Of Popes and wild horses

I'd read in one of those travel books that Avignon could be nice if it wasn't for all the graffiti. There was a direct non-stop bus service from just outside our hotel to the town centre, we couldn't ask for easier transport. As we got off the bus the first thing we noticed was that we were inside a fortified wall. The whole city is surrounded by it. As fortifications go this one wasn't very well thought out. If I'd had any notions of invading Avignon I'd simply have learned to pole vault - that's all it would have taken to get over the wall. I'm guessing when they built it nobody spotted the plans were folded over and they had missed a bit!

Now - let's be honest here, I certainly did see the graffiti. In one doorway somebody had sprayed their 'tag'. But apart from that the city centre was beautiful; I fell in love with the place.

At the northern end of the city, up on a small hill, is a huge fourteenth century building, Le Palais des Papes, the Popes' Palace. The Popes ruled the Catholic church from here for nearly one hundred years during the 14th  century. I never discovered why - perhaps their place in Rome was being redecorated or having central heating installed, who knows? My loathing of religion is well known but I was quite happy to explore this place and just marvel at the size of it.

Juts outside the palace runs the river Rhone and jutting into that is what eveybody thinks of with this city, and causes everyone to quietly hum in their heads, Sur le pont d'Avignon . . . The guide books will tell you the bridge is now incomplete having fallen into disrepair and that there is only a small amount of it left. Not so. It is incomplete, for sure, but there is a significant amount of it still there and it looks quite impressive. We didn't go on it - you could see all you needed from the road underneath it and, anyway, the truth is believed to be that the song originally ran, Sous le pont d'Avignon or under the bridge of Avignon where the thieves and ne'er-do-wells used to hang out. I just enjoyed playing the game of trying to get photos of it without cars in the picture. If you see how busy the road is you'll understand it is an art form all of its own.

I knew that between the palace and the bridge was a small park with a sundial with a difference. You need to stand in the middle and your shadow will tell you the time. As we made our way into the park there was all sorts of activity going on, trestle tables being set up everywhere, a large stage had been erected and was set up with a band's equipment and dotted around were stalls selling different kinds of wine plus a proper mix of foods. We had accidentally stumbled upon an event called Le ban des Vendages. I have no idea what it means but it seems to be some sort of celebration of harvesting the grapes and making wine.

They had manual wine presses there, put the new grapes in and men dressed in traditional costumes pressed the juice from it. As Mary and I walked past the press we had to thread our way through the throng who were all clamouring with their glasses to get a sample of the dirtiest, most foul looking liquid I'd ever seen, and believe me, I've seen some odd looking stuff in my time. If it tasted even vaguely as it looked I'm glad I didn't have a glass with me. Incontinence on tap - that's what it was, I'm sure.

Mary and I did sit and have a couple of beers bought from the man who was cooking the biggest paellas I'd ever seen. When I'm back in the UK I intend adding photos to this blog and when I put the one of these paellas cooking on here look for the circle of white you can vaguely see on the nearest one. Salt. Loads and loads of salt tipped from a huge container. And the mussels came out of a large flat tray. Everything was added on a grand scale. It smelt delicious, I have to say, but I kind of felt if the liquid incontinence didn't get you the paella one would.

Great evening, though. Excellent atmosphere. If I was in Avignon again - and there is a very real chance of that - I would make a point of being there for the whole event and making the effort to understand properly what was going on. But I would buy some incontinence pants for the occasion!

Sunday we decided - or really Mary went along with my decision - to go and visit the Camargue area west of Marseille on the Mediterranean Sea. It is famous for its Camargue horses, supposedly white but as they have black skin they are technically greys, which run wild in the area. There are also the last of genuine cowboys whose job is to round up these horses from time to time for use in French bullfighting which is done with bulls bred in the area too. Both the horses and bulls are smaller than usual but very strong and both are very distinct and unique breeds.

We had figured we would have either one of two outcomes. Either we would drive all through the Camargue and never clap eyes on a single horse. What we were actually hoping for was the second option - to come across a herd of wild horses running freely across a field, a plain or maybe even through a stream and all the while we would hear the theme music from Black Beauty playing  from somewhere.

What we actually got was somewhere between the two. We definitely saw the Camargue horses but most of the ones we saw were stood in riding schools, ready saddled, waiting for customers coming to ride them. They were stood under shelters, tied up either side of a central panel and, to us, looked quite forlorn. They most certainly didn't look the free spirits we associated with the breed. We did eventually see some of the wild horses but they were stood around in little groups. We also got to see the bulls which are clearly smaller than the animals we know.

It really didn't take long for Mary and me to become disenchanted with what we were seeing and we cut short our excursion and started heading back towards Avignon and a fort we had seen across the river from the town. On the way, though, we glimpsed another building which could have been a chateau or a fort type place. I was ready to drive past it but noticed Mary looking across at it so asked the question and, as Mary was curious, we decided to take a look. It was yet another Abbaye, We seem to have spent a lot of time following in religious footsteps on this trip.

This one was the Abbaye de Montmajour and was - err - ok. Like the Pope's Palace in Avignon this was also an empty building so all you are really looking at is architecture, and in some cases, some murals on the walls and ceilings. Like I said it was ok.

But - the story of our trip - whatever we were doing something good always came out of it. Where we had parked the car to visit the abbey was a small auberge with about 25 to 30 tables outside. It was just over one third full so there were enough customers to convince us it was worth trying.

All I can tell you is the food was heavenly. Mary never eats desserts but she made the effort this time, going the full three courses. On any trip in France just one meal like this justifies everything else about the trip. Who cares about silly white horses except when they lead you to places like this - especially when you consider we were off route at this point.

Man - I really love France. And I so love its food.

A Tear In Provence

Friday morning Mary and I got up bright and early - something of a sufferance for Mary since she retired and has enjoyed the privilege of getting up when she chooses. We wanted to get on the road as early as possible and carry out the mission we had chosen. We had a sixty mile drive to the Grand Canyon du Verdon, known more popularly to we Brits as Verdon Gorge.

Back in 2006 Brian bought a copy of Bike magazine and on the front cover were two bikes riding side by side round a right hand bend. When you opened the magazine they showed a photo of the same bend but the photographer had panned back and you could see the surrounding scenery. It was stunning. Brian read the article, followed the route they had taken on his map and determined he was going to ride those roads himself. Well, when I say himself I mean he was going to talk someone into going with him. Someone who had experience of riding abroad and especially in France. Someone who he had shared riding through France before on his previous trip. Someone who could speak a bit of the language and knew how to book hotels and find his way around. You just know who that someone was.

Brian and I actually ended up going there three times altogether over the years. He wanted to have a photo of us two going round that same bend and that was how many attempts it took before we got the picture he wanted, courtesy of the lovely Janie. We never tired of going there and although I would never claim it was my favourite part of my beloved France it was nevertheless a lovely area to go to. Brian also went back there with his wife, Mary, and again with his daughter, Stacey.

If Brian was to end up anywhere this would be the place for him. He absolutely adored it, the scenery, the warmth, the roads, everything about this place drew Brian back time and time again.

Mary and I had our wires crossed about where we should leave him. I had assumed it was to be at the bend which started his love affair with Verdon and Mary had assumed it was going to be where he used to take so many of his photographs and video pictures from. Eventually it was to prove that Mary thought those pictures were taken at the bend; she just thought the background of those photos was down near the lake, the Lac de Sainte Croix. I took Mary first of all to where the shots were actually taken and as soon as she saw it Mary knew this was where Brian wanted to be. It was a stunning location, the view of the gorge and the lake were beyond compare and, most importantly, down near the lake you could see that bend.

I spotted a place quite quickly which looked ideal for our needs. Just beyond a wall was a drop of about two metres but with the ground then sloping down very steeply towards the River Verdon. There were some trees and shrubs there which would help prevent the ashes immediately blowing away or rolling down the incline. There were a few tourists, French, German and Dutch there but suddenly it seemed as though they all decided to pack up and go. The time seemed to be now.

We took the box, a six inch cube, from the car to the wall and started to open it. We hadn't expected a paper inner which looked for all the world like an envelope. That took us a few seconds to open by which time another car had arrived and its two occupants started gazing at the scenery and didn't seem to be taking any notice of what Mary and I were doing. I had used the time honoured method of licking my finger and holding it up to check the wind direction which was coming from behind us. Perfect. And so the moment arrived. Together Mary and I tipped the box and watched Brian's ashes fall onto the ground below with some of the remains drifting off with the wind into the trees and shrubs.

Mary put the box back on the wall and then her face visibly changed. It didn't take a genius to see that she was talking in her mind to Brian - I would guess saying her final goodbyes although I never asked; the thoughts were for Mary alone, naturally. We looked at each other, smiled, and then the strangest thing happened.

It was now at least thirty seconds, if not more since we had sent the ashes down. And suddenly a white cloud of them rose up over the wall and drifted on, over and around Mary and me. It lasted five or ten seconds. It wasn't a sparse cloud, a few random, specks. It was a very dense cloud of many, many particles which, if they had been watching, the other tourists there would have seen clearly. And remember that by rising up over the wall and then washing down over Mary and me those particles were going against the prevailing wind, although I guess common sense and elimentary physics says that the wind had to have changed direction at that moment. At that moment.

I know both Mary and I never felt anything bad or scary about what had happened. It almost felt as though Brian was either saying goodbye or showing his approval of what we had done. Whether it was something like that or simply a freak of the wind at the time I guess each person will draw his or her own conclusion.

I really don't know what caused it. I just know what I saw.

From there we drove down to beside the lake and stopped at the bend Brian loved so much and whilst we were there we looked back up at the spot where Brian's ashes lay. That was when Mary realised she had misunderstood where all those photos had been taken.

And from there we started our journey back both feeling as though it was time for lunch and wishing we could find a restaurant where we could sit outside on this warm, sunny day and enjoy a beautiful French salade.


And we did exactly that in Moustiers-Sainte-Marie. Mission accomplished.

What could possibly go wrong?

Mary's and my trip to France started as all these things start. Late. The lift to take us to Milton Keynes station turned up later than promised seeming to cut things a bit fine but we fortunately made it with a few minutes to spare. Which is when we found out the train was late. Don't all trips start like that? Most of mine seem to.

Those who know the reason for this journey will understand that Mary and I had some anxiety going through the check-in procedure at Eurostar but our fears were groundless, thank goodness. We could see the whole trip falling apart right there. For those who don't know the reason all will be revealed as the trip progresses.

The Eurostar journey to Lille was an enjoyable experience, first class travel complete with complimetary wine and dinner, olives with chili, beef with red onion and a tiny tart of turkey in redcurrant sauce with a tomato relish. Forty minutes to change to the TGV to Avignon was plenty of time at Lille, made plentier(!) by yet another late train. I thought the French railways were supposed to be the model of efficient, on-time running but ours wasn't.

First time I've experienced a double-deck train, too, and fortunately we were upstairs. The view from there is pretty good, almost worth having to carry two suitcases up a narrow staircase.

We'd been travelling for some time when we pulled into our first station. On the timetable it had said the train would be calling at Lyon, then Avignon, our stop. I was impressed with just how fast these trains go - about 180 miles per hour - and how quickly we had arrived at Lyons. As we approached the station Mary saw planes taking off quite close together and then we could see the airport right beside the railway station. As we came to a stand I could see the Station signs said Charles de Gaulle Aeroport. Now I have to confess there was a period of something like two seconds when I thought to myself, 'How strange that the airports at both Paris and Lyons are called Charles de Gaulle?' It was only two seconds that I thought it but, truth is, that really was two seconds too long.

Durr. We had only made it as far as Paris. We still had to call at DisneyWorld and then we would be on our way properly. There can't be a more relaxing way to travel than on a long-distance train. The mix of chatting with a friend, reading a book and gazing out of the window watching an ever-changing landscape is as pleasant as it gets. Between Paris and Lyons the style of houses noticeably changed from grey functional buildings to bright, cheerful little - and not so little - houses which looked sunny with their red-tiled roofs. The further south you travelled the more you could sense that you were heading towards the Mediterranean just by looking at the architecture. And from the air-conditioned carriage you could see and almost feel the warmth from the sun - just what we needed after our long, wet summer.

The reality check came as we were leaving Lyons. Right beside the track just a few hundred metres from the TGV station was a shanty town, the sort you associate with Brazil and countries like that. A patch of ground in the middle of the city with shacks made of wood, canvas, corrugated iron sheets and anything else to hand to create makeshift homes. I would have expected them in South America but it had never occurred to me that they could exist in the heart of Europe.

Approaching Valence we could see the western edge of the Alps across to our left and stood behind them was one of the really tall snow-covered Alpine peaks, looking a pinky-orange colour as it was reflecting the sunset. It really doesn't matter how many times you see the Alps - and I used to go regularly in my bike riding days - they never fail to take your breath away. So much one of nature's most beautiful sights, a freak really - they just exist because Africa happens to be crashing into Europe - and my only disappointment with them is the bulk of them are wasted by being in Switzerland and so you can't enjoy them without having to deal with the Swiss people. And there is no way you can enjoy Swiss people.

So, despite the possibility of things going wrong because of late trains, or difficulties checking in at Eurostar or carrying two large cases onto foreign trains the whole journey had all gone so smoothly, so easily and left Mary and I with a wonderful feeling of achievement.

Well - it did as far as the approach to Lyons to be honest. That was when we heard the sound you hear when someone realises they have made a big, big blunder - that long, low, moaning, "Nooooooooooo!" And I think you'll find the groan of pain came from me. About the time I realised I hadn't brought my driving licence with me. Which was about the time I realised they wouldn't let me have my pre-booked hire car without it. Without which we would never be able to carry out our mission. Nooooooooooo!

Mary came to the rescue. Tucked deep in the back of her wallet, for no obvious reason, was her licence. We'd have to hire the car with her as the driver. There was the small issue that I had been dutifully sober throughout the trip because I knew I was going to be driving later. Mary didn't need to so she had drunk a fair bit of red wine - a delightful little number I had picked up from M&S! Plus Mary had never driven a left-hand drive car before. And she had only driven abroad on autoroutes so never had to negotiate roundabouts or traffic at crossroads, etc, and, by the time we would have got the hire car it would be dark. This looked promising.

We managed to travel steadily - very, very steadily - from the car hire place at the railway station to the hotel which was all of eight hundred metres away.

And that left us with the following conundrum. Did Mary, who really had no confidence or desire to drive in France take the controls or should I having done many miles over here before although, of course, it would be illegal and without insurance cover because I wasn't registered as the driver? And you know me - I am always most reluctant to do anything illegal or dishonest . . .