Pistou and Pathways

In case any of you have not trimmed 1 1/2 pounds of green beans at both ends and then quartered them lengthwise, I have a word of advice for those preparing to do so -- make sure you have lots of rose in the refrigerator. This is the account of the pistou, a dish which I have been keen to taste here and even keener to make since I first came to this area 4 years ago. Finally I am here in the season of fresh cocos blancs, so I shelled about 1 1/2 pounds of those, peeled and minced 4 bulbs of garlic, peeled and seeded and then chopped 1/2 potimarron (a pumpkin of a particular shape), julienned a zucchini, peeled and cored and seeded and chopped about 1 1/2 pounds of tomatoes, and then spent a very long time indeed preparing the green beans. Once all the chopping was done, the cooking only takes about 45 minutes in total. A bit of pesto and some parmesan goes in at the very end as the dish is served. Not only was it quite tasty (but possibly there were too many green beans) but it proved an excellent vehicle for we parsimonious two (Glenn and I) to use up all the old stale ends of bread (including the very crusty last bit of a baguette Sandra bought!). We have about one serving left of what was supposed to serve 12.

I chopped all the vegetables outside on the little terrace and felt quite picturesque about it, as you can see. When that was done, Glenn and I had planned to go for a walk led by Joanna to see some of the local historic sites. Glenn was off on a bike ride so we waited for a bit and then set off without him. We walked down the road until just before Les Valettes, stocking up on wild blackberries as we went, then headed inland on a small paved path that wound round the cherry orchards and finally led to a bourrie, which looks like a dry-stone igloo, and I think provided shelter to shepherds (of whatever flock). It is quite spacious inside, maybe 10 feet in diameter and with plenty of room to stand up and ventilation in the roof so one could have a fire (which somebody obviously had done recently - well in the last decade at least). On the way to the bourrie we could just see the last remaining tower of the ruined Chateau de Beaumont, the ruin of which was apparently hastened by some witch who had a premonition of treasure buried there and the publication of her vision led predictably to a lot of looting.

From the bourrie we went on to the cemetery and chapel of the hamlet of St,. Marguerite. In the cemetery many of the tombstones bear the names of those families who had entertained us at the Saturday concert, so they clearly have a long-standing connection to the valley. The chapel was closed, but there is a long stone plinth outside bearing a roman inscription, and that provided a nice segue into the next part of the walk, which was a visit to the Roman quarry which was the source of all the stone used in the building of the roman bridge in Vaison, a bridge which stood completely intact until damaged by a flood in 1992!.. In addition to the large stone walls from which the building stone was quarried, there is also a lot of loose volcanic scree, not unlike pumice, cascading down the adjacent hillside.

When we returned home about 3 hours after we had started, there was poor Glenn on the terrace, thinking I had locked him out, when in fact the door was unlocked (although the latch is acting up a bit). Then we had an aperitif of biere blonde de la Garde (which is relatively regional and tastier than usual for a blond beer) and the pistou.

Shooting the Breeze

Saturday started off with me wrapping up my reading of MFK Fisher's "Two Towns in Provence", a compilation of two smaller works, one about living in Aix-en-Provence with her two young daughters for a couple of years from 1959-61, written in 1964, and the other written in the mid-70's as she made what I think may have been a farewell visit to Marseille, and recalled all her earlier trips there (starting in 1929!). Some of her adventures and travails make my apprenticeship with the Picasso seem quite insignificant, so I have decided to calm down about it and have had a couple of very smooth driving days as a consequence. Plus I now have the downhill hairpins on the bike to preoccupy me.

We set off on a relatively easy ride to circle the Dentelles (which if I didn't describe them before in my fatigue at having scaled them every which way are a chain of steep hills/mountains named because of the lacy protuberances of eroded limestone). First we took the lovely smooth wide road to Bedoin and gawked briefly at all the cyclists again as we road through and on to Crillon-le-Brave, then Caromb and Beaumes-de-Venise, where we had coffee at one of those somewhat dodgy men's bars we like (but ate croissants from the patisserie), and then headed to Vacqueyras. There had, to this point, been some swirling gusting winds that were a little alarming on the bike and you had to really lean into them to maintain your line of travel, but it was unclear what direction they were blowing. As we took the turn to Vacqueyras and headed north, however, it became crystal clear that the wind was the famous Mistral blowing chilliliy straight down the Rhone. It felt like we hit a wall. We did not struggle on that much longer, and I am sure both of us recalled having just passed a large cave de degustation when we turned around and headed back to it, where several small samples were had and I discovered the ingenious packaging of three litres of olive oil in a bag in a box so that it will never get stale/rancid. Of course I did not buy any there and then but will return later, or keep an eye out for it elsewhere. The picture of the flags indicates (perhaps) the strength of the wind, which we were told was a "mild" one, and which can last one or several days.

The verdict on the ride -- half was great -- half was so-so, and a short amount was awful. We had no time to dwell on the shortcomings of that day's cycling, because it was already past 2 pm and we had to have lunch (pasta with a tomato sauce and fresh goat cheese ricotta and basil), and shower, and make an appetizer and get dressed for the concert at 4:00p pm. FIrst for the concert.

All the performers, ranging in age from about 7 to 75, are the offspring of one family of five siblings (three boys and two girls), all of whom live in Les Alazards (the little hamlet down the end of our road where Paul and June built the new house). The two sisters (the 75 year olds) alternated playing the organ with another gentleman. They are unmarried and live together in the house across from some friends of Pat's. Their brothers are musical (but married) although they did not themselves participate in the event. The whole thing was masterminded and controlled by the wife of one of the brothers, who teaches at the Conservatory in Avignon and plays a pretty mean glockenspiel. There were three aspiring cellists, who took turns. A couple of older boys on guitars. One clarinet, one flute, two violinists, several keyboardists, including a wee blond fellow who had to sit on a rolled up blanket on a chair in order that his hands would be in the correct position above the keyboard (and whose mother seemed quite nervous as he played and an older cousin turned the pages of his sheet music). It was all quite fun, and then all we English folk had a cocktail party, where there was lots of rose and white and red wine and fresh-pressed juices from people's own grapes and their home-cured olives and Pat's brine-cured sweet cherries (delicious) and crackers and croquettes I made from leftover chicken-leek risotto and served with olive jam. Most people left, and then those of us who remained had more wine and ate all the cheese from our fridge and Pat's and that "brick of gold" fig loaf that we had been hoarding at the back of the bread box, and we looked at all the photos Glenn and I have taken and there was a lot of good conversation. One lovely couple (Nick and Ellen) are quite interesting -- she is an archivist at Duke and he is a mediator dealing with criminal justice cases in North Carolina, and in England. We are all regrouping agin on Tuesday evening on June and Paul's lovely terrace (from which you can see a beautiful sunset) for a dinner Glenn and I will make. It will be for my birthday and for his departure (the following morning at 6 am!) and for Paul and June's departure to an art exhibit near Cannes where he is installing his carbon footprints (large footprints that have been scattered about the driveway and walked over by all of us for some days now).

It was an excellent day, although I did not manage to get very far along in the pistou I am making (only the chicken stock).

"A short flat ride"

That is what I wanted after yesterday's exertions, which had me in bed at 9:30 pm and caused Glenn to sleep through the 8:00 am churchbells. Then, instead, I thought simply a short ride might be nice. So we headed to the town of Suzette, which is only about 6 km from Malaucene, all uphill of course, but very picturesque and offering many magnificent views of the Dentelles. There was a lovely little cafe (Les Coquelicots) where we had a coffee and numerous photos were snapped. The terrace was right among the vines of muscat grapes, which are now completely ripe and ready for harvest. They are relatively small grapes and a very dark purple. One vine next to the hot pink oleander on the terrace looked particularly striking, but you cannot really tell from the photo. Oh well.

From there we went downhill very quickly the 3 km to Lafare, and then took the road to Roque d'Alric (see photo above) and Le Barroux. There was one spot where the most impressive of the Dentelles were perfectly framed and it was simply crawling with amateur (maybe not all amateur) painters. Really, there must have been 30 of them on the road and in among the trees. The drawing rooms of Bruxelles must be full of the same landscape.

From Le Barroux we descended towards Carpentras, but then turned off to Beaumes de Venise (friendly to cyclists according to the sign above), and rode out of town again toward Suzette and had lunch at a fine little establishment (even if accessible only by means of a (thankfully short) gravel lane. Glenn had a very delicious pizza and I had steak and very delicious potatoes. Everything is cooked over a wood fire. We washed it all down with a small blonde ale and a glass of rose and espresso (very good by any standards) and then headed up the hill to Lafare and Suzette. Unfortunately the climb was quite a bit steeper from this approach (the opposite to the one we had taken this morning). And of course we set off on it full of food and drink in the very heat of the day (just after 2:00 pm). By the time we descended into Malaucene I had had enough of that and went home, calling it a day after only about 51 km. Glenn went on for another two hours and made it to Nyons and back in time to meet me for a pint here at the Blueberry (our home away from home).

No flats, just uphills

Today Glenn and I circumnavigated the mountain in a clockwise direction. We went through portions of three different departements (Vaucluse and Drome and Rhone-Alpilles) and countless towns, riding 101 km from Beaumont de Ventoux through Entrechaux - Mollans sur Ouveze (best croissants yet) - Pierrelongue-Eygalieres-Montbrun les Bains (where there is a 17th century stone postal relay station for sale that I have been keeping my eye on) - Aurel - Sault - Flassan - Bedoin and then home.

I was quite surprised to discover that it is possible to gain more elevation (and repeatedly lose it) riding around rather than up the mountain. Then once we were back we read in a little guidebook that one leg of our trip (a 9 km downhill) was not recommended, because of the narrowness of the particular road and the bumpiness of the pavement. That kind of thing makes a person (even this person) feel a bit rattly in their bones and long for a climb. I think that I will choose tomorrow's route.

The scenery was as usual, magnificent. In addition to the landscape, we had a bird's-eye view from a cafe in Bedoin of all the cyclists and all their fancy European bikes as they descended Mt. Ventoux via that route. We had some culinary highlights as well. There were the delicious breakfast-of-champions croissants mentioned above, which we consumed on the terrace of a very authentic espresso-tabac-newsagents on the bridge in Mollans-sur-Ouveze. It was just as well we hit that place at the beginning as they had those old-fashioned squatting toilets, which I am not sure I would have been able to negotiate at the end of the ride -- particularly in cycling shoes -- teflon cleats and porcelain perches are not a good combination I think. 16km from the end we had lunch in Bedoin at the Portail de L'Olivier. Although we ate somewhat lightly given there was yet another climb ahead (spaghetti with pesto for Glenn and nice salad for me with tapenade tartines and jambon cru as well as an assortment of vegetables), the table of, yes, Belgians (they are everywhere this year) next to us had some delicious looking roasted meats and frites served to them.

Stormy weather

The morning was fine enough, albeit a little hazy. We went to the Malaucene market, and bought some expensive cheese from the mountain man and some tasty olives (Glenn's new boyfriend -- the olive de Nyons). We also had a decent coffee. Here is a phot of Glenn and I enjoying it.

This is Glenn enjoying a new beverage -- the Monaco -- grenadine, lemonade and beer.

After the marketing was over, we explored the medieval quarter of Malaucene, which is south of the main strip where we have mostly spent our time heretofore. We went to an art gallery with a lot of nudity in its selected works, and Glenn chased a cat, to go with the dog with the mohawk he had earlier followed around the market (see above).

Then we had some lunch, grilled cheese sandwiches with spelt bread (Rosanna) and seed bread (Glenn and I) made with the mountain man's cheese (Beaufort) and grilled in beurre noisette aux echalottes (brown butter with shallots). Then we all piled into the car, with Rosanna's luggage, including Violette la bicyclette in her box, and headed for Marseille, with an almost-empty tank of gas because the driver of the moment (Rosanna) does not like the petrol station in town and wanted to patronize another. Alas, we got past Carpentras without finding a station to serve us. The little blinking gas pump icon on the dash grew more insistent. Things were looking so grim that Glenn turned off the air-conditioning to conserve fuel (have I mentioned how warm it is here?). Finally, we went into a town (Monteux, which I new was rather large and well-served because I accidentally ended up there on my bike a week and a half ago) and filled up. From there on it was clear sailing.

We had a very happy moment for the frugal among us at the Marseille Provence airport. We parked in the lot nearest to the terminal, where the first 15 minutes parking is free, and then you pay through the nose thereafter. We managed to all use the loo, get Rosanna and her bags checked in, get her visa stamp for Ireland, drop off Violette in the over-sized baggage, go the car for the parking slip, run (and I mean RUN) to the caisse and get it validated, all in 14 minutes.

The trip back home was somewhat stressful. There was an enormous rainstorm with thunder and lightning. Cars were crawling along on the autoroute (speed limit 130km) at 50km with their four-way flashers on. Then we got off on not the best exit, but managed to wind our way through Avignon to the road to Carpentras, one lane of which was closed. In Carpentras, Glenn found a shortcut. It grew increasingly narrower and more washed out (it was a BIG rain) culminating in a wee wet passageway through an incredibly small medieval stone arch wide enough for one car barely (but of course the road was 2-way) and with a curve the other side. I decided to simply honk and carry on through. Now we are taking refuge at the cyber cafe in Malaucene and I am enjoying a much-deserved pint of blanche (but only the one) before we go home to rescue the towels and other linens we left on the terrace to "air out".

Then it all went pear-shaped

Thanks to Rosanna for the title. We all got into our little lycra outfits and set off for the Vaison-la-Romaine market this morning. Alas, just as we got to the first traffic circle, there was a sudden psssst (which I did not hear as I was lagging behind with rather leaden thighs today) and Glenn's back tire was flat. Not only that, but the tire was damaged, so we went off to the bike store for a new one. The first inner tube got punctured by the tire iron, the second inner tube blew up and knocked the tire off the rim, the third got punctured by the tire iron, and the fourth was successfully installed by the shopowner.

Rosanna had gone ahead to the market as she does not care to be out on her bike in the blazing mid-day sun, so Glenn and I raced to meet her (she had our street shoes). We all wandered around the market a very little bit and then had a truly awful coffee at a cafe I recalled having patronized in the past, but perhaps it is under new management.

Glenn very happily spent 1,30 euros for 5 croissants. Then we all rode back to Malaucene and Glenn carried on to Bedoin and Flassan and another town he does not recall. I spent 2 hours rewiring my bicycle computer with the aid of model cement and the sticky part of bandaids.

Just as I was achieving some success, there was a great clatter and whirr of derailleurs and Glenn was back, having carried a 5-litre box of rose the last 5 kilometres. Some of the photos posted today were in fact taken last night as we prepared our post-Ventoux dinner -- green bean, beets and chevre salad, roasted potatoes and a roast chicken and rosemary infused creme brulee (made more successfully this time in the double boiler).

Le Geant de Provence

This is how they refer to le Mont Ventoux around these parts. Glenn and I tackled the monster today -- je l'ai battu mais Glenn l'a conquis -- which is to say he reached the top an hour before me. We made the ascent from Bedoin, which is unrelentingly steep, and followed the Tour de France route. Judging from the painting on the road, the Schleck brothers (Andy in particular) are very popular. There were many signs of encouragement and a number of very well-

painted flags of Luxembourg. Quite a few people follow along in cars and stop periodically to take pictures of their friends/family making the ascent and to provide them with water or take their helmets off their hands (very popular to ascend helmetless with shirt unzipped). They are all quite friendly and interested in encouraging everyone who is making the attempt, however.

As I approached the summit I spotted Glenn in his bright red shorts and started shrieking at him that I was finally there and then received some direction as to how to get right to the marker at the top (1912 metres according to sign painted on road, 1910 according to sign on side of road), so he ran along beside me in my cleats telling me to bear left and stand up and pedal hard as the last 25 metres is really steep after a sharp turn. Then an unknown French women came up to congratulate me and shake my hand -- we both think it was a sisterhood gesture from one woman of une certaine age to another. I am glad to have done this for my 50th birthday, butI do not plan on doing it for my 60th.

The descent was not as hair-raising as I had feared because we followed the advice of Gail from Jet Fuel and threw our weight into the curves. When we got home, Rosanna had made us a lovely lunch and also bought me a "Ventoux Finisher" jersey for my birthday, although she came uncharacteristically bounding

out of the house when we arrived just to make sure I had in fact finished. All in all a very good day!

Glenn's new slippers

Today we rode 87 km (that is the return distance) to the market in L'Isle sur la Sorgue so Glenn could get some slippers that might protect him from the occasional scorpion (quite small) that lurk about our entrance and sometimes our bathroom. It was downhill all the way there, although some were not able to take as much delight in that as they ought to have on account of the nagging realization that the trip home would be all uphill and of course it would be much hotter by then. Fortunately, it is cooling down here and it only hit 31 degrees today. For two days now Rosanna has said she has no intention of being on her bike at 3:00 pm and yet she has been in exactly that situation on each day. Tomorrow she is determined that it will not happen. We shall see.

Almost everything is closed up around here on Sunday, so we had to make do with a sandwich (and Coke or Orangina!) at a bakery in Carpentras before tackling the worst part of the climbing. Rosanna cooled off for a bit in the shade and I carried on to the fountain In Malaucene to wait for her, where I saw one of the few serious female cyclists to be seen in an area that is simply crawling with riders, and the only one I have seen who was riding solo (i.e. not with a boyfriend/husband) -- of course Glenn and I are sometimes mistaken for being "together that way". Yesterday we had matching bike colours and coordinated ensembles when we rode, and then donned the same casual clothing (polo, shorts) and courier bags to head to town for the blogging activity and beer drinking. We think we saw a French stag or something like it. There are a couple of pictures here relating to that.

Now we are heading home to forage for dinner. I have offered to make a mac and cheese. Perhaps we will finally eat the melon I have been taking out of the refrigerator each morning only to discover that Rosanna has returned it. I think it must be consumed soon and now we have no choice -- melon or starve. I will make sure Glenn gets the "tranche de la reine".

Fete de Beaumont -- Community Dinner

There was an excellent event last evening! Long tables set out on the main street of our small town (really just a mailing address) and dinner for 300 served on proper china with real cutlery and glasses and vin a discretion (all you can drink). We had kir royal at the beginning and then melon with prosciutto, spit-roasted beef with ratatouille, cheese and bread, and tarte aux pommes. Then there was dancing to a band that did a lot of Rolling Stones covers, although I believe I caught Rosanna at least tapping her foot to the Beatles. Either that or she was impatient for the slightly tipsy Glenn and I to go home. The pictures really tell the whole story for this event.

The most beautiful town in France

Glenn and Rosanna and I had a lovely bike ride today. We went to Vaison la Romaine first and had pastries in the town square and then coffee at a little shop where the musically inclined barista (or maybe his son or nephew) expressed quite a bit of interest in emigrating to Canada and had a lot of questions about how to acquire "immigration points". The coffee was delicious. From there we went to Seguret, which is a ville perche (accent aigu on last e) and one of the most beautiful villages in France (if it does say so itself). Glenn took many many photos and a movie. I will see how many I can post. From there we went on to Villedieu for lunch, and then to a winery on the way home where we got a red cote du rhone and a rose which Rosanna carried in her panniers, but which she does not think she will do again in the afternoon when it is hot and the rode home is uphill. It was an excellent ride, about 65 km in total with some excellent views of vineyards and rolling terrain. Rosanna passed me on a hill, and we are trying to convince her to attempt the ascent of le Mont Ventoux, but she is expressing reservations about the trip back down. We shall see. Now Glenn and I are on our second pint at the Blueberry cyber cafe and I am getting caught up, or trying to, on this blog. He is reading Foreign Affairs and checking out the bikes and cyclists (quote; "this town is lousy with cycling enthusiasts"). Things are much improved since Glenn arrived with the camera cable to enable pictures to be downloaded on to my computer, and since he organized the images so that I can grab and insert them. Now I just need to figure out how to manipulate the layout.