from Pierrerue: painters and parties

I went to Ceret in the late afternoon both because it is at the foothills of the Pyrenees and because it was once a place of escape for artists and intellectuals. They left traces of their work behind: Picasso, Chagall, Kisling, Cocteau among countless others. I wanted to see the place for myself to see what the draw was (besides freedom from oppressive and belligerent regimes).

Of course, I am curious about other stuff too. Ceret is just a few kilometers from Spain. When faced with a border, I want to cross it. What’s it like on the other side?

And so before proceeding to Ceret, I turned south, dug out my passport and recalled a few Spanish words I thought might be useful. Ola. Mui rico. They’re all greetings, or comments on food.

I must admit, crossing over to Spain was one of those bad decisions. I had sped south for two hours and was due back at Pierrerue before 8. My time was limited and should not have been given over to border towns packed with shoppers buying up tobacco and motorbikes and God knows what else.

The snaking line of traffic was discouraging and I was prepared to spend even more time at the border itself. Thankfully, the Spanish control person chose at this hour to take a nap and I was happy to see traffic whiz by his booth without him so much as opening an eye. I thought for a minute he may be dead, all sprawled out as he was and so I was relieved to see his stomach move up and down with some regularity.

Having snuck past that, I breathed a (premature) sigh of relief. Seconds later, however, I was pulled over by a very pleasant if official looking woman. I watched with envy as all others sailed through without attracting hers or anyone’s attention.

Where are you going and how long will you be there? She asked.
Ashamed of my reasons for being there (for the hell of it), I eeked out: twenty minutes.
Not staying overnight?
No…
And you are driving a rented car?
Is that it? Am I not allowed to bring in a rented car here? I should have checked. Still…
Yes, it’s rented. Listen, I can turn back… Interest in a peek at Spain was vanishing. I’ve been in Spain plenty. Why this detour? Foolish.
Just one more thing. How old are you??
Now that just gave me pause and so I asked –why do you want to know?
For the survey, of course. I am from the Tourist Bureau and we are conducting random surveys of visitors.
It seems prudent to disclose this information at the outset, but I am not here to make a fuss, so I tell her my age and drive on.

Reflecting that Spain is a pretty place even if this particular spot does not adequately display her splendors, I decide to at least find a café that would do me up a fine cappuccino. And I did find a restaurant off to the side somewhere, boasting fresh ingredients and Catalan food and so I ordered a Catalan Cream in addition to the coffee and proceeded to have a fine discussion on the merits of the Catalan Cream over the French Crème Brulee. The former, I’m told, has flavors of orange and honey and a richness that I am assured cannot be found in something as plain as a Crème Brulee, which, after all, is merely eggs, cream and sugar.

It was past five when I finally arrived in Ceret. That turned out to work in Ceret’s favor. The colors of houses, the dappled plane trees, the mellowness of a late afternoon light all made the town lovely to behold.










In the Museum of Modern Art, I saw a more somber story, of course. Artists escaping war and repression are inevitably going to work through their stress in their creations and indeed, Picasso’s gift to the museum was a painting depicting evil and Chagall’s magnificent painting on the theme of war could not be more moving in a very sad sort of way.

True, Picasso also left behind ceramics depicting bull fights, which were very a propos, this being a town that goes in for that sort of thing. And there was an occasional Dufy and we know Dufy can paint no evil, so that was a bit of a relief.

I also went to a bookstore and asked if they had any book at all that would help me out a little with the finer nuance of French grammar. I was tired of hearing myself speak incorrectly.

Ceret’s bookstores are a bit on the pretentious side. They have serious little volumes on art, philosophy and on the human condition in general. There was not a grammar book to be had, but I was assured that I would do well reading to myself the memoirs of a Catalan woman – something about having to leave home and suffering separation anxiety from the village of her youth. I was flattered that my French was pegged at such a level. Or maybe she wrote in a particularly accessible way. In any case, I have the book with me and will get to it as soon as the tempo of life here in the south of France slows down for me even more.






In the evening there was, of course, the annual Pierrerue Fete. I went down with great trepidation. I knew hardly anyone in town. Why had I thought this to be a good idea?

Madame Marie-Rose rescued me. Literally, she saved my life as I managed to, early on, choke on a tomato wedge and without her resounding slap on my back, delivered with the force of a woman who has seen death and would not like to repeat the experience just that evening, I would have been but ashes in the cemetery at the bottom of the Pierrerue hill.

The Fete itself was possibly the highpoint of highpoints. 160 people showed up from Pierrerue and its sister village just down the hill (Combejean). The village youth prepared and served the food, counting on a profit that would allow them to party to high heaven later in the season.



delivering

Of course, this being an intergenerational kind of place, on this night both young and old mixed, ate and danced together late into the night and I am told in July the old will again show up to the party of the young and, just as on this night, they will start with the slower dances, move right into a multiage bunny hop and wind the evening down with some hearty disco stuff.



my table



taking it in

Such an evening! I will long remember Celine* (my age) explaining across the table to Marie-Rose what life is like in America. Her daughter had done graduate work in San Francisco and so she knew the scoop. America, from a French person’s perspective: there is great concern that we do not use trains enough and that we lack bread stores in every village.

Celine works at the wine cooperative. Her father and grandfather were “wine growers” (vignerons). If you asked her if she ever thought about leaving Pierrerue she would laugh. Entre deux. Pierrerue is an entre deux village – it lies between the two: mountains and sea. It is, in the eyes of its residents, a perfect location, like no other on earth. They love this place. Me too, outsider that I am.

*where people have offered personal stories out of friendship rather of a service, I have disguised identifiers – the most obvious being names. I’ve changed most of them.

from Pierrerue: mirror mirror

I wanted to catch the 2:15 train to Montpellier. I worked hard to get stuff done, but in the end, even though I drove demonically to Beziers in the hopes of making it, I missed it by two minutes and had to settle for the 3:09. It is almost an hour ride from Beziers, which meant that it wasn’t until after 4 that I exited the train station of Montpellier La Roche. Late, considering I absolutely had to be on the 6:47 return in order to make my dinner reservation up in the little village just beyond Pierrerue.

Montpellier is a big city. And it is actually very pretty, all cleaned up and spiffy, with large boulevards, flashy modern blue and yellow tram cars moving along the main circuit, squares, parks, and I hear it has a fascinating old town.





I saw hardly any of it. Here’s why:

In my rural ramblings, I have been missing this one aspect of city life: the café. Village cafés are different. Oftentimes they are right in the midst of traffic, just so you can catch every single car and person that passes through. They are not pretty, they’re functional. A pastis or an espresso, a chat and you’re off.

Sure, they are good for people watching and especially of older men watching, as they are the most frequent habitués of the village café. This was taken yesterday, over a café noisette (forget about cappuccino at the village; the cappuccino to them demands whipped cream; most often, the café-bar has none and therefore will refuse your cappuccino request).



the men of St. Chinian




okay, the St. Chinian poodle could feel at home at any city or village in France


But there’s something about a grand outdoor café that a city provides, out there on the open boulevard or closed-to-traffic square, something that just cannot be replicated elsewhere – not on the corner of St Chinian, not on State Street in Madison. It’s certainly not better than the latter, it’s simply different and after two weeks of village life, I was hankering for an afternoon of that difference.

And sure enough, Montpellier has an abundance of outdoor cafés. Indeed, the focal point is a large square which, like in Krakow, Venice or any other large European city, has been handed over to the café crowds. And they are different than my wonderfully capped men of St Chinian. (Again, not at all better and hardly more interesting, just very different.) Compare and contrast.



St Chinian cafe




Montpellier cafe


But before sitting down for my coveted and adored cappuccino, I make the mistake of entering the Galleries Lafayette and trying on a beautiful blue and yellow scarf.

I look in the mirror and freeze.

Pierrerue does not have much of a mirror. There is something resembling one hanging in the bathroom, but the lightbulb there has long gone out and I haven’t bothered climbing up to replace it. And now, in the bright lights of the Galleries Lafayette I could witness the true state of my hair: under the influence of the southern sun, it had turned almost completely blonde.

That’s fine. I have no problem with being a blonde in the summer of 2006. The problem is that the roots, hidden there under layers of blondeness, are having a hard time catching up. Brown roots, a splash of gray at the temples and a mound of basic blondness. I can’t believe I have been out in public like this!

It is 5:30. I enter a haircut store conveniently positioned outside the doors of the Galleries Lafayette and tell the desk person: do something! Is there a product you can sell me? Anything!

She looks at me, spins around and runs off to get the manager. He comes to the front, looks at me, frowns, reaches for some product and proceeds to explain how I might use it and what I may hope to accomplish for an interim solution.

I lost him on step number 43. It could be that after going through this, I will wind up looking worse than I look right now.

I have a train to catch in one hour and fifteen minutes. Can you fix my cheveux in that time, please?




Jason's replacement in the background


Fifty five minutes, that’s all they needed. He painted and hummed so that my roots caught up to the rest of the south of France effect. She scrubbed, conditioned and conditioned some more. Want me to cut it too? Oh, go for it. Snip, snip, two minutes later she is done. My man Jason back home would be appalled.

Fact is, though, I can’t say I’d be looking much better after a Jason afternoon. And the price? One third that of Madison’s. I’m thinking: if I saved on hair by tending to it here and used the savings for airfare, could I make it to Montpellier, say, every two months and come out even?





No café this time. I ran in my flashy flowered sandals, without even pausing for an ice cream cone. But late at night, as I worked my way through the multicourse presentation of chef Frederic at my favorite village restaurant, I did think for the first time that I looked at least presentable. No little girl shoes, no denim skirt, perfectly styled hair with no dark roots. France is transforming me.

The night ended with cheeses and gratineed fruits.

from Pierrerue: two stories, one theme

First story:

Late in the afternoon I drive to the village of Olargues. It is in the mountains north and west of here. Even the cherry trees give up by the time you get to it. Vineyards? No, not that either. I see signs in front of houses announcing the sale of honey, so I guess bees like it up here.

Bees and the Committee for the Selection of the Prettiest Villages of France (if such a committee there is).

I have said this before: France ranks and rewards most everything you could imagine. Food preparation alone is eligible for rosettes, forks, torques, stars, young chef awards (Alain of Atmospheres in the Savoie won one of those last year), oh you name it, they give it.

And villages as well: that one is worth one flower. Another: two. Olargues gets three stars and a designation: it belongs to the elite group of “Prettiest Villages.”

Pierrerue isn’t even rated, that’s how insignificant it is in the eyes of the Committee for the Selection of the Prettiest Villages of France.

For Olargues, I think it has become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Once adorned and adored, you start puffing yourself out (villages are like people in this respect). Flowers magically appear.









even in pretty villages, children play






And the tourists come. It is worth a detour, the books say.

Initially, I set out to disprove Olargues' worth. But I cave after I step into a bakery for an afternoon snack. They have the best madeleines in the world, ones that would make Proust jump out of bed for more. I mellow after that.





But do not misunderstand (Side Story follows): in my heart, I am with Pierrerue. Pierrerue cares deeply about keeping itself nice and tidy, even though it cannot compete with medieval villages perched on mountains. It cares about its one street. It cares about its Mairie, about its little church. And it cares about its garbage.

Here’s how I know: I had been environmentally friendly, I thought and I had been saving my little plastic bags from market trips and using them as trash can liners. True, the bags are small, but so is my kitchen trash can.

Because the garbage dumpsters are a bit of a walk, I pushed the limits: I filled the damn things pretty tightly before carrying them down.

Two days ago, a neighbor came by. She said she wanted to give me my allotment of garbage bags, courtesy of the village of Pierrerue.

As compared to the absolutely neat blue bags of garbage in the village bins, nicely tied and securely holding in all garbage, my little market bags must have been an eyesore. I cannot be certain, but I am thinking they had a village meeting. And someone had une idée: give Madame Nina some bags, call it an allotment and let’s see what she does.

I got the nudge. The bins are spotless once again. Even the weeds growing around them are inviting.



weeds and butterflies


Second story:

There is an old farmhouse outside one of the mountain towns just half an hour away from Pierrerue (that town’s rating: one star, which means it’s okay, but not worth a detour).

The farmhouse has been converted into an inn. I went there to eat dinner.

The owner, Monsieur Gilles, is an art collector and he displays paintings of local artists in a little gallery to the side. I was smitten by some pieces, especially those painted by a woman by the name of Pamella, so much so that I took a tiny something of hers home. Delighted with my appreciation of his collection, Monsieur Gilles took me around the inn, pointing out paintings that he had been especially commissioned to fit into some demanding wall spaces.

My mother does not like it that I am replacing the old stuff. She says the old decorations have been here for years! I tell her, that’s the problem: they have been here for years! (Monsieur Gilles is, I would guess, in his late fifties and so I am glad he no longer listens to his mother.)

Dinner was wonderful. The home made paté with Muscat jelly, the scallops with braised endive, the six cheeses, chocolate cakes, cookies, all of it fantastic (and all courses together, costing less than just one main dish at Madison’s upscale restaurants). Monsieur Gilles and I hit it off. I like the food, I like the paintings, what more can one ask of your guests. In return, he fusses and brings a shawl for me when he thinks the night air is getting too cool. Hearing that I was born in Poland, he puts on Chopin’s Nocturnes as background music.





And at the end, Monsieur Gilles snips a beautiful rose from the garden and brings it to my table along with the little picture done by Pamella. He presents me with both and tells me that my credit card isn’t going through the machine, but not to worry, if it does it does, if it does not – so be it.

He walks me to the car, plants a kiss and I drive away, puffed up and determined to wear something other than a denim skirt and a zip-up hoodie next time I go out.



a rose is a rose

from Pierrerue: drifting

You would think that I am supernaturally drawn to people who worry about food for a living. I seem to cross paths with them a lot, sometimes quite unintentionally.

Take, for instance, my (absent) landlord at Pierrerue. Would you have guessed that she, along with her Kenyan husband, runs one of the more successful restaurants down here, along the Canal du Midi? Indeed.

I stayed clear of the place the first week. I admit, I could not get myself excited about a place run by a pair of expats, basically from Britain. We all have our biases and mine run deep about the eating culture across the Channel.

But my neighbors here, at Pierrerue egged me on to try it. Phrases like “you have to” “it’s really wonderful” “it’s tiny, so book way in advance” kept coming up in idle conversation about the weather and so I finally broke down.

Booking a table for the evening around here means you show up well after eight or you are going to look like the biggest fool on the planet and you most certainly will be eating alone. Still, I was ready for a break at three in the afternoon and so I headed toward the Canal then, thinking I’d kill time biking around a bit.

The Office of Tourism at Capestang, the Canal-side town closest to Pourquoi Pas (the restaurant of my landlady), opened its doors again in the late afternoon, after a multi-hour lunch break. Perfect. I show up close to four and rent a bike.

You can return it tonight, by six – we close at six – or keep it until tomorrow.
I’ll be back in two hours. I cannot take the bike back to Pierrerue with me.

The path along the Canal is lovely. It strikes me as fun to follow it and get as far as the restaurant I am about to dine in. Can’t be too distant.

After an hour, I reflect on my progress. I’ve bounced around rocky and rooted terrain and still, I see nothing. But it could be just around the bend. ...lying 'round the bend, my Huckleberry friend... Let me keep going. I'll hustle like the winds on the return trip. Worst case scenario, I miss the return time, leave the bike at the restaurant and return it tomorrow.




bucolic, fragrant, but slow going




encountered: 2 women, 1 French poodle


Finally. I see it. I climb up on the bridge along with my Mr.B substitute and study it. There used to be stables here a long time ago, along this lonely stretch of the Canal. Now food is served to weary travelers like me.





Mercifully there is a country road that winds back to Capestang so that I can put a little zip into the return trip to town and make it to the Office of Tourism just seconds before closing.

Madame is back!
What’s the big deal? A welcome that is disproportionate to the event. Did she think I’d fall into the Canal?
Madame walked away with the keys to my car! I would not be able to get home tonight if Madame did not return.
Oops.


The Pourquois Pas is indeed lovely, inside and out. Choose between a meat dish or a fish, but the rest is up to the chef. I am given an asparagus mousse and a guinea fowl, followed by cheeses and a flourless chocolate cake.

I talk to Kirsty throughout the evening and it is evident to me that the Purquois Pas will not be around forever. Steve, her husband, is a drifter, like I am. Raised in one culture, transported to another, finding a home in a third. …two drifters, off to see the world… She worked the barges for tourists … barges, I would like to go with you, I would like to sail the ocean blue… he trained as a chef. They met here, but are not ready to call this their final adventure.

There are people like that – who are always considering other possibilities, always rearranging their lives because something comes up that is worth stepping out of one’s routines for. There are people like that, I just don’t know too many.



night drive back

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.