With propellers creaking in anticipation, the Noddy plane is in full throttle for the departure from Southampton when the pilot’s charming voice comes over the intercom. He wishes us a pleasant flight but feels it necessary to advise us of the potentiality of some minor turbulence at Avignon; only to be expected at this time of year he suggests pleasantly. Those of us in the know immediately decode this kindly meant euphemism as a warning that a full-scale mistral is in evidence at our destination and that those seated in that little triangular bit at the front of the plane are currently on def com three.
He’s right: it is a pleasant flight until the ten minutes to landing buzzer sounds ominously. On cue, we suddenly drop a few hundred feet and the crowd gasp before laughing in consensual embarrassment verging on hysteria. Down we lurch once more and, as if we have practised beforehand, all grab armrests or the back of the seat in front in perfect synchronisation. This time, no-one laughs as we embark on a period of rhythmic swaying which sends the baby in row twenty into a deep coma. The runway is in sight when the acrobatic dare-devil driving the plane decides to swoop back up into the heavens. With dread in our hearts, we realise that the first attempt to land has been aborted. The second descent is akin to bumping step by step down a never-ending staircase. Leonie passes me a handy plastic bag. One unfortunate piece of information that those familiar with Avignon airport possess is the knowledge that the ground staff charged with dealing with emergency landings do so by bicycle. Eventually, of course, we arrive and the company disembark, not sporting the usual shade of pale English skin but, this time, with a shared green pallor.
Leonie gets her own back
Tuesday night in casualty at Henri Duffaut hospital is much like that infamous Friday night two years ago: grown men in hysterics, small children trying to break the sweet machine, 500 hangers-on on the smoking balcony and a general escargot-like air of laissez-faire on the part of the administrative staff. Last time, I was the damaged one on the inside and dear Bev was the kindly soul waiting with the walking wounded on the other side of the door. They don’t allow for any possibility of cross-infection in the world of French medicine. It doesn’t matter who you are, who you’re with or what’s wrong with you: the ill or damaged person goes in one door and all the kids, drunks and other assorted friends and family wait elsewhere. Last time, Leonie hopped onto the Noddy plane and flew faster than a gnat to be with me. This time, she was on the inside. Last time, I was ten months into my sabbatical. This time, we’d been in France five hours. That’s what comes of trying to be financially prudent: in the supermarket, we’d opted for the cheaper olive oil contained in a killer bottle with a lid fixed for all time. From the corner of my eye, I’d noticed her attacking it with a serrated-edged kitchen knife but, being scared of this efficient school-teacher, thought it best to keep my own counsel.
Snippets
At last the awkward 14 year old boy has arrived poolside. Ten days in and he’s finally off the phone, off Facebook and off the balcony.
Two things that make baked aubergines a disappointment: emmental cheese and an oven door that requires a patio chair propped under the handle to retain the heat.
Overheard in Provence at 8.30pm when the temperature is still 30C and the evening cicadas are chattering pleasantly amongst themselves: Have you ever been to Blackpool? My God, it’s awesome.
Flip-flop over the gravel. Guess who’s back? Only yesterday we were discussing that business with the wasps last year and here he comes again, replete with the world’s largest blue flippers, enormous yellow goggles and a snorkel. He’s looking even more like Dougal from Father Ted and his dad’s still telling him to stop obsessing about insects.
Hangover
In Arles, whilst the newbies are scouring the market for souvenirs or following in the trail of Van Gogh, we find a previously undiscovered shop in which we pass a happy hour or so. It’s full of things that no-one needs such as beautiful note-books and such-like and has been designed especially for us. I am paying the price for sitting up late last night drinking with a woman who works with famous comedians – she shares my view of Ricky Gervaise – ‘a one-trick’ pony. I stumble around unenthusiastically with a large bottle of water waiting for two cups of expresso to take effect. Subsequently, we search relentlessly for a favourite clothes shop which we have misplaced but give up and head for lunch only to walk straight past it. Today, there is nothing inside that we want except for a very expensive handbag made from red net and lace. Leonie says I can make a similar one from an old skirt of hers. It could be my winter project.
Leonie quotes
You can drive – it’s only up the road. (Is this all I’m capable of?)
Is the waist elasticated enough? (The diet starts Monday)
Mummy!! Get it off me (A large grasshopper)
I hate it when you use that voice. (Trying to warn her that big insects are in close proximity)
Are you struggling? (Arles market with a hangover)
I can’t even ******** well reverse my own car! (Having a row with herself at Les Baux)
You’re too near the edge! (Heard constantly throughout the holiday)
The mouse
It’s fast becoming an annual pilgrimage to Les Baux. Other people go there to see the amazing Cathedral of Images and wander the ancient fortified streets of this hill-top splendour. We go to look for a mouse and have a row.
Another downfall of being financially careful on holiday, apart from slicing your thumb in two, is the tendency in our family not to buy the thing you’ve seen and really want just because you don’t need it. In 2007, trudging unhappily amongst the gift shops of Les Baux, my father saw a little metal mouse working on a computer….get it? He forever rues the day that he failed to make the purchase so now my daughter and I religiously yomp up the steep lanes in search of said rodent. Three years on and still no sign of it.
Talking of hills, for the uninitiated, Les Baux is located in the middle and at the top of Les Alpilles; a small range of olive grove laden mountains. The road from St Remy is tortuous: just a blur of zig-zags on the map. Finding a space in the miniscule car-park at the Cathedral of Images is almost a lost cause. Leonie has a row with herself and says she’s leaving me there. It only takes two seconds to realise that we’re not on a handy bus route and she’s back with her own unique blend of expert parking advice. I look forward to moving the hire car, on which the damage liability is 800 euros, up to the village car-park situated on a sheer cliff drop.
Assumption
Having decided it would be a nice idea to watch the torchlight procession to celebrate the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, we find ourselves sitting by candlelight in the stunningly beautiful basilica of the Abbey of St Michel of Frigolet. On entry, we decline the option of long, thin candles. However, as it becomes apparent that we are about to be more than mere bystanders, and will be the only participants without a light, I go back outside to exchange all of my end-of-holiday coins for a couple.
At 9pm, the church is packed and the abbey bells ring out to welcome in the chanting white-robed monks. All the locals join in the refrain of Joyeuse Lumiere and it is, of course, quite wonderful. Incense is spooned into an apparently very hot large golden bowl and smoke rises in huge plumes. We remain standing for the first part of the service until the monks light their own candles before moving amongst the congregation to light ours. So, far from being privileged to simply watch the spectacle, we now process with everyone out of the basilica and into the dark night. About two hundred of us walk slowly up this little footpath in hidden Provence singing and clutching our candles. The emotion is overwhelming. Finally, we reach the foot of the illuminated statue of the Virgin where the service recommences. I look upwards to the vast star-filled sky that hangs over this small and perfect mountain.
Apero Dinatoire
On our last night we are kindly collected by John who executes a spectacular ten point turn in front of the gites during which he manages to wedge the front right wheel in the rock garden under the plane tree. Having engaged the attention of all the al fresco diners who were not expecting cabaret this evening, he then escapes and narrowly misses a parked car before knocking down three large potted shrubs. The audience do not clap.
We have been invited for the legendary aperitif and pass a few convivial hours at Karil’s converted stable block which is situated in stunning countryside in the middle of nowhere. We are eleven in number: a very cosmopolitan bunch comprising Brits, Swiss, Indian and French. And largely due to the inclusion of the latter, the singing commences as soon as is politely appropriate i.e. when it becomes clear that no more food is available. An interesting rendition of ‘she’ll be coming round the mountain’ is undertaken simultaneously in three different languages. All have different meanings so whilst John and I are going with the least bawdy of the English versions Ganesh is apparently singing a famous Indian love song. Naturally, ‘sur le pont d’Avignon’ receives a rousing inclusion and to further add to our cross cultural soiree, we play that old favourite – who can sound the least like Edith Piaf? Pieter, who is an artist, is obviously appalled at the disintegration of the apero dinatoire and slips quietly away. Later I spot him: a solitary figure walking purposefully through the orchard. I ask Karil if he is leaving home. She says she thinks he is looking for cats. As you do.
On our return, I suggest to John that he drops us on the road to save the dangers of the car-park. Instead, he decides to make his exit by turning in the pitch black of the heavily wooded junction at the end of the drive. We disembark and watch his manoeuvres through finger-covered eyes. He is literally between a rock and a hard place. In fact, I have a strong suspicion that the phrase originated at this very spot: between what we know to be the edge of an orchard, a deep ditch and three large boulders strategically placed to mark the sharp turn and drop in the road. The front left tyre now matches its opposite number in disrepair and the boundary once marked by the stones has moved some distance. Bon nuit.
