Arts in Provence

 I was going to post on macarons today, but I'm addicted to Karen Wheeler's Tout Sweet:Hanging Up My High Heels for a New Life in France  I decided to dig out my 6-year old photos from Provence (which clearly have nothing to do with western central France, but they're the only campagne/country shots I've got so please forgive🙏

 FYI: I did all these watercolors whilst staying at Arts In Provence - one of the Fabest art workshops out there. They're British so pas cher.

 Back to Karen's unputdownable book, which I am making myself dizzy reading while walking - my niece begs me not to walk into any telephone poles SVP.

 I'm going to throw at you diverse excerpts to give you a good taste of it:

'The house in France offered me an escape route and gave me a new focus. After buying Maison Coquelicot, I continued to live in London for another year, earning the money to do the house up. But I didn’t waste that year. I signed up for twice-weekly French classes in the evening and I read every book I could find, fiction or otherwise, on moving to rural France.'

 'Most of them were plodding...memoirs about septic tanks, elusive artisans, and epic meals. But I devoured every word, and loved their soporific, calming effect. I fell asleep each night dreaming of sunflower fields and rustic interiors.'

 'On paper at least, my life in London was a success...I owned so many handbags I could open my own boutique, and I earned enough money to pay off the credit card bills in full at the end of the month.'

 'And yet at thirty-five I was bereft of responsibility. I was the center of nobody’s universe. My life felt shallow and materialistic—as empty as the spare closet after Eric left. I’d spend the money I earned in order to compensate for the emotional void in my life. But, as I learned, you cannot buy your way out of unhappiness. And so I tried other routes. I did courses—lots of them.'

 'I return to bed, but am woken again at 7:00 a.m., this time by the prolonged and deafening ringing of the church bells on the other side of the courtyard wall. It is, I imagine, what a Butlins holiday camp must have been like in the 1950s: the bells are the cue for everyone in Villiers to get up.'

 'Foire day. The big fair that takes place twice a month.” I am confused. Is Dylan really waking me up to tell me about a fair? “You need to move your car now, before the market people arrive,” he persists. “I looked out of the window when I got up and saw your car by the mairie. But you’re not allowed to park in the square today.”

 'I throw my hippy coat over my floral pajamas and, still half asleep, follow Dylan up to the square. After thanking him for his trouble, I drive my car over to the car park of the local Intermarché and leave it there. This is not the peaceful life in France that I imagined.'

 '...with almost perfect timing Claudette arrives at the front door, bearing a tray with two cups of coffee and two slices of homemade apple tart. We eat it perched on crates in the petit salon, and it tastes, at that moment in time, as good as a lunch in an Alain Ducasse restaurant.'

 'Afterward, I drive into the center of Poitiers and walk to the main square. There is a food market taking place in the shadow of Notre Dame Cathedral and, unlike the few stalls that pass for a market in Villiers, this appears to be the real French deal. People are bustling around with baskets or pull-along shopping trolleys, squeezing, sniffing, or sampling the goods.'

 'Many stalls sell one product—goat’s cheese, artichokes, or exotic-looking breads, for example—and the shopping process, I notice, is rife with flirtation:
“Did you make those yourself, Monsieur?” one elegantly dressed woman asks a man selling fluffy white goat’s cheeses.'

 “Yes, with my own hands, Madame. Would you like to taste a little piece?”

“Oh, but they look lovely, your pears!” I hear another woman cry.

The produce itself looks very alluring: purple-green cabbages sprouting like big flower brooches, small black prunes glistening like jet beads, heads of purple and white garlic strung together like a necklace. There are aubergines, the same opulent shade of purple-black as a YSL smoking, piles of large mushrooms, their undersides pleated like a Vionnet gown, and stalls selling pungent frills of parsley and basil or velvety green leaves of sage, while plump and shiny red and green peppers nestle in wooden boxes. Unfortunately, none of this is much use to me as I am weeks, if not months from a functioning kitchen and living mostly on bread and brie .'

BON(NE) WEEKEND!