Our Grand Tour of Europe

Much as we want to embrace the cultures of the countries we’re visiting, we also want to continue some of our traditions from home. And so we decided to host a Thanksgiving dinner at our farmhouse. We invited our American friend Kevin, his French wife Elisabeth, and their son Thomas (age 7). Later we invited our newer American friends, the Thompsons. They now live permanently in Provence, in a beautiful home not far from us. Craig (the dad) would be away on business, but Lisa, Alayna (age 11 – same as Kelly) and Andrew (age 7) were happy to join us. A week or so before the Thanksgiving Thursday, Kevin asked if we could include another American family they had met in their village. This dad was also out of town, but we were happy to also invite Jenny, Avise (age 7), and Jack (age 4). Our Thanksgiving dinner would now be for twelve.

We’ve been eating all our meals in our yellow kitchen, but this meal required moving into the adjacent dining room. I wanted to have everyone—adults and children—at the same table and then use the kitchen table for our buffet. Charley and I experimented with the leaves of the tables and the available chairs. We could fit twelve snuggly around the table, bringing in four of the yellow kitchen chairs. There was even room to maneuver around the ends of the table. I checked all of Cynthia’s tablecloths—none of them fit the expanded table. Then we found a perfect tablecloth at the market in Aix-en-Provence—only 15 euro and in perfect colors of orange, red and yellow.

A week before Thanksgiving Charley and I visited the top winery in this area—Château de Canorgue—just down the hill from Bonnieux. We tasted a couple of their wines, chatted with the nice woman in a mix of French and English, and bought a couple of bottles that would complement our meal.

We had guests, enough seating, a tablecloth and wine. This was the simple part!

A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving we checked out the turkey selection at the big Leclerc grocery store in Apt, just to see what was available. The French seem to eat a lot of turkey—called “dinde” here. We saw lots of packets of turkey parts in the long meat display—whole breasts, cutlets, and legs. But we didn’t see any whole turkeys.

We did see frozen whole turkeys in another small grocery store in Apt…. about the size of a chicken at home! Charley dared to suggest that we could buy a couple of chickens and serve roast chicken—or perhaps turkey parts. Kelly and I protested—we wanted a BIG turkey, a REAL turkey, a WHOLE turkey… the kind of turkey that would be overflowing the display cases this time of year back home in America.

Charley and I embarked on a search for a whole turkey. We first visited the butcher shop in our village of Bonnieux, armed with our dictionary. Although we hadn’t visited this shop before, we thought it would be good to shop locally and perhaps develop a relationship with our village butcher. The butcher was quite friendly, but of course spoke no English. We tried to explain that we needed a “dinde” … “très grande”…. for a special “fête d’américaine”… six ou sept kilo—13 to 15 pounds. The butcher’s eyes grew wide and he spoke rapidly. It wasn’t clear to us exactly what he said, but it was clear that this was not a typical request—certainly not at the end of November. At Noël maybe… but not now. He might be able to order something… well, we think that’s what he said. He gave us his telephone number and said we should call.

On our next visit to Leclerc Charley tried to talk to someone in the butcher department. The young woman assistant seemed to think it would be possible, but Charley needed to talk to the head butcher—who of course wasn’t there just then. She gave him the phone number and said Charley should call.

Charley and I are struggling with our limited French. We’ve both studied French and our skills have served us well in our previous experiences as tourists in France. We can exchange basic pleasantries, check in and out of a hotel, pay for something at a cash register, order off a standard menu. I find I can even read a newspaper or advertisement and figure out the general message. But now we are living in France—trying to have more extensive social conversations, ordering firewood, giving directions to our house to a delivery service…. ordering a turkey. These communications are hard in person—but even harder on the phone. The person on the other end can’t see you to realize that you don’t understand their rapid-fire French and you lose your ability to use any kind of hand motions to supplement your spoken words. (How do you say “a whole turkey” when you don’t know the word for “whole”? Why, you use your hands!)

Charley’s French is more confident than mine, and he is especially good with the required dramatic flair. I tend to push Charley forward to represent us in difficult communications. I could tell the turkey communication was going to be especially difficult. I told Charley I’d handle everything else about the meal if he would take care of the turkey. He decided not to call anyone back—he deal with this in person.

He went back to visit the butcher in Bonnieux to explain our need again and attempt to place a firm order. “C’est impossible!” sputtered the butcher, waving his arms.

He went back to the Leclerc the next morning when the head butcher was there. Maybe there would be a turkey—but maybe not. It wasn’t clear what Leclerc could do, and Charley decided not to risk it.

Finally, we enlisted the help of our friend Kevin… who is married to a beautiful Frenchwoman and has lived several years in France. Kevin called the butcher in Apt (a larger more-sophisticated place than our little butcher shop in Bonnieux) and confirmed that they would get a seven-kilo turkey for us. We should pick it up on Wednesday morning. They told Kevin that the turkey would come from the Ger, a department in France that must specialize in turkey.

Meanwhile, I worked on the rest of the menu. Kevin volunteered to bring pumpkin soup and his special cranberry sauce. Lisa had a couple cans of pumpkin brought over from America and offered to make pumpkin pie and apple pie. I decided to fix a mashed potato casserole, sweet potatoes, green beans, and marinated tomatoes. Kelly wanted to bake cookies for the kids. I would also fix a tray of hors d’oeurves with a Provençal theme… our home-grown seasoned almonds, tapenade (an olive paste), crème d’ail (an garlic/artichoke spread), and olives.

We made our major shopping expedition into Apt on Wednesday morning—first stop, the butcher. Charley explained that we were there to pick up our dinde. The woman behind the counter brought out our big bird. We had been a bit anxious that it might somehow arrive in a way we weren’t accustomed to… with feathers or—shudder… surely not—maybe even a head. Fortunately, our bird was plucked, footless and headless, and cleaned out inside. It looked almost like a fresh turkey at home.

But then we asked, how much—c’est combien? 103 euro!!!!! I heard what the woman said—did I perhaps misunderstand the number?—and then looked at the cash register display for confirmation. 103 euro! At today’s exchange rate, that’s over $130!!!! A 15-pound turkey for 130 dollars. Of course, we handed over the money, but we were taken aback. A turkey this size at home would cost what?—maybe $30 or so? When Charley and I thought about it, we realized that this turkey would be the main course for a special dinner for 12 people and that our family would eat leftovers for several days… of course, we would eat leftovers for several days at this price! We would find a way to eat every scrap of meat on that turkey!!! When we thought about the turkey this way, it didn’t seem so bad… or so we rationalized it!

Kelly and I found two little pots of yellow flowers at the florist to decorate our table—just four euro each. The young woman inside spent at least ten minutes making our pots look even prettier—she put orange cellophane around the pots, decorated them with curly yellow ribbons, and then wrapped them each in a clear protective cellophane. I expected that the decoration would double the price—it didn’t cost anything extra!

Finding sweet potatoes was a challenge. Was there even such a thing in France? I had looked at the big Apt market on Saturday, where there must be twenty different vegetable stalls. I bought my regular potatoes, green beans and tomatoes at the market, but I didn’t see anything resembling a sweet potato. My French dictionary didn’t offer a translation for sweet potato. I didn’t see anything in a can at Leclerc, but then in the produce department—I spotted patate douce (literally… potato sweet)! They were smaller than I was used to and rock hard—imported from Israel, according to the sign—but they were sweet potatoes. I bought six.

I had found a recipe for simple candied sweet potatoes. All I needed was brown sugar—something else that wasn’t clearly identifiable in the sugar-section at Leclerc. I bought some sugar that was definitely light brown… but wasn’t quite the same as our brown sugar at home. And then I needed some baking ingredients: What were the names for baking soda and baking powder? Neither of them came in the same kind of packaging… we finally had to ask a clerk where to find the baking powder—it came in little packets like yeast instead of a little round container like I was used to at home.

In the produce section I also bought a bunch of celery… the largest bunch of celery I have ever seen—as big as a giant bouquet of flowers. I bought a whole bunch, but in France celery is sold by the kilo and you can pull off individual stalks if you don’t want the whole bunch.

At Leclerc I also looked one last time for measuring spoons—without luck. I bought a multi-purpose measuring cup in England and have carried it with me from rental to rental these past five months. It has measures in cups and ounces as well as in grams. Now I was fixing more complicated recipes, and then Kelly and I were baking cookies. I needed measuring spoons. I had looked in various stores for two weeks and concluded that French cooks just “know” how much to toss in—they must not measure anything. Measuring spoons as I’ve always known them at home just don’t seem to exist here. Then I realized that my plastic measuring cup had even more measures than I’d realized—different measures for flour and sugar. How could that be?? At home a cup is a cup, regardless of what’s being measured. At least I think it is! Lisa explained that the measures used in recipes here are by weight—grams—not by volume like I’m used to at home. Hence the different markings for flour and sugar in a measuring cup. (And also the little kitchen scales that are much more prevalent!) Meanwhile, I’ve found that I do have a general sense of how much a teaspoon and tablespoon are—I too can just toss in ingredients and hope for the best!

I started cooking on Wednesday afternoon… fixed the mashed potato casserole and the sweet potatoes. Kelly trimmed all the green beans for me. She made beautiful name cards for our guests. We planned the seating and decorated our table with the yellow flowers and some little gourds we’d found at Leclerc.

Charley and I spent most of the day Thursday cooking and cleaning. I made the stuffing with “Harry’s American sandwich bread,” mushrooms, celery, onions, and herbs. (I think the Herbes de Provence made a nice addition!) Charley stuffed the turkey and prepared the bird for cooking, rubbing him all over with our multi-purpose olive oil. We were so worried about messing up the turkey— somehow losing our big financial investment! We couldn’t find a meat thermometer at Leclerc either, but we borrowed one from Lisa. We also borrowed a couple extra placesettings of silverware. We had plenty of plates, but we were short of cutlery.

It was fun to have a party… fun to cook a big Thanksgiving meal for the first time… fun to have friends and be part of a community. Not simple really—no, definitely not simple—but fun.

Our evening turned out great. The turkey was so moist and good—thank goodness! And I especially loved Kevin’s pumpkin soup. The six kids were all compatible, and so were the six adults. We enjoyed sharing stories with other expatriate Americans and enjoyed gathering together as Americans. We missed the Macys parade and the football games—and most of all we missed sharing the day with our family as we always have. Although we were thousands of miles away and sitting down to eat several hours before family and friends at home, it was good to know that here in Provence we were still part of a very special American tradition—the Thanksgiving meal.

Les Chats et Chiens

When we rented our house in Provence, we enthusiastically agreed to assume the care of Cynthia and Ian’s black cat named Chico. We liked the idea of having a pet around the place and having an animal to take care of, even though we’d never had a cat. Kelly and I love dogs—we are definitely committed “dog people.” I haven’t had much experience with cats and always thought I didn’t like them much. And Kelly is allergic to cats… something we control with allergy medicine. With all our predispositions, Kelly and I were surprised at how much we truly enjoy having Chico around. He’s a very friendly cat—though also quite independent in his cat-like way—and he’s quickly adopted our family. He comes running when our car comes down the driveway and enjoys spending the sunny afternoons curled up on one of the couches in the bright living room. Sometimes he will even lie on one of our laps and allow one of us to stroke him for a long time. Kelly is getting used to the different “style” of a cat. It gives us a more established sense of living here because we have a pet.

Cynthia and Ian also have a dog named Juno, an older little black poodle who lost her eyesight a few years ago. Although Chico stays here at La Bastide Vieille when Cynthia and Ian are away (which is much of the year), Juno is like Cynthia’s child and has apparently always traveled with them… even to Mexico where they live in the winter.

We met Juno briefly when we visited here in September. Charley didn’t even realize at that time that she was blind. She was able to navigate around the house and grounds—a place she knows well—very confidently. When we arrived in October, we saw Juno before she left on vacation with Cynthia and Ian to Corsica. We saw her again a few weeks later when Cynthia and Ian passed through for a few hours on their way from Corsica to England. This year—I think because they planned a hiking trip in Chile—Juno did not make the trip to Mexico. She was to spend the winter with Ian’s daughter and her family in England.

About ten days ago I exchanged e-mail messages with Cynthia about the possible purchase of a new microwave oven for the house. We’ve developed a good relationship over the past year and regularly give each other updates on our travels and activities. She mentioned that they were having serious problems with Juno in England. It wasn’t working out for some reason and was potentially heading to a crisis point. Juno was crying at night and was very unhappy. “I’m at my wits end,” Cynthia wrote from Mexico. “I’m trying to think of any possible solution. I don’t suppose you’d consider keeping her?”

I actually would consider it. That night I spoke privately to Charley. His initial reaction wasn’t positive—he’s a cat person, not a dog person. And why would we want to take on a blind poodle? But the next morning he brought it up to me again and said he thought we should do it. We’re not working, our life here is pretty simple, we’re good with animals, and we like Cynthia and Ian a lot. Life is too short to not help friends when you can. Wouldn’t it make sense to help these very kind people out of a bad situation for just a few months?

Then we talked with Kelly. She was instantly excited about the possibility of a dog in the house. We reminded Kelly that Juno wasn’t exactly like our dog Milly at home—not a bounding young dog with energy that you could chase around the yard. Juno was an older dog and a dog that couldn’t see. But Kelly was still positive and agreed that she would assume much of the responsibility for Juno’s care. We also decided that Juno could sleep in Kelly’s room. She was apparently used to sleeping in the room with Cynthia and Ian, and it seemed part of the problem in England was that she was now confined in the kitchen at night.

I e-mailed Cynthia back that we would like to help them out and that if they could find a way to get Juno here, we would be glad to have her back home at La Bastide Vieille. I also explained that we had several short trips planned over the next four months, and she would need to make other arrangements during those times.

Over the next week the e-mails flew between Provence and Mexico. Cynthia was also sending e-mails to England and Paris, arranging a series of escorts to transport her little dog from Salisbury, England to Bonnieux, France. Juno’s trip began on Monday, and she arrived here on Tuesday night. Ian’s brother and sister brought Juno across the English Channel to Calais by ferry. Cynthia’s long-time friend Patricke—who lives in Paris—met them in Calais and then brought Juno to Avignon by train. We met Patricke at the Avignon TGV station—a very nice woman. And then we brought Juno home to La Bastide Vieille. So far, so good—though poor Chico seems a bit rattled that he’s not the only pet in the house any more!

We will have some adjustments to make in our schedule and routines, but at this point Juno seems a pretty low-maintenance pet. She’s sleeping now in her basket next to the desk where I’m working on the computer… gently snoring. Our family has had beloved older dogs before, and we will learn to adjust to this little dog’s visual impairment. I’m impressed with how well she navigates around the house—even with all the stairs. I think this little dog has a lot of courage, and she makes me realize that we can all learn to deal with adversity… especially with the love and support of others. She will also be a good walking companion—Cynthia says she’s good for walks of up to three miles. A woman in Roussillon—a Madame Ducher—will board Juno when we travel, and fortunately can take Juno during our upcoming New Year’s trip to Paris. Juno will be reunited with Cynthia and Ian in mid-March when they return to Europe, about a month before we leave Provence.

So now our household in France is complete with the addition of a blind poodle—a new twist to our story here. We feel good about being able to do something positive to help Cynthia and Ian.

And it definitely feels good to have a dog in the house! Avec un chat et une chienne, notre famille est complet!

Autumn in Provence

We are watching the very end of autumn here in Provence. The season passes before us like a movie in slow motion—and our house provides a vantage point for a 360-degree picture screen. Here on our hilltop at the northern foot of the Petit Luberon mountain, we can see countryside for as much as 25 miles and have watched the waves of autumn color pass by and then disappear. To the south of our house, we see a just short stretch of farmland… mostly vineyards and cherry trees—then the abrupt rise of the mountain. This side of the Petit Luberon is quite rugged and is covered with a mix of trees, scrub and rocks. Many of the trees seem to be evergreen. Surprisingly, the trees on the mountain that are changing color all seem to have turned the same dull orange or brown… no bright colors on this slope. To the north we see a vast panorama of the Calavon/Coulon Valley, stretching to the Vaucluse Plateau and on a clear day all the way to Mont Ventoux. Wednesday—an unusually clear day—we noticed that the white scree covering the top of Mont Ventoux had expanded… we suspect with the addition an early snowfall.

Charley and I marvel at the views, so much in abundance here—each one offering a slightly different perspective. We like the feeling of being absolutely surrounded by views…. seeing for miles and miles, seeing something marvelous and beautiful as far as we can see, and knowing that we are living in it.

On an overcast day the sun still finds its way through breaks in the clouds. We survey the overcast countryside and see one little area just bathed in sunlight. Or perhaps the sun’s spotlight shines right on one of the perched villages—our village of Bonnieux or maybe Lacoste—the light bouncing off the old stone so that it shimmers and glows. Sometimes the sunlight seems to almost be a searchlight… we watch it traveling across the valley below… then briefly passing right over us. We also watch the weather in various parts of our valley… sometimes it’s raining to the north but full of sunshine here. One day as I was driving Kelly back to school on a sunny afternoon, we saw an unexpected rainbow on the other side of the valley… stretching above a patch of clouds. It didn’t rain here at all that day.

Every day we marvel at these views—while traveling back and forth to Kelly’s school, driving across the hillside road to the grocery store in Apt, walking in our neighborhood, exploring a new part of Provence, hiking in the mountains, climbing on top of old ruins…. the views are everywhere around us. “Isn’t this just beautiful??” “Stop—I need to take a picture!!!” “Kelly—quick—look!!” I carry my camera with me in my purse or my coat pocket, trying to capture the beauty we’re experiencing around every bend in the road. At least one morning a week I run out in the vineyard in my pajamas to take a photo of yet another amazing sunrise emerging from the east. In less than five minutes the brilliant colors are gone… but we had an enthusiastic welcome to another fine day in Provence.

After 25 years of working in an office—at this time of year, leaving home in the dark and returning after dark—I find I’m acutely aware of my natural surroundings. Perhaps it is the novelty of being in another country and such a beautiful country, but it’s also the novelty of being outside some part of every day… and being able to pay attention to simple things like trees and rainbows and sunrises. I’m so blessed to have this opportunity… to take a year off from working, to have this time with Charley and Kelly, and to be here in this place.

Charley and I enjoy our walks because we can savor every inch of the countryside. The farmers plant their crops and trees and vines in perfect rows, forming a gorgeous patchwork quilt as we gaze out across the valley from the little road we often walk behind our house. In October it was the vines that were so beautiful…. the leaves turning colors of orange and red and yellow. Those leaves are now brown and many farmers have painstakingly pruned their vines… leaving only perfectly groomed rows of twisted woody trunks. Some of these vineyards are hundreds of years old, often maintained in the same families for generations. How old are these thick vines, I wonder?

At home we live in a region that has beautiful autumns—especially in the Smoky Mountains, not far from our home. A few weeks ago I commented to Charley that the autumn colors here weren’t as pretty as those at home… because there weren’t many reds, just shades of yellow and that dull orange. That was before the cherry trees started to turn. Last week the fruit trees—mostly cherry, we think—peaked in their transformation and the leaves turned a variety of bright shades… many a brilliant red. This week we’ve had some rain and it’s gotten colder. The leaves began slowly falling off the cherry trees, exposing new views that had been hidden by trees until now. Then Wednesday night a howling wind came unexpectedly. We thought for sure it was finally the famed Mistral. I took Juno out for her bedtime walk, holding the leash tightly as her ears blew in the wind. Charley closed the exterior shutters on several of our windows and doors, but we could still hear the fierce gale and the rattling of the trees and the whistling around our chimney. We snuggled inside around a blazing fire and watched The Sound of Music, singing along to the songs we love and know by heart. Our neighbor’s cherry trees—so beautiful just a week ago—are almost leaf-less this morning. We’re sorry to see the colors go, but oh, how we enjoyed the show!

Yesterday afternoon—while waiting outside the schoolyard at the end of the day—I asked our friend Lisa if that was the Mistral. “Oh no,” she said—experienced in the details of life in Provence. “That wind was from the south. The Mistral comes only from the north.” A few weeks ago Kevin had e-mailed one day. “What did you think of the Mistral last night?” he asked. I read this to Charley. Mistral?? Was there wind last night?? Somehow we must have slept right through it.

And so we still await our first encounter with the Mistral…. hopefully the next time we will not sleep through it!

Last Tuesday Kelly stayed at school for lunch, and Charley and I went on a hike—from our house all the way to the top of the Petit Luberon (around 2200 feet). I loved the experience of putting on my hiking boots and beginning a hike actually from our house—all the way to the top of a mountain! We walked down our long gravel driveway to our tiny road, Chemin de la Bernarde, and then to the D3 road that winds along the foot of the Petit Luberon toward Ménerbes. About half a mile down the D3—at a crossroads with the road to Lacoste—is a small parking area and some trail markers. We studied our ordinance map and decided to go up one way and down another. We walked about 7-1/2 miles.

The route up from the parking area was steep but not difficult, just a bit rocky in parts. We hiked steadily up for maybe 20 minutes and reached our first viewpoint. Then there it was—our own village of Bonnieux on its hill, a few miles away. Up through the woods again, the path twisted and turned its way to other fine viewpoints, something new exposed as we reached each new height and vantage point. The air was clean and clear and fresh. We saw the castle of the Marquis de Sade at the top of Lacoste, then the distinctive ochre village of Roussillon across the valley, then the villages of Goult and Gordes, then all of Lacoste, then Ménerbes, then the “highrise” buildings of Apt with Kevin’s village of St. Saturnin-lès-Apt on the hillside beyond. And further to the north… the white top of Mont Ventoux. To the east… Mourre Nègre—the highest point on the Grand Luberon, where we had hiked with Kelly a few Sundays before. And far far in the distance to the east—the edge of the French Alps, now topped with snow. We saw the road we had taken just ten days ago… over the Vaucluse Plateau to Sault and then into the jagged hidden canyons of the Gorges de la Nesque just south of Mont Ventoux. The most exciting view, however, was that of our very own house and yard—even the silver smudge that was our little car in the driveway! And everywhere— just everywhere—manicured rows of vines and cherry trees and those gorgeous autumn colors of red, orange and yellow.

The little parking area was overflowing when we passed through at 11 am. We counted fifteen cars, but we didn’t see a single person on our way up. And with no Kelly—who regretfully must stop occasionally to complain about something—we made great time. Finally, we arrived at the Fôret de Cedres, a beautiful public forest of cedar trees that runs along the crest of the Petit Luberon. We had been along this same mountaintop trail in mid October with Kevin and Thomas… a pretty Saturday with lots of families out for the afternoon. We had the forest almost to ourselves last Tuesday—we saw only a couple on bicycles accompanied by a big dog. We headed west down the forest road, pausing at an open area where the southern side of the Petit Luberon was in clear view… at its foot we saw more neatly manicured vineyards and orchards and olive groves, the meandering River Durance, and the sun glistening on the edge of the Étang de Berre, a large lagoon connected by a short canal to the Mediterranean Sea.

We found our path down the mountain a bit further along the forest road. We were so glad we hadn’t come up this way—it was rocky, steep and dark! The path traversed down a rocky gash in the mountain…a narrow canyon of some sort with another canyon off to the right. Enormous rocks closed in on us from either side—no breathtaking views on this route and quite tricky! The ordinance map said this was the Vallon de Cavede. The adjoining canyon had a more oppressive name we could easily translate—Vallon du Cheval Mort… Valley of the Dead Horse. Although we were watching carefully, Charley and I both slipped and fell once on the rocks, even in our hiking boots. We think we know how the horse must have died….

When we emerged at the bottom of the trail—between Ménerbes and Lacoste—I heard the now-familiar sound of cow bells—two hunters and their dogs were just getting out of their little van. Hunters—and their dogs—are part of the Provençal landscape this time of year. The dogs all wear little cowbells, I think so their owners can keep track of them. It’s also very helpful for hikers like us—we immediately begin talking very loudly! The first time we heard the bells—and met up with hunters—was during our hike with Kevin and Thomas at the Fôret de Cedres. We heard the tinkle tinkle of bells, and Kevin mentioned something about flocks of sheep perhaps being herded across the mountains. We looked around, hoping to see a flock of fluffy sheep and maybe a shepherd. I reached for my camera. The bells got louder and suddenly two spotted dogs bounded out of the woods… followed by two rugged men in plaid jackets carrying guns. Kevin spoke to them in French—they were hunting woodcock, whatever that might be.

We’ve seen many hunters and dogs in the weeks since—even one group walking across the back of our own tiny vineyard. (It seems that hunters have the right to traipse across private property with few limitations.) We’ve also gotten used to the sound of gunshots echoing across our otherwise peaceful valley. But we’ve never seen a hunter carrying a dead animal—or even a pouch that looks like it might contain a dead bird or two. In fact, despite our hours hiking in the woods, I’m the only one in our family who’s ever seen an animal that all these hunters might be interested in. Several weeks ago while driving home after dropping Kelly off after lunch, I came around the corner on Chemin de la Gardiole and found three young deer standing in the road. I stopped and waited and we looked at each other… then they bounded up a hillside and into a small wooded area. Now it almost seems like a mirage. A week or so later, I noticed a group of hunters in a pullover area on that same road, gathered around their little white vans with their guns and their dogs. I wondered whether my deer had found their way to safer country… if any part of the Provence is safe for deer at this time of year. Charley thinks there are so many hunters that there isn’t much left to shoot. His theory is that this sport gives the hunters a reason to be in the great outdoors, a more macho form of hiking with a gun and a dog.

Will I be in Provence again in the autumn? I hope so-- but it may not be for several years. Meanwhile, I try to absorb everything as this precious autumn draws to an end. I just know I want to remember it all... always.