When summer is dull and dreary I dream of getting away from Dublin, from the traffic, the chaos and the maddening gold rush. I want to go where there is sunshine, where there is a sense of continuity and beauty, and where man and earth enjoy an intelligent, purposeful harmony.
And so for once, I did just that. Mo stoirin and I set off for Provence in early June to experience an idyllic, unhurried France, to be as far away as we could get from the half-arsed, deluded Ireland of our working lives.
Our starting point was Apt, about 50 kilometres east of Avignon, in the valley of the Couleron River. Apt is the capital of the Lubron, one of many smaller districts that make up western Provence, and well endowed, like every part of this vast country, with its own food, wines and visual splendour.
Dribbling fountain
Our first day was a gentle one. We took our rented mountain bikes for a brief test-run into the hills, and then returned to Apt for cafe au lait and Coca-Cola under the awning of the Caf Lubron. The townsfolk had re-emerged after the heat of midday, and shoppers paced to and fro between us and the modestly dribbling fountain. Three gendarmes strolled past, hands on batons, ready for any disturbance. The pigeons got out of their way, but no-one else took much notice.
Our boissons arrived. The hostess was Victoria from London, in Provence for the summer to improve her French. "If you come back for dinner, try the fish fried in olive oil or the roast duck. And we have a lovely house white from the Lubron."
We checked into a tiny hotel just off the main square. The Madame was jovial and friendly, but hadn't a word of English, so we made do with our pidgin French and plenty of Irish smiles and gesturing. Later we returned to the Caf Lubron for a wonderful evening of simple cuisine, sprightly wine and a glorious lilac sunset.
Next morning we left Apt and ascended the 30 kilometres to Bonnieux and Lacoste. Both these villages are perched high up the valley slopes, much like the villages in Andalucia. But the masonry is all unpainted, so, from a distance, they seem as if they are carved directly from the mountain bedrock.
Lacoste is almost entirely constructed from unplastered stone and is home to an artists' colony - most of whom speak American rather than French. They come here, putatively, to absorb the radiant light of Provence and produce artwork accordingly. I looked on them as peasants of any kind look upon the rich, with a mixture of envy and frustration.
Terraced garden
It being breithla mo stoirin, we nipped into the patisserie and bought two cream pastries soaked in caramel and brandy. We sat on a wall and looked out over the vista. The flat valley floor was neatly arranged into groves of olive trees and vineyards. A painter stood in a terraced garden blow us, dibdabbing at his canvas. The masonry of Lacoste seemed just then to be made of a chameleon-like stone, for as the sun disappeared behind a series of clouds, it turned from a golden sandy colour to limestone grey and back again. Almost like brushrokes.
The mind does not imbibe such poetry very often, and I wondered to myself whether, after just a few short days, I had been seduced by Provence. Then I realised it was probably just the brandy in the cake.
Bonnieux is, or at least was, more well-to-do than Lacoste, and most of the houses have plaster and large windows. The main street clings to the hillside like a mountain path in the Himalayas, and the two or three side-streets rise at impossible angles. I imagined it to be Roscrea, forced to flee Ireland for Provence during the Flight of the Earls.
Our last stop in the Lubron before cycling back to Apt was Roussillon, famed for its china clay. Having avoided the tourist hordes up to now, we rejoined them as we climbed the hill into this bustling little spot.
Coaches shouldered past each other on the outskirts of town, and the winding streets were filled with a steady stream of pietons making their way about the sights. The centre of activity was the main square, lined on three sides by the stately old houses of the china-clay merchants. Looking at the iron-clay walls against the crystal blue sky one is reminded of central Australia. But this is unmistakably Provence; the window shutters are a rich lavender, and green vines clamber up the walls and shade the streetside cafes.
Two chimneys
After salade nicoise and a glass each of Cotes du Ventoux Rouge, we set off once again and freewheeled all the way downhill to Apt. As we approached the town, my eyes were drawn to two tall chimneys rising from the zone industrielle. They seemed a terrible blight on the landscape of the earthy Lubron.
Approaching the roundabout at the edge of town my mood changed from a superior brand of disgust into shock, and thence to a mangled, clumsy pride. The smokestacks belonged to Kerry Foods. They are here in Provence, making food for the French!
I was reminded of German factories in the Kerry Gaeltacht, and of blond-haired cyclists struggling over the Conor pass ag rothaiocht go dti an Daingean. We had come a long way to escape Ireland, to escape our listless, chaotic city. We wanted to wash away the uncomfortable fear that Ireland is moving away from itself into darker times. But out here, Ireland gets closer to a new home.