from Pierrerue: the thrill of color

My neighbors across the alley are artists. She paints, he sculpts. They aren’t the first northern French types to have settled here, in the south of France because of its climate, its light and its colors.

One hundred and one years ago another painter did the same and he brought with him a bunch of others and before you knew it, you had a movement. I am thinking of Matisse and the Fauves and their love of the light and colors of the small Mediterranean port of Collioure.

I am a fan of Matisse and the vibrant colors used by the Fauves, even if they did sort of displace my adored Impressionists who came before them. I mean, I do get that painters (people?) have to put forth new ideas through their art (their life?) and that to propose something new, you sometimes have to throw some punches at the old stuff.

My neighbor dabbles in the Fauve style. She says it is extremely difficult, but I think she is just saying that because I offered to take off her hands the wonderful little painting she did of Roquebrun and she is hesitating to part with it, claiming that great toil and sweat went into doing it. Perhpas. I do not argue with toil and sweat.

Yesterday, I went to Collioure, perhaps to get my fill of Fauve-like colors and perhaps to demonstrate to my neighbor, the artist, my deep appreciation for the Fauve style of painting. I am trying to stay in good with the artist couple, not only because of the painting issue, but because whispers of letting me stay in their beautiful little over-the-garage apartment next summer have been floating about and I want those whispers to become shouts and promises.

It’s a bit of a drive, as Collioure is just at the Spanish border. Even hopping onto the 80-plus mile per hour superhighway for a short stretch does not reduce the driving time much. It’s easily two hours each way. But, oh, am I glad I went.













Of course, tourism is a big thing there now, but we are still in the early days of June and so the cafes are less crowded and the little beaches have only a small number of bathers – enough to provide people watching opportunities, but not enough to make the pebbly bays appear overrun by humankind.

The cafes spill out onto the beaches and I have to think that they are, later in the season, filled with foreign tourists who sit and count the number of women tanning their breasts just before them.

Here is one café that I especially liked as it seemed to require that you wear yellow and blue to sit on its yellow chairs underneath blue umbrellas.











In the picture above, the woman in the denim skirt looks like she is eating jeune peche (yellow peach) ice cream. Fitting , given the color scheme.

I took a photo of where their gaze may have been directed to – or at least of one subject, a beach couple, clothed, but still doing the French thing.





I also visited the tiny Museum of Modern Art here, but of course, all the great works of Matisse and Derain have been moved to Paris, which is understandable, but still a shame since they fit into this world of bright yellows, blues and reds.

Afterwards, I drove up the coast where the winds gust like crazy and provide yet another opportunity for French men to show off their athleticism. There is, not surprisingly, a popular wind surfing spot here and I watched for a while.








…and no, I was not tempted. Frankly, I found the following much more appealing and I made a mental note to soon return to a beach just to sit and engage in the art of doing nothing.



my speed

from Pierrerue: into the swim of things

It is morning. The bread lady comes. Marie-Rose runs to tell me, anxious, because last week I missed the delivery and everyone felt awful. To compensate, I buy way more bread than I need for the day.

You are going to the beach? The bread lady asks.

Now why would she say that? Ah, the shorts. No woman ever wears shorts here. Unless she is going to the beach.

No, no, I am going to Roquebrun. After work, this afternoon, I am renting a kayak and doing the rapids on the river Orb. I hope I will see you tomorrow.

Indeed. I have done a lot of kayaking in my life, but never on rapids.

The set up is well orchestrated. You rent a kayak or canoe (the difference amuses me; the boats are identical, only the paddle varies) for a half day or a full day. A van drops you and your boat up river (twice the distance for the full day) and you paddle down. Simple.

Except that there are rapids.

Here are two bins for your belongings. Put your things in the little one and put the little one into the big barrel. Shut it tight. Double protection.

Protection from what?

Do people roll over?
Yes, all the time. She looks surprised that I should ask.

I notice children are required to wear helmets. Why aren’t adults given double head protection? Our heads are bigger, there’s more to crack.

Are the rapids treacherous?
Medium. The bigger ones are on the full day.

Of course, the French bike up hills and mountains. What is medium to them is horrifically insane to me.

And what valuables should I put in my double bin protection? I took only my car keys and a ten Euro note, just in case I get stranded and have to bribe someone to help me out.

There is, however, the issue of the camera. And here is a cautionary note: you should not go solo in a kayak through rapids and expect to take photos. There you are, scraped and pounded from all sides by boulders, sprayed by water so that there is as much in your boat as outside of it – what does not belong (apart from, arguably, you)? The little Sony digital SLR. Especially outside its double bin protection.

But, I am stubborn. I want pictures. And so what follows is a combination of pulling up to the shore for a minute, paddling upstream to reconsider what just happened, finding quiet spaces, intersperesed with not a small amount of risk taking, whereby, through a series of rapid maneuvers, I quickly unscrew bins, take out camera, snap like crazy, throw it back inside, seal the damn barrels shut and continue, all in the space of 2 seconds. And so, I am able to indulge my stubbornness.



all is calm, views are grand



looking up...oops, heading into the bridge




troubled waters




the plunge


Foolish? Perhaps.

But oh, the rewards!















I had chatted earlier with someone who had done rapids and his advice was to paddle backwards and survey the rapid before you go in. Wonderful advice. True, in the end, I would conclude that the only way to survive is to paddle furiously right into the swirling mass of water and rock and hope for the best. I became quite good at the “paddle furiously into the swirling mass of water and rock” bit.

Indeed, my proudest moment happened when I approached a series of sharp bends between boulders. To the side, three young men were bathing. One was climbing out on a rock and I noticed he was completely naked, deeply tanned buttocks and all. This is France. I had encountered here and there the occasional swimmer, topless even, but men somehow managed to keep their skimpy pants on up to now.

As he sprawled on the rock, letting the sun dry off various parts of his magnificent body, he watched me approach the S curve. I plunged, back paddled, turned again, plunged and came out right side up, with only the usual tub full of water inside. The young man stood up and applauded. Well done, he shouted. I felt alive!

[Of course, ten minutes later, I wedged my kayak between two rocks, sideways and watched in horror as torrents of water came gushing in. The muscle I used to get me out of that mess needs at least a month’s rest.]

So why did I do it? Why risk losing a camera, nay, my life (okay, perhaps not that) on a brilliant Monday afternoon?

For this, the moment where I pull over to a shallow area, get out of the boat and, in shorts, tank top and running shoes, lie down in the water and watch the ripples form around my shoes:



bliss




watching fools rush in




at the end, Roquebrun

from Pierrerue: red is the color of my true love’s tablecloth

Someone said this to me recently: your passion is food. Look at Ocean! You end each post with photos of dishes that delight you, you are enamored with the whole eating thing.

I think it was intended as a compliment, but I’m not sure.

But I think, at the very least, it is a simplification of things, as I come in contact with a lot of wonderful food and it leaves me cold.

It is the entirety that matters. Sure, the trees have to be beautiful but it is the forest that makes it or breaks it. And the forest is composed of the food, the setting, the mood – the terroir of eating!

An example: I love my morning croissant and café, eaten in the warm sun on the step outside my door at Pierrerue. It is a yoga-like experience for me (I mean, I imagine it is thus, since I don’t much do yoga; too much stretching and too little movement for restless me). And I equally adored the breakfasts at Dubrovnik where we would linger for hours out there on the patio, engaged in so much more than just the food.

Here, in the south of France, I have blogged variously about eating. St Chinian (the closest town with places to eat) has one pretty good dining spot. I was a little put off last time, because Madame brought me a glass of Muscat with dessert and I found later that the little sucker cost me almost as much as the entire meal, but still, I like the food just fine. But bliss requires more.

Yesterday, I found bliss. And I refer here not to the food (though the food was quite magnificent) but to the entire two and a half hour lunch experience.

It happened on a red tablecloth, hence the post title.

But let me not just write about the food. Indeed, let me put the food away for this post. You have been confused into thinking that this is the thing that matters and I intend to prove you wrong.

It started with an outing toward the mountain village of Mons la Trivalle. I am bordered by rocky hills and summits to the north and I have been waiting for a day to explore these. I had an excuse this Sunday. My market cheese man had told me he would be at Mons la Trivalle on this day for their annual cherry festival. Naturally, I saw this as an opportunity.

Cherry festival in the south of France. I don’t know what I thought. People coming out into the streets, adorned in crisp blouses with cherries embroidered on them? Cherry cakes, cherry everything sold, sampled, presented, to the tune of cherry melodies wafting over the village square?

My images were a little off. I can say this much: it was better than the Traverse City Michigan cherry festival which, in my time, I also attended. There, I literally saw not a single edible cherry. It was all about rides in those portable amusement parks and booths where you could win junk. Awful junk, awful festival.

In Mons la Trivalle they did put up an inflatable slide for kiddies. That is because in France they do not appear to believe in exorbitantly expensive playground equipment in every park and backyard and so that one inflatable slide was quite the novelty.

Apart from this, there were stands put up by locals with old family junk for sale – chipped plates that grandmere had, that kind of stuff.

And then there were, well, cherries. Lots and lots of cherries. At 2 – 3 Euro a kilo. Many varieties of cherries. And an occasional baked good with cherries.



lots and lots of cherries



cherries here as well



occasionally, something other than cherries


That is because, you guessed it, against the backdrop of these lovely rugged peaks they grow vines, of course, and cherries.








I had my fill of red sweet cherry fruit after a brief while. I was not even a fan of the village as it was the only place during my entire trip thus far, where I got a frown for my photo taking – from the baker!And after I had purchased my baguette, no less. He asked what on earth I was doing, I explained and he did say okay, but the damage was done. I hate him and his lousy bread. (In truth, he made some of the best baguettes I’ve tasted thus far and the competition is stiffer than stiff.)

So I slowly ambled back toward Berlou, a village just two down from Pierrerue (translates into a ten minute drive from where I live). There is where I booked a table for my Sunday afternoon dejeuner. The French eat big meals in the afternoon on this day and so shall I!

I did make several stops, having plenty of time on my hands and one notable stop was at Roquebrun – the only village in the vicinity that competes with Pierrerue as a place where I may want to hang out for an extended period of time, though it ultimately loses as it is on the summer tourist route and Pierrerue is on no one’s tourist route, nor will it ever be because there is nothing here to see.

Roquebrun is on the river Orb and it is stunning.







a river runs through it


Like Pierrerue, it has a microclimate that is pretty near Mediterranean by name and nature. It translates into constant sunshine, lesser winds and beautiful vegetation. More on that on a return visit. For now, just pause for a while and watch the families bring their children to the river on a Sunday afternoon, so that they can throw pebbles and step gingerly across the rocks.





Okay, I am back on the road now, careening wildly to get to Berlou, as suddenly I am late. Too much idling away will do that to you.

I arrive at Faitout Restaurant. It is brand new. The proprietors, Frederic and Nathalie Revilla opened it just at the end of April. And to me, it is stunning.






I mean, it has what I look for in a restaurant: it’ll be off somewhere, in its own quiet corner. It will have a casual air, a crispness, a vibrant feel. A clientele that loves food but also loves being there. A chef with charisma, a partner who knows when to ask you how things are and who answers your smile with her own.

It helps that the food is splendid, yes it does. But as I look at my notes from the lunch, they are not just about the food. Here are some:

Suddenly, chef Frederic flies out, hops onto his motorbike and whizzes away. The French table looks in the direction where he left. What has he forgotten? We hope he comes back! Suddenly, the entire terrace is laughing. He comes back. With fanfare.

The British table: a family with several adults and a toddler. I smile at the toddler, she smiles back. On the way out they come over and each say good bye to me. The mother is wearing Mephistos. A black bra strap is hanging down, a bobby pin is holding her hair back. She has been constantly rubbing sun screen on the delicate white skin of her girl. She speaks French haltingly, but she does try.

[My French neighbors at Pierrerue said this about the British here, around St. Chinian: they are different than those who have bought up great chunks of Provence. And I agree. This is not a moneyed crowd. There are no swimming pools, no villas, and no expensive stores or pretentious eateries that cater to them. The French here say that they like it this way. I do as well.]

The family of the proprietors arrives. The boy runs over, kisses his dad, his mom. The grandparents are here. I am thinking they will be eating as soon as the last guest leaves. A table is set, waiting. Still, Frederic is there, welcoming stragglers who come at 3:30 and ask only for a cup of coffee.

And so on.

Yes, I can end with a photo run of the food. But I wont. Instead, see if you can get a feel for the experience by these random shots of the red table cloth and the fleeting appearances of Frederic. Because really, these were the best hours of the day and stuffing food into my mouth occupied just a few minutes of that time.

from Pierrerue: the games men play

I had heard that two villages down from Pierrerue, they were having a Petanque concurs today.





Independently, I had heard that Pierrerue men and men from villages further down regarded themselves as Petanque champs. Put a Pierrerue guy next to one from, say Capestang (south of here) or Roquebrun (a bit more north) and my villager will beat the pants off of either one.

Speaking of pants, in a comment to a post below, Ann had wondered if men around here wore short pants. I had an answer for her, just from looking around markets and café bars, but what better place to test this than in a gathering of men.

For Petanque is a game for men. And boys. (It’s not a rule, it’s just the way it is. I was asked several times if I would like to try, but I know not to place my skirt where it does not belong.) They start young. Here’s someone who knew how to handle the balls:




Back to pants. I have yet to see a single woman, young or old, in short pants of any sort. It’s all about skirts for the madame and the teeny set does the American jeans thing. So that the local girls who came out on their motorbikes to root for their boys, looked like this:





Men, on the other hand, young and old (by old, I mean older than me, of course) are heavily into cropped pants.




So this is the scene: they show up, they greet: salut! -- for the casual acquaintance, a handshake for the better pal and always kisses (yes, between men as well) on both cheeks for the "known you all my life" sort. And these are not air kisses, these are loud smackers to be heard a block away.

They stand around and talk (this takes a while), holding their boules behind their back. [There is a stance that is adopted – it is the man with boules stance and it looks like this:]





And then they play. They form teams. Here are the scorekeepers:




And then, in every corner, in the courtyard, in the gravel parking lot, in front of the Mairie, they start their games. Young and old, in mixed teams. Such grace there is in tossing that ball, to get it closer to the little tiny speck of a ball up ahead!





I had to smile thinking back to my loft in Madison. In front of it, they built a Petanque court. I do not know what they were thinking. No one I know in Madison knows how to play Petanque. My landlord bragged how it’s regulation size. It is finely graded and graveled.

Here, in the small village of Prades in Southern France, no one cares about finely graded and graveled. The gravel is uneven, they mark the starting line with their foot and they manifest such skill in tossing that thing about that you cannot tear yourself away from watching.

But I did eventually turn away. The games went on for a long time, aided by a makeshift stand where soft drinks, wine and beer were sold by the glass (wine was cheapest, beer was the priciest).

Hiking back up the hill to Pierrerue, I passed the usual assortment of grape vines and stunning terrain, but what stood out and deserved a photo was the sight of a man working the fields on this brilliant day. Salut to you, too. Sorry you could not join the rest.





In Pierrerue, I found that at least a handful of men from my village had scorned the games of the neighbors. They were in front of the Mairie, engaged in their own Saturday routine. I watched and took a photo or two. They liked the attention. They bantered and egged each other on about messing up for the madame with the camera.



the men of Pierrerue


In the early evening I took the car down to St. Chinian. I needed a baguette for my dinner of a calamari salad back home. I passed the village square and remembered that I had arrived at this time exactly a week ago. I had noticed the older men and the boules then and here they were again. I stopped and watched. Is it Petanque as well? No, explained one. This is Boules Lyonaise. Played not on gravel but on packed dirt. It’s all about precision here. A guy marks spots carefully and measures distances with a marker.

I am told they have been playing for years. Petanque -- that’s just for fun. This is serious stuff. It used to be that every village had a Lyonaise team and there would be real competitions. Now, its’ mostly just in the towns, like St Chinian.

They don’t play boules in America? He asked, surprised.

from Pierrerue: no choice but to go

And what can’t you resist? People talk about chocolate, wine, an adoring lover, volumes have been written about giving in to temptations of all sorts.

I can turn my back on it all. I have will power. I can not enter French shoe stores if I must, I can skip the aperitif, the cappuccino. It would be hard, but I can do it.

But bring out the sun, point to an empty road leading through vineyards to the sea and I am on it.

At least I stopped work closer to three, a little better than noon the previous day. But I did not admit to myself what I was doing. It was a windy day and I cannot emphasize this enough – when the winds blow through here, they really blow. So I thought I’d just head out for a little drive. Maybe to a town a little south of here, maybe for a simple pleasure of a café, somewhere in a pretty setting. (St. Chinian’s cafes are not remarkable in this respect; they spill out onto the street alright, exactly at the intersection of the busiest road so that you can basically watch the trucks and tractors race by.)

Oh, indeed, it was a beautiful ride! Let me show you:



road beckons



one of many



rows and rows


I noticed myself passing the town I was supposed to visit. In fact, deliberately, I took a road that headed around it. I am just not ready to get out, I told myself, even though it was nearing five.

But what’s this that I see, there behind the vineyard? Water?



vines, olives, sea


Oh that damn Mediterranean! How dare you throw yourself in my path! Out I go, feeling the indescribably wonderful sensation of gusts of warm wind on the water’s edge.



sandcastles




she reminded me of certain little ones I know




sandcastles, against the wind


Someone (you know who you are) asked for an Ocean author photo update. Sure, I look different these days. The hair is streaked by the sun, it’s longer, in a bun to keep it from going crazy in the winds, the skin is darker of course, the denim skirt is faded from overuse. And there’s this look of satisfaction that I have. Here, forget the lovely backdrop of the parked cars. You told me to ask a waiter to take a photo, so I did. This is what he chose to frame:





It was late when I left this beachfront (it was alongside a tiny and colorful seaside community). I couldn’t get myself up and going. Though the idea of a road in the early evening, passing past vineyards, and inevitably, the Canal du Midi (the Canal separates me from the southern most coast) finally revved me up.






Dinner? Time to make a return to my local La Caleche. Let me just post the appetizer and dessert. Though I ate everything in between as well. You know, it’s the sea – it works up the appetite.



first course



last course