Three Days in Provence |
by Sally Hammond
Provence had never lured me. I guess I'd OD-ed on Peter Mayle's books, and the idea of a rocky cicada-ridden region swept by incessant, bitter mistral winds that drive the residents to the brink, just didn't cut it. Provence? Nah! I'll go to Burgundy, thankyou. OK, Mr Mayle spent much longer – more than just the year he so famously wrote about – at Menerbes, a stony, hitherto unknown village in the Luberon, one of many once-unknown villages in the hinterland. But he concerned himself with setting up house there, doing battle with the local tradespeople, and honing his boules skills. Not having the luxury of that much time, I jetted in to Marseilles on an airbus one afternoon and three days later sped off again on the TGV (France's very, very fast train, capable of speeds averaging over 300kmh) en route for Paris. By then I had revised my opinion of the place, totally, for on my equally fast learning curve, I was taught several important things: Aix-en-Provence is the hippest geriatric around. A university town, known for its cafe scene, today it swarms with students, yet it began as a replacement for the original local Roman stronghold around 122BC. Parts of the cathedral date from the fifth century AD, and the twisted streets of the old town create a medieval delight. Yet L'Occitane and other 21st century boutiques have addresses there too. Sugar doesn't make you fat. That is if you are the elegantly thin owner of the famous Leonard Parli calisson factory. As she showed us around, Mme Maucort could not resist sampling the tempting mix of glace melon, orange and almond meal that is the basis of these unique oval Provençal treats. The recipe dates from the Middle Ages when calissons were believed to protect people against the plague, and is still a fantastic cure for the munchies. Cézanne wasn't only an artist. In his delightful former studio perched on the hillside of the Lauves, at Aix-en-Provence, still lifes from some of his paintings are recreated. Yet there still remains a corner of the studio that gives an insight into his resourcefulness. To enable his larger canvasses to be removed from the studio, he had an alcove opened floor to ceiling. The Riviera extends further than you think. I visited Bandol, just an hour's drive from Marseilles. Although well-respected for the wines of the region, the beachfront was pure Mediterranean. Glistening white yachts jostled at the edge of the palm-lined esplanade while their owners and crew sipped endless coffees at the row of shaded cafes across the road. Here there was time to relax, space to chill out. I wondered why anyone would travel east. "Parsley makes you smile," Chef Réne Bérard told us. The garden attached to his cookery school would make anyone smile though. The garden is a true Eden, but with one advantage - here 'Adam' is a chef. Angela Roere, his assistant, carries a basket to collect the ingredients which Chef Bérard and his students will turn into something delectable - and so very Provençal. Not all the chateaux are in the Loire. Here I stayed at two equally lovely places - Chateau de la Pioline, documented since the fifteenth-century, and Domaine de Chateauneuf, dating from the eighteenth-century and now a prestigious golf resort; then visited another, the Chateau Lacoste, where the winery turns out a million bottles of fine wine a year, and the house is dated 1643. Olive oil has been made here for thousands of years. The Bouches-de-Rhone region in Provence is the country's premier olive growing district and here we visited an oil mill. Monsieur Barle, a third-generation oil maker patiently guided us in tasting and understanding the nuances of flavour between various grades of oil, and we dipped them up, basically oblivious to the fine differences but amazed at their freshness. Marseilles is not the big bad city I had feared. In fact as I wandered amongst the leather-capped fishermen selling their catch on the waterfront in brilliant sunshine, nothing could have been more serene. Here there were trays of spiky sea urchins and crates of squid still pulsating beside dishes of tiny seahorses. At another stand a cheerful woman held up a fish, still flapping, for my photograph. And then there were the cicadas. Everywhere. At a souvenir shop huge wooden ones were pinned on a wall. At another place a ceramic pair were pierced with holes - one salt, one pepper. What is it with these creatures, I wondered? Cicadas (or cigales, as they are in French) are the insect icon of the region, and it made sense when I finally took a moment to step off the road into the spiky undergrowth - and listened. The shrill buzzing of the males was deafening. "Only the males sing" I was told, "They are calling the females." So that’s it. Multi-decibel seduction. And at last I start to get the idea of what had entranced Monsieur Mayle and made him want to stay and put down roots in this stony land. He too had been seduced by the buzz of this wild region. Olives and wine, lavender, seafood and sugar. Hardly a recipe you'd want to try, but in Provence it works just fine. Warmed by the sun, mellowed out over a few centuries or so, the mix is magic. Maybe, I should try to stay longer next time, I decide, as the train speeds away from Marseilles central station. A year should be about right, I figured.
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