved identifying some wild raspberries and eating those, and telling him everything else was poisonous. Charlie did his usual trick of rushing down a path and falling flat on his face, which we think is simply a ruse to be carried on someone's shoulders. At dinner that night we cracked open the raclette machine and the vast quantities of cheese gave us very strange dreams.

Meat, cheese, roasted veg and blanched broccoli

We left the Alps in more burning sunshine to make the scenic drive down to Provence, through peach orchards and avenues of plane trees, winding up in the incredibly smart town of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. Terribly well turned out people were wandering round terribly nice shops and lunching in terribly expensive restaurants (once a habit of ours, but sadly no more). We felt a little out of place eating our picnic of tuna pasta, peaches and coffee in a thermos, perched on the side of one of the town's drinking water fountains, especially when Charlie started trying to wash his hair in it. 

Duck face

The theme continued as we visited the monastery of St. Paul de Mausole, still a working a psychiatric hospital but more famously where Vincent Van Gogh spent the prolific penultimate year of his life and where he painted many of his most famous works. We mistakenly told Charlie about the ear incident before we arrived so he spent the entire visit loudly asking 'but WHY did he cut his ear off Mummy?' over and over again. After being tutted at by a disapproving French woman, our inquisitive pre-schooler was banished to the gardens to drive his toy cars around in the dirt.

'Little Jeff Corvette' cares not for post-impressionism

It was lovely to stay with Lucie, Slawek and their children Alex and Clara. Charlie was ecstatic to be in the company of children and to have access to the best collection of toy trucks he had ever seen. We visited bustling Aix-en-Provence, which was much more our style than Saint-Rémy. 

Post-chocolate-eclair

There was a super food market and we had a rare lunch out at a lovely restaurant in a beautiful square. We ate enormous salads, which the French do so well, into which they chuck everything but the kitchen sink. We would have taken a photo but sadly we fell on them like a pack of hungry wolves given how long it took us to get served (but we'll save a rant about French service for another time). 

All in all it was a pretty good lunch

Next day we went to a beach near Marseille and swam in the totally calm, warm sea, dodging the occasional jelly fish. Afterwards, we were heading back the Alps via the Gorges du Verdon, touted as the French Grand Canyon

Can we get we bit more lens flare?

However realising we had arrived woefully late in the day and conveniently having packed the tent, we decided to camp. We found an unattended campsite, persuaded a camper to let us sneak through the electric gates and pitched our tent. We ate a simple 3 course meal at a nearby restaurant overlooking a lake,

Hungrily waiting

then survived a fairly freezing night under canvas. It was well worth it though as the next day we were able to properly see the gorges, which did not disappoint. First we visited the ridiculously good looking town of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, followed by a pedalo ride into the gorge from the Lac St. Croix. A highlight was watching a rather brave/foolish man scale the vertical rock face to jump from a great height into the completely opaque turquoise waters. Equally amusing was afterwards observing every other man in the vicinity almost visibly bristling with the feeling that perhaps they too should put on such a manly show.

We finished off this rather perfect day with a vertiginous 100km drive around the whole gorge, stopping every five minutes to jump out of the car and stare down into the abyss. 

say...

...no...

...more

Almost as stunning as the gorge were the Provencal lavender fields - row upon row of perfectly straight plants - and the most beautiful sunset we have ever seen as we drove back to the Alps in the evening. Sunsets are mostly lost on those not there to witness them but trust us, this was a good 'un. An enormous red orb slipped behind the distant mountains, its fiery hue outlining the surrounding clouds...OK whatever, it was pretty spectacular anyway.

We are very lucky to have visited both Tuscany and Provence in the last two weeks, which are the stuff of holiday dreams. We're now back in the Alps, closing the house down ready for winter. Today a mobile delicatessen turned up in the village square selling a vast array of dry-aged côte de boeuf, charcuterie and local cheeses. So different from the dodgy man selling frozen chicken out of the back of his van that turned up once outside Katie's house when she was a child. Ed made French onion soup for dinner, which happily Charlie wolfed down 

Charlie's breath still smells from this onion based delight

and to our elation he has also started eating tomatoes - although only if doused in balsamic glaze.

On Friday we leave for Italy. France has been wonderful, much wine has been drunk, pastries eaten and hills climbed. Charlie has cultivated an impressively bass, nasal French accent, in which he loves to cry 'saucisson' at the top of his voice. Ed is halfway through writing his first book '100 Ways With A Tin Of Haricot Beans'. And Katie has realised she needs to be less uptight about pastry. We'll be spending most of October near Penne, a little town near Pescara about halfway up the boot on the east coast. We drive down there on our fifth wedding anniversary, when for form's sake, one imagines we'll call a ceasefire on our epic driving-related rows.