The Southern Rhone

We drove south from Valence, with the country became visibly drier and climate warmer. Finally we clicked why the conifers were increasing - stone pines and Italian Cyprus in particular. They might be cold tolerant and naturally occurr at more northerly latitudes, but they are also drought tolerant so are ideal for amenity planting in dry areas. Anyway they speak of the Mediteranean which was approaching fast. The Rhone river departs the hills at Avignon, to form the northern tip of a pyramid shaped delta which is Provence, it's base being the Mediteranean coast. The southern Rhone wine region centers around Avignon, and in the two splayed legs of the hills which push south briefly before giving up to the Provence flats. We drove into Avignon to a great surprise - a very stunning old town circled by a wall. We parked outside the wall and walked in through a narrow gate to our hotel. On the river outside the wall was the Pont d'Avignon immortalized for some unknown reason in the song we used to sing at school (also for some unknown reason!) Inside the city a magnificent Papal Palace from the middle ages dominates the architecture. No buses are allowed, there are few cars, and the place is crammed with buildings and narrow streets some straight but many not. Mostly cobbled, everything old and beautiful. We scrambled to check in as we had arranged to meet Margaret Collier which required a walk across town. We headed off with a map and made it to another gateway in the wall that opened to the railways station, the meeting point where Margaret would be wearing a red scarf, like in the movies. We both arrived at the same time and instantly recognized each other. It was an emotional moment to meet her and reconnect the two families after all the years that have passed. I also knew that Dad would be thinking about it back home. We sat down for lunch and talked about our families, and Margaret talked about her memories of England and Brian's two extended visits in 1941. She remembered so clearly and talked so immediately of things said and done at the time it made it very real and Brian filled out further for us as a bold and personable young man. Margaret drove us to the Pont d'Avignon and we walked out on it, then through the wall and up to the Papal Palace, which was the Papal residency for a 100 years. We walked Margaret bck to her car, gave her a bottle of Tattinger Champagne and said our goodbyes for now, with promises of ongoing contact and hopefully a return visit to the area. Shanti and I walked back to the palace and spent more time walking around it, trying to catch it in the camera. We were also thinking and talking about our 3 1/2 hours with Margarate that passed so rapidly, and what a person she was. Finally a bit weary, the iPad guided us through the the maze of streets and alleys back to the hotel, me walking with it held in front like a techno zombie. We went out for dinner, for a wonderful evening that finished a wonderful day. We found a tiny restaurant somewhere and best of all no English speaking so we could battle with the menu etc and have the pleasure of ordering in French, even if we somewhat confused the waitress and a French couple beside us helped us out in their broken English. We struck up further conversation, then when they left before us they returned with a card and their contact details, and insisted we call them when were back, which would presumably be soon! 'Our first French friends' said Shanti and we went to bed very happy with the day. The next morning we knew we were in for a treat not to mention a long day. We drove to the outskirts of Avignon to within the appellation of Chateau Neuf du Pape (the 'new papal castle') being a reference to the castle in the city. The appellation is the best known in the area and we visited one of its greats - Chateau Beaucastel. Tim Wardell introduced us to their magnificent red wine many years go and it has been a favorite since. The vineyard is on very gently undulating, nearly flat land. What is remarkable is that is just an ocean of fist sized river worn stones, that are old remnants of glaciation and the Rhones wandering course. Two metres or so of these stones over lie limestone bedrock. From them grow swathes of grapes, in low bushes, unsupported and unirrigated, cooking in the sun. Thirteen varieties are grown withing the appellation which are blended variously by the different estates in both reds and whites. Chateau Beaucastel has a sizable vineyard and in the midsts sits the homested and winery. Beautiful walled grounds and gardens, with a cellar directly under the homested. We walked out into the vineyards, then into the cellar, then into a lovely tasting room to try their wines including aged examples. A mature Beaucastel is as good as any red you like, so it was an experience. But our jaws dropped further when we were taken into the main garden and seated around a long table with white cloth and all the trimmings and treated to a superb and extended lunch. We were in shade but it was starting to bake in the open. Geckos on the building walls, skilled gardening with roses, old trees, mature olives and a very good lily pond. Out the gateway the vines disappeared into the distance and into strikingly cloud patterned sky. 'Died and gone to heaven' was being muttered in every direction. Not quite I thought, with our family not here to see it. Then in case we were not completely in a trance two fighter jets come over low, en route or departing from the nearby military base in Orange. The thunderous, tearing sound ripped the fabric of the sky, as it does. Beats thunder we thought, as no rain would follow. But the day was not finished on that front. I hope my photos capture the place I think they might. We drove for the rest of the afternoon through the Provence landscape to Marseilles, on the Mediteranen coast, our first view ever of that sea. Provence was so dry, poor soiled, much flatland and low outcrops of whitish probably weathered granite rock. The Italian Cyprus was everywhere, around buildings nd even as windbreaks. They got more perfect as we went outh- even more slender, tall, pointed and dense as if trimmed. Pines also everywhere and little sign of arable land. Approaching Marseilles it was obviously rougher than anything we had seen, with it's industrial activity and slummy high rise apartments, all with washing hanging on the window rails and balconies. Centre city has its share of old buildings etc, having been occupied and a major active port since Greek times, but the place seems run down. The people are fascinating, with a significant number of north Africans and the very colorful mix of people that you might associate with a port. We were given the warning that it's better not to stray, but stuff that we thought and took a wander away from the hotel through the narrow streets and markets, dripping with people and rubbish! I found a barber and had my #1 haircut reinstated. Rough little shop, everyone glued to a football match playing on a TV on the wall. We wandered further, stopping to reorient ourselves for the return home ( no IPad on me, or camera). Anyway it was a lot of fun and fine during the day, although maybe at night it would be a good city to i) look for trouble ii) find it and iii) get your head kicked in. We went out to find Bouabaise to eat for dinner, which was disgusting. A thin potato gruel, with lumps of spud and even more grotty looking cuts of fish etc floating in it. Some stale bread to soak in it and voila! Once will be enough. Anyway the day had a final flourish as an electrical storm rolled over us. We stayed outside eating under a canvass awning until the rain became impossible and we headed indoors. Still it wouldn't stop and we scrambled home like rats in a shower. As Gordon Ramsay would say: 'Marseilles?....DONE.'