Notes From Provence...

Don't let anyone ever tell you the countryside is peaceful. Right now the racket is unbelievable - the cicadas are practising their synchronised hacksawing impressions again, with the volume, as usual, cranked up to eleven. Closing my eyes for an instant, I'm back in the midst of a school metalwork class. Fortunately things have moved on and I'm now actually sitting in the welcome shade of a roadside pine tree in Les Alpilles. It's all breathtakingly beautiful and with temperatures in the mid-thirties, the scent of herbs hangs heavy. Some spot for a picnic. The bright green praying mantis on the tree trunk beside me lunching enthusiastically on Cigale à la Provençal obviously agrees, and as I witness the grisly spectacle I'm aware that nature's life and death rituals are being played out constantly, even in paradise.

Later, back in the smouldering heat of Arles, I watch the shrieking swallows hurtling around the Place de la République as one, perfecting dazzling aeronautics high above the courtship displays of the latest Arlesienne brides, resplendent in their own summer plumage of silks and chiffons. Despite (or because of) the tourists the Saturday spectacle continues the colourful tradition of centuries in this, the capital of the Camargue. Later, as dusk slips barely perceptibly into night, I make a couple of circuits of my own around the Place du Forum, in the company of other menu-gazers carefully selecting their roosting spot for a meal under the stars.

Mine's actually under a large parasol, which I for one am more inclined to view as a parapluie. By now it's past 9pm, and although the residual heat of the day still lingers, there's more than a suspicion that the summer storms which everyone has been expecting all week might be finally on their way. As it turns out we get away with it, at least for the duration of the meal. Then, around 11pm a sudden stiff breeze stirs the leafy, spreading canopy of venerable plane trees, followed by the first drops of rain. Happily my hotel is but a few steps away, yet by the time I'm back in my room the heavens have well and truly opened. Flinging the windows wide I drink in the unmistakable smell of fresh summer rainfall to the sound of frenzied activity below. Shouting and laughter echo around the square, as hangers-on run for cover and a dozen or so waiters make frantic attempts to clear tables and stack chairs amid the sudden deluge. Fortunately, we're spared the full force of the storms, which pass us by en-route to Paris and, with devastating consequences, Alsace. Next day it's business as usual, our plane trees are still standing and I breakfast on the hotel terrace under another deep blue, cloudless sky.

Quelling a sudden mad impulse to simply drop out and stay here forever, I stick to my schedule and after reluctantly checking out, head up to Tarascon, where I stumble upon a sizeable brocante street market. Later I cross the Rhône into Gard, and a different world. The debate as to whether this still constitutes Provence continues, but it's close enough for me. My own favourite corner, a short drive to the north of Uzès, is certainly idyllic enough, thanks in no small measure to the presence of a good friend who is fortunate enough to own a substantial mas beside a 10ha lake, now dedicated as a bird sanctuary. After a warm welcome and a mutual exchange of news, my thoughts inevitably turn to food. 'Try the transport café a few kilometres up the road - they do great pizzas.' is my colleague's inspired suggestion for a rapid, non-carnivore option. I take his advice and five minutes later find myself not in the café (which is already packed) but seated instead among the regulars having a great time in a PVC-draped overflow area furnished with timber picnic benches on a bare concrete floor. Oh, and no roof. The food is superb, though, and made all the more memorable by a dream-like sunset.

Later, chatting over a cool carafe of local rosé and enjoying the entertaining evening activities of assorted wildfowl and a family of coypu on the lake, it occurs to me that I've almost completed one more chapter in the romantic non-fiction which is my continuing love-affair with France.

© Words by Roger Moss, 2001
This text first appeared in everything France magazine Issue 2