MANNING THE RAMPARTS - 4 July 2011
Monday, 4th July, 2011
Ah, a whiff of Friday just came to me.
We had taken an afternoon nap and then went up to Bonnieux to start familiarizing ourselves with the village that will be "ours" for 2 months this autumn. Built into a hill, the town is a labrynth of winding streets, narrow of course, and because of the steep incline the streets double back on themselves in a most disorienting manner. At least this time we have rented the right-sized car; after bashing in the right side of the monster we drove in the spring, we have learned our lesson.
We love this town. It has a little of everything and lots of good cafes and restaurants. As I write we are sitting at Cafe Le St. Andre enjoying a decent cappuccino just a few buildings down from the apartment we'll call home from mid-September to mid-November.
The village boasts a couple of pottery shops, the ubiquitous "tourist" gallery, a few decent clothing stores, The Bread Museum - about which, more later - and 2 antique stores. We stumbled, literally, into the first, over an uneven stoop onto an ancient stone floor littered with plant cuttings. Turns out the owner is the son of the bell-ringer we met in the spring and he is preparing bouquets for 3 weddings which will take place the next day and for whom he will ring the bells. I found this quite poetic: Dad tolls for the funerals and son chimes the weddings.
The shop itself had a strange assortment of bits and bobs, scattered through the nooks and crannies of 3 rooms whose proportions made little sense especially when compared to the fireplace which was bigger than any of them. But, navigating a narrow passage I espied atop a stone lintel the very chandelier I had imagined hanging in the passage to our back bathroom in New York. Grey and ghostly, simple yet strange, it looks like something out of Dickens and we were convinced it would always hold just the right amount of cobwebs. We bought it on the spot.
The second antique store had a greater assortment of collectibles, especially french country furniture just about all of which made us want to buy a house here so we could fill it with half the contents of this shop. We ended up buying an old cloth for our picnic basket and Corinne, the owner, recommended the restaurant next door, "L'Arome," And a good recommendation it was.
We ate there last night on the terrace, served by the enchanting Marie-Josie, who spoke enough English to correct our French. Joel had a starter of fois gras accompanied by cherries and a dark raisin bread. I opted for asparagus 3 ways:
Joel's entree of lamb was supreme, really the tenderest we've ever tasted, you just had to show it the knife and it fell apart.
My cod, on a bed of steamed veggies floating in broth, was delicacy itself.
We went mad for dessert. Joel had one of those evil little chocolate cakes that are all drool in the middle, soothed by a scoop of vanilla ice-cream. I had a trio of strawberry experiences: mousse, tart, and ice-creme. The two desserts were a great combo and we left nary a lick on our plates. Sorry, couldn't wait long enough to take a photo!
If it weren't for the fact that my daughter was conceived on July 4th I doubt we'd have given a thought to it being July 4th. In fact, we were relieved not to be in Provincetown where desperation would have reached its screaming pitch fueled by alcohol and drugs. Instead we meandered home and sat on the terrace watching the sunset.
Talking of the terrace, we must tell you of an adventure we're particularly proud of. It was perhaps the next evening, after dinner - again on our terrace - that we decided to go for a walk through the lavender field and around the rest of the property. It was a still, serene evening and the place was so quiet we were sure all the other guests (perhaps 8 in all) were out for dinner, so we didn't bother to lock our room and left the gigantic key on the desk. After our leisurely stroll we went back to the building to find the enormous door to the courtyard locked. Perhaps I should describe these doors as a way of giving you the sense of scale of the whole place. Made of thick ancient wood the doors measure some 15 feet in height and approximately 8 feet in width. When they are closed and locked they give off an air of total fort-like impenetrability. We were most definitely locked out. We had been told to make sure we carried the key as when the owners leave, which is rare, they always lock the place up. Mon Dieux. It seemed that possibly hours stretched before us until someone came home and let us in. What to do? Well, there was always the car. But really. So we started casing out the joint. We checked every door and window, nothing. Then we came across a pile of paving stones. Aha. Making several trips, we carried enough to make a rather wobbly pile some 3 feet tall, just below our terrace - which is on the second floor of this 13th century building thank you very much. I steadied Joel as he climbed onto the pile then, as he sort of leaped toward the top of the wall surrounding the terrace I gave his bum a good shove and up and over he went, got the key and voila, home sweet home. Oh come on, a round of applause please. This is the stuff of youth and we, evidently, can still cut it.