electric adventure

Perhaps all books should be confined to shelves. Left unread. I could reach up to that dusty top shelf and wrench down my common sense. It is clearly not the wisest idea to start reading “A Year in Provence” shortly after returning from that very region. Sitting at my desk, the London summer in full grey swing, life could not be further removed from the lazy days we spent crawling around the Provencal countryside from one vineyard to the next.  Four days in southern France were enough to tip me over the edge and have made the previously bearable London lifestyle seem utterly life threatening. I could use an anti-depressant today.

Provence is like no part of France I’ve ever been to. That is for the very reasonable reason that I’ve only ever visited the country to go skiing or gallivanting in Paris.  Today I’m rolling the names of Provencal areas and towns round my mouth like round, shiny sweets, savouring them, even the mispronounced sounds I make. Lubéron, Ventoux, Orange, Avignon, Vaucluse…I’m daydreaming about Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, the river bursting through the town centre, the antique shops brimful of rusted bar stools, wooden chests, anything you could dream up to furnish your imaginary country home.

The landscape for the most part rolls along and undulates deceptively gently. The hills are striped with rows of vines, cherry trees and lavender.

On one of our outings, we rented electric bicycles at wine co-operative Cave Terraventoux. Unlike the permanent residents of this region, pioneers of the Tour de France, our little collective of Brits have no predisposition to a cycling gene. Our genetic makeup however does allow for excess in its best forms.  With minimal effort on our part the bicycles took us through vineyards, the sun burning through the breeze and turning forearms a beautiful shade of lobster.  We stopped for a lunch of what I can only call cold omelette, but hasten to add was delicious and cured meat of various descriptions, and of course glasses of rosé and red Cote du Rhone. Our winter skin becoming more pink by the second. 

I think I better stop daydreaming and pack a suitcase. Afterall I was not built for full-time employment.