6:05 p.m. and our Air France flight took off from the San Francisco airport for Provence and our long planned 3 week stay. It was hardly a flying start, however, for 1 1/2 hours out of San Francisco the pilot announced that due to “technical difficulties” we had to turn around and return to San Francisco. There was a problem with engine #4. We watched nervously as, all the way back, a jet plume of black, smoky looking fuel shot out of an engine and sped past our window to eventually disperse in the atmosphere. We were jettisoning fuel for the landing. Once over San Francisco our anxiety didn’t abate as we had to circle for about 45 minutes until all the fuel was gone. As we landed we could see ambulances and fire engines lined up on the runway. Fortunately, the flight had been smooth with no signs of trouble besides the jettisoning, so all aboard had remained relatively calm. There was no need for the emergency vehicles.

We took off again after an hour and tried to sleep as we crossed the ocean, but it was really hard with the cramped space. After 16 hours in the plane, we finally landed at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris and found that we had missed our scheduled flight to Marseille. We were lucky, though, in that there was room for us on the 7:15 flight involving only about a 30 minute airport wait, and Air France even managed to get our luggage aboard this plane. The van from the Primotel picked us up at the Marseille airport, and soon we and our luggage were happily ensconced in our comfortable room. Before having dinner in the hotel dining room, we met a couple who were finishing their Idyll vacation, and they had glowing recommendations for several good restaurants and markets in and around Isle sur Ia Sorgue. After dinner and a refreshing bath, we gratefully fell into bed for a long awaited good night’s sleep.

Jet lag woke us up at 5 a.m. this morning, and by 6 we gave up on sleep and reluctantly rolled out of bed. Groggily I plugged in the curling iron, forgetting to use the transformer, and soon the amefl of melting plastic alerted us to the fact. The tip had melted off. Fortunately Len was able to put it buck on, and the iron still worked. After breakfast in the dining room, we sat in the lobby, and I made my first attempt at reading a French newspaper. Another Idyll couple, Chris and Lea Crossett from Rockville, Maryland soon joined us, and we chatted with them while waiting for the Untour representative to pick us up. As the mistral blew the door wide open and started the huge lobby chandelier swinging, Dodge Ainaral, Idyll’s Provence coordinator, made his appearance; we boarded the bus with the other 32 Untourists, and we were on our way to Isle Sur La Sorgue and our 3 weeks in the Vaucluse.

Max Tomlinson, Idyll’s man in Provence, personable and enthusiastic, made announcements while the bus rolled along past fields and orchards. Against a backdrop of eroded, rocky hills crowned by remnants of medieval dwellings and tiny orchards slotted in areas of high, wild grasses, stood stone farmhouses with tiled roofs or stucco houses in colors of ochre and umber. We soon arrived at Max’s house where all of the rental cars had been delivered and were lined up and waiting. After signing an Avis contract for our Opel hatchback, we returned to the car and found our landlord standing stiffly by it and looking very proud. Kathy Jennings, a young woman who was the Women’s Page editor of the Kalamazoo newspaper was to be our next door neighbor, so we 3 cars went in caravan to the Resimont house. A sign saying “La Loner” on a telephone pole marked the driveway, and we turned onto its dirt paving. It was a long driveway bounded on one side by cane and blooming iris and on the other by a tall border of lavender. We passed the owners’ house and the other guest house before arriving at our cottage, like the others, a burnt umber colored stucco building with a tile roof. Madame Resimont, smiling broadly, met us in the driveway and handed us a baguette before accompanying us and her husband into the house. They showed us around and explained how to use the washing machine and then left us to our unpacking.

It was a charming little place. The downstairs had one large room which served as the living room, dining room, and kitchen. The bathroom was on this floor with its tiny corner shower, and the toilet was in an adjacent small room. Outside the dining area glass doors, a patio with a table and chairs and lounge chairs promised delightful evenings. A loft upstairs had two twin beds, a cupboard with a section fur hanging up clothes and shelves for the rest of our things. Next to the window on the other side of the room was a portable clothes rack for hanging more clothing, and the view from that window was of the side garden, the vegetable garden, young espaliered apple trees, a pasture and the mountains behind.

We unpacked a bit and then made lunch from the cheese, bread, juice, and fruit with which our refrigerator had been stocked by the Resimonts. Then lit was time to go into Isle Sur Sorgue to lay in more supplies. Our destination was Inter-Marche, a huge supermarket that was the major tenant in a 10 or 12 store mall at the edge of town. It was fun to wander up and down the aisles and look at the merchandise in a French market. We had a really hard time finding non-fat milk, but a very nice customer helped us, pointing out that it was called ecreme. Another woman helped me put the price label on our cucumbers. In this market one puts the produce on the scale and then presses a picture of it. The price is then printed on a sticky tape which the customer pastes on the bag. I couldn’t find a picture of a cucumber, and a woman explained that they are priced by the piece rather than by weight.

We left the market. It was raining and the fabled mistral was blowing so hard that it blew a folded newspaper and a bag containing postcards right out of my hands, and I had to chase them the whole length of the parking lot. Then we set out to find the post office. That was quite an experience for we found ourselves driving down impossibly narrow streets, and we later found out that the red and white symbol posted at the entrances to many of the streets meant “Closed to Automobiles!” We finally located it, and while Len waited in the car, I went in to try to purchase stamps with my fractured French. To my delight, I was able to make myself understood, but an English speaking woman behind me had to interpret some of the conversation for me as I attempted to buy a phone card. It all worked out, and we were soon on our way home in the wind and rain. Len did a marvelous job with our 5 speed stick shift Opel, and we were soon safe and snug inside the cottage. We heated deli paella and accompanied it with mushroom salad and a green salad for a delicious dinner. In the middle of the meal there was a knock on the door, and Kathy, our next door neighor caine in to find out what day it was! She had napped and thought she’d spent a whole day asleep because her date watch hadn’t been changed to the European date and time. She stayed and ate with us, and we had a nice visit.

It was a short day today. Len slept until 10:30, and I slept until 11:00! We decided it was a good day to familiarize ourselves with Isle Sur Sorgue. The rain had stopped. The skies were still mostly gray but the mistral was hard at work blowing the clouds away. After a very late breakfast, we drove to town. Our timing was perfect for the shops are all closed from 12:00 to 2:00 for the long French lunch break. Things were opening as we arrived, and we had a good time browsing in the charming little shops in the town center where we were tempted by santons, provencal purses and fabrics, and wonderful willow baskets. We read restaurant menus and pinpointed ones that sounded expecially good, and we found a charcuterie where we bought meatballs, eggplant and a veal dish to bring back to the house. Isle Sur Ia Sorgue is a lovely city, an island between two branches of the Sorgue river. Everything appears lush and green, and there are flowers everywhere.

We drove back to the cottage and unloaded our groceries and decided to go to Lagne, a nearby town that seemed carved out of the hillsides. We parked and went for a walk, and our curiosity was aroused by an open gate posted with a sign saying “Santons of Provence.” We walked up the stone steps and through an untended garden into an artist’s studio. The shelves were full of little clay people of all sizes dressed in peasant costumes depicting their various occupations. The artist was very friendly and showed us the molds and even pressed a few figures for us to see. She made the molds, painted the figures and sewed the clothing with which she dressed them. A school class came in, and she was demonstrating to them when we left to continue our walk.

A black Lab joined us and led the way to a viewpoint as our road turned into a dirt path. The dog would run ahead, stopping every once in a while and looking back to see if we were following. On one fbray hg found a pinecone, and he kept it to Len to throw for him. After a while he dropped it at my feet too, inviting me to join in the game. We climbed through fields of wildflowers and through cherry orchards with some of the largest cherry trees we had ever seen and soon arrived at the hilltop. As we returned on the same path, a woman came toward us, supporting her crippled legs by leaning on two ski poles, and our new-found canine friend became very frightened. Barking furiously, he left the path, and, giving he woman a wide berth, streaked ahead and was soon out of sight in the town. The woman with the ski poles said she had no idea who the dog belonged to.

Refreshed by our walk we headed back to the cottage for dinner and an early bedtime.

We went into town early today in case we got lost trying to find Max Tomlinson’s house for the orientation meeting. Since we found it easily, we decided we had time for a 20 minute ride before going to the meeting. Of course, we got lost and barely made lit to the meeting on time.

Orientation was interesting, helped along by Max’s great sense of humor. He spent a lot of time describing the craziness of French drivers, a fact we’d already discovered on our own. On the narrow streets, some with no center line, they would travel 80 miles an hour, tailgate, and pass on blind curves and going over hills. Max, who hails from England, said it used to make his hair stand on end, but now he drives that way too. I was sure Len would never catch the fever.

The group was very sociable, and it was fun having lunch with them at the nearby pizzeria. The conversation was good, and the meal was delicious. We had salad, wine, pizza made on dough as thin as crepe dough, roast lamb, string beans, coffee, and an ice-cream confection layered with thin layers of chocolate like the outside of an Eskimo Pie and thin layers of vanilla. The bill came to SO francs for each of us (about $16.00 apiece).

With the whole afternoon ahead of us, Len and I decided to go to Saumon, Pernes, and St. Didier. We parked in Saumon near a sign directing us to the fabled chateau that had been the childhood home of the Marquis de Sade, but as we walked along, we couldn’t find another sign identifying the place. We soon found ourselves on a rocky trail going steadily upward. The weather was much improved. The wind was dying down, and the sun was out. The walled path seemed to go on uphill forever. They were interesting walls, built without mortar, and there were wildflowers on either side. We often, upon looking over the walls, saw bouries, stone buildings first built by Stone Age man and continuing to be built throughout French history for shelters in the Provence countryside. The scenery didn’t vary much though we did come to a large area that was charred from a forest fire, and we finally turned around and headed to the car.

The guide book told of a view in Pernes so spectacular that it attracts many artists, and we went looking for it, but before we knew it, we had passed Pernes and were on our way to St. Didier. We foil in love with this town, its shady streets lined with an arch of lovely plane truu~ and its pretty shops. We walked past a charcuterie with a mouth watering display of food, and we turned around and went inside. We bought mousaka and ratatoile to take home with us. We bought postcards and phoned our 1~niily before returning home.

We spent much of the morning translating the directions for the washing machine. Though we followed them carefully, the machine wouldn’t start because the cover wouldn’t catch. We went to the Resimonts’ home to get some help, but as they weren’t home, we left the clothes in the machine and set out for Rousillon, a town that had once been the center of a thriving iron industry.

The buildings of the town clung to the side of a towering ochre cliff, and the buildings were all the color of the soil. We climbed up steep steps to the tiny streets of the village and up its narrow passageways lined with ocbre dwellings. One of the houses was actually carved into the cliff! Then we made our way back down to walk along the streets of colorful shops and restaurants. A wedding was about to take place, and the bride and her father, followed by the rest of the wedding party and the guests, were on their way to the church. A beautifully floral decorated open convertible awaited them at the conclusion of the ceremony.

We browsed in stores where artisans displayed beautiful pottery, baskets, and paintings, and merchants tempted us with honey, olive oil, and other products of the area. We stopped to buy a pottery gift at a store that used glazes made from the pigments of the ochre soil, and while we were there heard hoofbeats and looked out just as a rider on horseback rode up the street.

After a visit to the tourist office to get directions, we walked to the Circle of Euchre, an orange path of sand through Rousillon. It was a nature trail through a forest with towering, eroded pillars of stone in orange or yellow hues. The crumbled rock formed the sandy pavement, and we carefully picked our way through gullies and pot holes. The pigments from the soil clung to our clothes and hands. Some people were playfully decorating their faces with it. The area was once a quarry, and the marvelous shapes were products of both mining and erosion.

It was time to head back, but we found a boulangerie at the end of the trail, and we bought bread and pastry to bring home and pain aux chocolate for a welcome snack.

On the way back we stopped for pictures of Gordes, a beautiful village built on terraces high on the side of a cliff. Like Rousillon, the buildings here were built of the local soil, but here the buildings were beige in color.

We returned to Isle Sur la Sorgue, but we passed our turn-off twice - not a good thing to do with French drivers speeding on your tail. Monsieur and Madame Resimont were still not at home, so we weren’t able to do the laundry. Dinner was a marvelous veal dish in a spinach sauce, eggplant, salad, and melon for dessert. How we will miss the charcuteries when we return home.

After a 7:00 breakfast we knocked on the Resimont door to see if someone could help us solve the mystery of the washing machine. Madame Resimont, whom we had probably roused from bed, very graciously came to our cottage to take a look. It seems that the woman who had stayed there before us had forced it open instead of waiting the prescribed 15 minutes after it had finished its cycles. By sticking a knife into the latch, Madame Resimont freed it up, and the machine started its two hour job. French washing machines fill with cold water, and the water is warmed in the machine. Then they rotate one turn, pause for about 20 seconds, and rotate one turn in the opposite direction. As this goes on through each of its cycles, we put the laundry in and left for the weekly open air market in town.

What a colorful event! The streets were filled with stands displaying merchandise of all descriptions. There was farm fresh produce, mouth watering displays of olives including many varieties we had never known existed, all kinds of cheeses, breads, and deli meals, flowers of all kinds and colors, toys, antiques, T shirts, Provencal hand printed fabrics, and much, much more. Exercising great self control, we bought only some olives, fruit, and bread, and we spent the rest of the morning enjoying the color of the occasion. We joined the crowd being entertained by a costumed one-man band and then threaded our way through the mobs and browsed through some of the open stores. The smells of food from the stands and the cafes permeated the air, but we were tired and headed home for lunch. The washing machine had finally finished, so, after lunch, it was time to hang the laundry out to dry. Len’s red shirt had run, so all his T shirts were pink. We could only hope the sunlight would have a bleaching effect.

As Cavaillon was not far away, and we had read that there was much Jewish history there, we decided to go there and try to find the 14’ century synagogue that had been converted to a museum. Jews bad lived in France since Masada fell in the year 73. They lived in ghettos called carrieres, single streets which were chained closed each day at dusk. The carrieres were located in the centers of medieval towns, and lives there revolved around the synagogue. Though Philip IV expelled the Jews from France in the 14’ century, this was the era when the popes of the Catholic church lived in Auvignon and controlled Provence. They protected the Jews in their domain from the expulsion edict, and the Jews remained in Provence. From 1243 until the 18’ century, Jews were forced by the state to wear an emblem designating their ethnicity, and in the 16’ century the emblem was replaced by a yellow hat. In the 18’ century, traveling Jews were allowed to wear a black hat. They had been restricted from entering many trades and professions including medicine, masonry, stone cutting, baking, and weaving, and not until the French revolution did they gain the status of citizens of France.

We found the synagogue built over an arch that spanned the street. It had been destroyed in the 15’ century but rebuilt as an exact duplicate in the 17’. Seeing that the door was open, we climbed up the steps and entered just in time to join a small tour of the interior. The ark had a wooden case decorated with exquisite floral carvings, and green wrought iron grillwork formed the railings on the upper floor. The rabbi’s pulpit was suspended above the congregation (like the pulpits in Catholic churches), to symbolize the loftiness of the torah as it was read from there. The women listened to the reading in the dark, windowless basement through a hole which allowed the rabbi’s voice and the chanting of the prayers to be heard. The basement also had a huge oven for bread baking and a marble slab for rolling out the dough.

After going to the anthropology museum and seeing a short film about the history of the Jews in medieval France, we walked to see the railroad station and then headed back to the car. Dinner at home consisted of excellent mousaka from the St. Didier charcuterie, olive fugazzi, fresh strawberries, and apple pastry, but we had a disaster when I did the dishes. A large bowl in the drainer fell forward and knocked two dinner plates to the floor, breaking them into a million pieces. As Monday was a holiday and all the stores would be closed, we couldn’t even try to replace them until Tuesday.

Today was a national holiday, and we spent it at the sheep festival in St. Remy. The whole town and visitors from everywhere gather to watch 3,000 sheep driven in a circle three times around the center of the village before being taken to the high pastures for the summer. There was a street market and a flea market as well, and the streets were mobbed. It was quite a colorful sight. The participants were dressed in traditional costumes, and many of the female onlookers were dressed in provencal prints. There were many children, all carefully watched by their parents, and we were impressed by their good behavior.

We stayed long enough to see the sheep circle twice, and then, very hungry, walked around looking for an inviting restaurant. In the center of town we found a charming café, the Restaurant Le Felibre, and we sat at an outside table and enjoyed a delicious Salad Nicoise.

Following directions from the waitress, we walked uphill to the Glanum, the ancient Roman ruins standing in a plateau above the town. Built during the reign of Augustus Caesar, a magnificent carved stone monument, 60 ft. high and wonderfully preserved, stands next to a commemorative arch from the same period. It was a fascinating sight.

The Michelin Guide spoke of another part of the ruins as well, and we asked some young French people who were picnicking there if they could read our map and help us with directions. They studied our map and explained, in broken English, that we should walk down the road and turn left at the first cross street, and we would soon find ourselves there. As we first found out in Belgium, French speakers often get the English words for right and left mixed up, and it happened again. Following their directions, we came to a little country road with a sign proclaiming the surrounding area a forest. We walked a long way, passing beautiful large tile roofed homes all plastered in Mediterranean tone stucco and surrounded by lush landscaping. We came to an ancient stone wall and, to our amazement, saw Hebrew lettering above the locked gate. When we peeked over the wall, we discovered that we were looking at an old Jewish cemetery, overgrown with wild grasses, but we couldn’t determine its age. We walked on a bit further pondering the strange shapes of the grey Apille mountains in the background to our left. Soon a small stand of pines appeared, and it must have been what they called a forest. A man stopped his car as we rested on a wall in front of a house, and, seeing us looking in our Michelin Guide, asked where we wanted to go. When we told him, he gave us directions back to where w came from! We thanked him, but, too hot and tired to walk up the bill again, we walked to town and to our car.

The guidebook said that the mental hospital where Van Gogh had spent a year in 1889- 1890 was across from the Roman monuments, so we decided to drive there before returning home. Parked at the hospital, we walked down a leafy, shaded lane to the building where Van Gogh had a ground floor studio and a first floor room. We couldn’t go into his room, but we were allowed into a lovely colonnaded atrium with a colorful garden in the center and rooms overlooking it. We walked around the square, and it was easy to imagine Van Gogh in these surroundings busy at his painting. It was a very moving experience.

It was time to head home, and we drove along with me navigating and getting us off on many wrong turns and Len, as usual, constantly exclaiming in amazement at the wild driving of the French. Once at home, we bad a charcuterie dinner before falling into bed, exhausted.

Today was a busy day. We spent the morning at the Intermarche restocking the kitchen larder and finding two plates to replace the ones I broke. Then, as Len had failed to pack enough of his prescription, we went to the pharmacy with the bottle, and they were able to supplement his supply. No prescription, no problem!

We returned home, and as we were unpacking our groceries, Monsieur Resimont and his little dachsund paid us a call, suggesting that we travel to Pont du Gard and Uzes today. We talked it over during lunch and decided to go to Fontaine de Vaucluse today and save Pont du Gard for tomorrow when we would have more time.

There wasn’t much traffic on the road today, so driving was much easier than yesterday. We parked in a lot below the town and walked into the beautiful little village. A foaming, rushing river hurrying to get to town was spilling over rocks and falling swiftly to lower levels in its eagerness. Here and there a pooi of placid water, so clear one could easily see the bottom through the reflections on top, clung to the rocks of the side. A plane tree shaded square in the center of town housed many shops, and we were drawn into one that displayed hand made, hand painted silk skirts and blouses. I came out with an outfit I shall love for many years.

We joined the crowds following the river along the path to its source and threaded our way through classes of boisterous school children coming towards us. It was amusing to see the number of baseball caps worn backwards, a style popular among the boys and girls in the U.S. The trail was rocky, and we marveled at the French women walking in dressy shoes.

The beautiful river coursed merrily on its way between high rock walls dotted with immense caves. Suddenly, we came to the end. Our progress halted by a natural wall of stone, and, at its base, a many fathoms deep pool of water, quietly adjusting to being out of its dait prison, gingerly explored its boundaries and then suddenly took off in a exultant leap, bounding down to the level below.

We stood and watched for a while and then headed back. Unwilling to leave this lovely spot, we stopped for a beer at an outdoor water-side café and then detoured into a paper making museum where old paper was being recycled into new. The people at the dress shop had recommended a climb up the mountain behind the village for an exploration of the ruins of a castle that bad once dominated the village, and we climbed about 40 stone steps before the footing changed to that of a rocky path. Thankful we were wearing our hiking boots, we kept on climbing. The remains of the castle were high above us, and the rocky approach was challenging. It was well worth the hike, though, for its crumbling stone walls had wildflowers growing out of them, and its arches framed views of the town and river below. In the l2~ century Petrarch, the poet, had been a friend of Cardinal Philippe of Cabasole, the lord of the castle, and he often visited there when he lived in Fontaine de Vaucluse. It was there that Petrarch wrote many of the poems immortalizing his love for Laura.

The trail beyond the castle to Gordes, 5 kilometers away, and we followed it for a while, but as it was hot and the climb down was steep, we decided to retrace our steps. It was almost 6:00, and we were hungry so we decided to go on to St. Didier and find a little restaurant for dinner. Upon arrival we went into the charcuterie and bought food to take home. We asked for a restaurant recommendation, and the man behind the counter suggested Le Beaucet at Beaucet, just a few minutes away.

The road to Beaucet was steep and winding, and we finally were stopped by a gate and a posting prohibiting automobiles. A sign said the restaurant was 30 meters inside the town gate. Up above, another ruined castle or fortress grew out of a precipice and dominated the ground below. Its dramatic commanding presence must have seemed indomitable in the middle ages. We walked through the gate to the restaurant, also on the edge of a cliff, and were very disappointed to find it closed.

Since we couldn’t eat at Le Beaucet, we drove to Isle Sur Sorgue and bad dinner at La Basillic, a charming, tiny place with delicious pasta. Pastis, the apertif of the area, was served as soon as we sat down. We had been curious about its flavor, and we found it quite good. Len bad carponata and pasta with pesto, and it was delicious. I had carponata and rotini with a fennel sauce, and I liked it very much.

Today was a long but very interesting day. We left in the morning for Pont du Gard, the site of a 19th century B.C. Roman aqueduct that still stands after all these years. It’s an amazing structure consisting of three tiers totaling 160 feet high and 900 feet long. Made of huge masonry blocks put together without mortar, it carried water 30 miles from a spring to the city of Nimes. We hiked along a path to the top row of arches and walked through the tunnel above the top arches. 44 million gallons of water a day flowed through this tunnel in Roman times. The river flowed peacefully below, and its wide sandy shores were dotted with picnickers.

We returned to the car park and asked the attendant if he spoke English. When he answered, “Very little,” I replied in French that I had the same problem with his language. Then I asked, in French, how to get to Nimes. He explained in French, and I understood. I thanked him, and as we walked toward our car, this gallant man stepped out of his office and called after us, “You speak French, madame!” It was the nicest and most unexpected compliment I had received in France.

We drove on to Nimes and were very surprised to find it was such a big city. The streets were clogged with cars, and both the streets and sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. We parked on a side street near the center of town, walked to a machine on the corner, and put in 10 francs, pushed a button and received a receipt to be placed on the dashboard that was good for two hours parking. It seemed like a much more efficient and economical method than that used for U.S. parking meters.

It was 1:30, and the restaurants closed at 2:00 so we needed to quickly find a place to eat. Following the suggestion of a passing postman that we cross the park, we set out in that direction. As we walked across the park, 5 Gypsy children with forlorn faces approached us and asked for money. Though we said, “No” firmly and kept on walking briskly, they crowded around us, still begging, despite our repeated rcmonstrances to leave us alone. They clung like leeches, and as we were clutching our cameras and packs, Len thought he could feel a hand in his back pocket. He turned and shouted loudly, “ Get away or I’m going to call the police,” and a man who was obviously in charge of them suddenly appeared and called them off. It was a very unsettling experience, and we moved away from the park as fast as we could.

We found a sidewalk café on the other side of the street and ordered the plate of the day. It consisted of a vegetable and seafood salad, chicken, rice, ¼ liter of wine and a glace. The food was ordinary but very plentiful, and we had a glass of wine and recovered from our experience with the gypsies. After lunch we walked to the arena. It was built by the century and is still being used for bullfights and performances. Restoration work was going on inside, so it took quite a bit of imagination to envision the gladiators, chariot races, Olympic games, and executions that had taken place there over the centuries. Still, it was a really interesting experience.

Several blocks away, surrounded by businesses and offices, stood a Roman temple, reputedly one of the best preserved in the world. Swarms of visitors, school classes, passengers from tour busses, and local visitors swarmed through it, and its state of preservation seemed a miracle.

The museum of modern art was nearby, and this spacious, airy building had a marvelous Picasso exhibit. The museum wasn’t crowded, and we spent about an hour leisurely browsing there. Then we walked to the Fountain Garden, a huge park in the center of town. A lovely fountain sent its spray into the lush gardens, and it was only one of many in the park.

It was getting late so we hurried back to our car and set out for our cottage in the rush hour traffic. We had problems finding our way out of Nimes and then somehow got off on the wrong road after leaving Auv ignon. It was 8:00 before we finally arrived home. We settled for packaged soup, olives, French bread and cheese, and strawberries and cookies before failing exhausted into bed.

We pulled out of our driveway this mormng, and Len sighed, “Well, here we go on the Indy 500 again.” We were bound for the bank and post office in Isle Sur La Sorgue, and by the time we finished our errands, it was noon. Our goal was Murs and the hike to the old mills, but we first stopped at the Village of Bouries. It was an outdoor museum with many bouries built for different uses in different periods of history. A sign directed us to a parking lot for Village visitors, so we parked there and started walking to the museum. It turned out to be a 1 ‘/a kilometer walk, and it was all uphill in the noonday sun. We marveled at the rocky soil and wondered how anything could grow there. Hot and perspiring, we finally arrived at the Village, only to find that there was a parking lot right there! The village was interesting, and we walked through many of the bouries and admired the practicality of the stacked rock construction. Then we took the long walk back to our car and headed to Gordes where we bad a Provencal salad for lunch.

We traveled onto Murs but couldn’t find the trailhead for the hike that the guidebook recommended, so, while Len waited in the car, I walked down the main street until I found an elderly woman sitting by the side of the road and visiting with a friend. I asked her where the bike to Vieux Moulines started, and she kept trying to explain in French, but I couldn’t understand. Finally, she asked if I was American and, when I answered in the affirmative, she told me to follow her to a construction site behind a house. There, a young Englishman was standing on a ladder doing construction work, and he gave me instructions. Then he said that if I’d follow him into the house he was working on, he could point the way through the window. It was a fIscinating experience. Though an old building outside, the rooms inside were gorgeous. The walls~ painted a dazzling white all had rounded corners, and the interior resembled our Southwestern architecture except for the color. Since weather conditions are similar to those of the southwest, the heat problems are solved in many of the same ways. The structures are earthen, and they are protected both from sun and intruders by heavy wooden shutters.

Following the directions we were given, we drove down a tiny paved road and onto a dirt road, but we were still unable to find the trailhead. There were no houses on this part, but a sign pointed ahead to “Chambres d’hote,” and we drove on until we caine upon a beautiful rooming house set way back from the road. After getting directions from the owner, we finally found the trail and started through the woods.

Thick undergrowth crowded the narrow path Patches of tiny white, yellow, purple, and pink wildflowers were clustered among the tall grasses. Blue butterflies hovered above them, and bees carried on a two part harmony with the singing of the birds in the thick cover of oak, pine, and scotch broom. Lizards scooted along the ground, but we saw no other humans on the trail. After a short hike, we came to a little waterflll and a frw of the stones that remained as part of an old mill that once stood on the site. In this area the river once turned many mill wheels, and people came from miles around to grind their wheat.

We continued on to the 2’s” mill. Its remains were close by the trail, and we could see inside of the part of the old stone building that was still standing. Then, after hiking about ¾ of a mile, we arrived at the 3~ mill. Len walked ahead along the trail in order to get a good look and luckily noticed that his next step would be into underbrush that masked a 30 ft. fall into a gorge below! We had passed a turn-off where we should have forded the river and hiked down the gorge. Shaken by Len’s close call and not wanting to get wet, we turned back. It had been a pretty walk but a long day. Upon reaching the car, Len looked at his pedometu, and it only registered 1 mile. Because of the condition of the trail, it had taken us 1 1/2 hours to cover the distance.

On our drive back to Isle Sur Ia Sorgue, we were able to stop at the wonderful outdoor market at Vclleron. Long rows of trucks with mouth watering displays of succulent fresh fruits and vegetables tempted us as we walked along. There were even cages of live rabbits and baby ducks. We bought luscious black cherries, apricots, peaches, melons, and cucumbers. Then, our appetites whetted, we returned home and had a dinner of raviolis from St. Didier, a green salad that I made from the local produce, and fresh apricots, cherries, and nectarines for dessert.

We got rather a late start today. Though we put the laundry in at 8:00, our French washing machine wasn’t done with it until 10:30. We hung it on the line, packed a picnic lunch, picked up Kathy, our next door neighbor, and drove off toward the Dentcllcs and French wine country.

We stopped for a while in Caromb, a medieval village situated high on a hillside affording us an expansive view of the vineyards below. We stopped at the tourist office for directions to the blacksmith’s shop for Idyll’s book had recommended a visit to experience its early 20& century atmosphere. The tools, still in use, were real collector’s items, and the smith courteously allowed us to watch him at his work as he used some of them to repair a shiny brass modern lock. There was an old castle still standing in the town, and the room that housed the forge was once the castle chapel.

The main street, Rue Grand, was a tiny, dark street, hemmed in by ancient buildings, and we walked along it for a while before stopping 2 men and asking for directions to get to Crcstet, our destination for the day. Saying that finding it would be easy, they drew a diagram on the sidewalk and gave me the names of the town before it and the one beyond it, and I promptly forgot them.

We started out in the direction they indicated, passed a sign identifying a town as Crestct ou Lou, and kept on going. After about 20 more minutes, we found ourselves in Vaison Ia Romaine, a town with well preserved Roman rums in its center. Kathy had visited there the day before and was able to point out the tourist office where we could get directions, but it was closed from 12:00 to 2:00. We found a picnic table in the park and had our lunch. A group of men were playing boules under the trees, and we watched the game for a while. The players were divided into teams, and each person had a turn roiling a small metal ball, with the object being to hit a tiny red ball that had been placed on the ground. Failing to hit the ball, the player would hope to hit an opponent’s boule and knock it away so that his own would be closer to the target. The game was taken very seriously, and each participant had his own unique approach and style. We had a lot of fun watching and trying to figure out the rules.

At 2:00 we went to the tourist office, and the girl behind the desk gave us a city map and marked the way to Crestet on it. We had a terrible time finding the streets she had marked, but we finally found the right one. We drove on it for a while before discovering that we were going in the wrong direction, so we turned around and, finally, headed for Crestet. It. Of course, was Crestet ou Lou, the town we had passed through earlier.

This utterly peaceful l6th century village was set high on ahill with gorgeous views of the vineyards, and homes and of Mt. Ventoux in the background. Behind us, quiet streets threaded their way past imposing stone dwellings, but none of the inhabitants seemed to be about.

We walked up a steep rock path to ruins perched at the top of the hill. Blue paint marks on the trees indicated a hiking path, and we started on a narrow, overgrown trail that led behind the ruins of a chateau. We thought we might come to an entry, but we ran out of trail. From this height, the view was oven more magnificent; and we sat a while and enjoyed the serenity. Birds were singing and the sun was shining, and it was hard to leave this lovely spot, but we were thirsty and in search of the Panorama Café, which occupied the highest point of the hill.

We found the steps that led to it, and we had a cold drink on the patio looking out at the scenery below and the mountain in the distance. Then we reluctantly walked back down to the car and headed for home. We made a brief stop at Bedoin, a tiny village with colorful stores lining its 2 block main street. We walked along the street admiring the colorful handicrafts displayed in the windows.

Once back in the car, we drove in the direction, we thought of Isle Sur La Sorgue, but there were no highway signs that listed our town. We took a chance on the road to Avignon, but we stayed on it too long, passing our turn-off. Finally, we found a place to turn around, and eventually found the right road. Our cottage looked awfuliy good when we finally arrived. It stayed light until 10:30, so the three of us sat on the patio and relaxed with a glass of wine. Our landlady arrived, bringing a welcome letter from Judy, and we devoured it, delighted to know that all was well at home.

Today we took a beautiful ride to Avignon. For many miles we drove under the shady arches of the leafy plane trees that lined both sides of the road. Avignon is a large old walled city, and today there was a market that took up the parking area for many blocks outside of the wall. We were lucky enough to find a parking space right near the main entrance to the city, and we walked up the wide tree shaded main street of the city, the Rue do La Republique, window shopping as we passed the many upscale stores situated there. We visited a department store, and we spent a long time having fun browsing in a shop that had the best santons that we have seen so far.

We continued along the street, walking toward the pope’s palace. Restaurants with outdoor seating lined both sides of the street, and a row of restaurant tables under canopied booths ran down the middle of the street. Those establishments obviously catered to tourists, and, at each one a maitre’d stopped us and touted his menu. The food looked good, but we didn’t like the atmosphere so we walked back several blocks to a restaurant called “Nani” that Len had noticed as we walked by. Many locals wore eating thur.. We ordered superb salads of mixed greens, pine nutu~ and Ementhal cheese. A large piece of toasted French bread topped with delicious sheep’s milk cheese accompanied the salad, and I had a glass of wine and Len had beer. The tab was 136 francs total (about $28.00).

After lunch we walked up the hill to the papal gardens. A cooling fountain sprayed water into a shady pond, and a black swan and a white swan swam regally among the ducks that plied the water. On the grass, a peacock spread its colorful plumes, and there were tables, chairs, and benches for the benefit of those who came to enjoy this lovely place. Behind the park we looked down on a view of the Rhone river and the old tiled rooftops of Avignon.

Then it was time to take a tour of the popes’ palace. For 70 years in the early 13th century, the popes, driven out of Rome by political upheaval, ruled from Avignon. They built a huge palace decorated with frescos and painted tiles. The ceilings were wooden beams adorned with brightly painted motifs. The first room we saw was the dining room. It used to seat 200 to 300 people at long trestle tables. Diners faced the center of the room and watched the dancers and other performers who put on the evening’s entertainment. We went into the kitchen, a small square room about 3 stories high with a domed ceiling. A hole in the center of the ceiling served as a chimney for the 3 tiered rotisseries on which the meat, fish, and vegetables were cooked. Meat was scarce and only served 4 days a week. Next we were taken to a tiny room and allowed only to peek in as the frescoes were being protected from the atmosphere. This was the room where cardinals were kept until they could agree upon a new pope. We proceeded on to the room where distinguished visitors used to await an audience, and from there we were taken to the ornamented quarters of the pope. There was no furniture in any of the rooms as it all had been destroyed during the French revolution. Exquisite Gobelin tapestries hung on many of the walls in the palace, but they were not there when the popes ruled.

The tour took in 1/3 of the palace and ended in the Great Audience Hall, currently the site of a Picasso exhibit. This exhibit included several of Picasso’s cubist paintings on loan from Russia and never before displayed in western Europe. We spent a little while looking at the paintings and then returned to our car. The trip back was fairly uneventful. We were only lost once and only almost run off the road twice.

Today we decided to hike. The Idyll map showing hiking trails was vague and of very little help. Monsieur and Madame Reuimont tried valiantly to help us decipher it, but they couldn~t pin it down to anything but the general direction. We asked Kathy to join us, and we set out in the car for the town of Cowtellet whom, the Resimonts thought, there was a parking lot and a trailhcad. We decided to go through the Lavender museum there before starting our hike.

Here, in the museum, were displayed huge copper vats in which the lavender oil was distilled using heat to make the steam. This steam was then separated from the oil, and the oil became pure essence of lavender. A movie concentrated on the harvesting process and the preparation of the products derived from this plant, and afterwards we picked up a paper, intended to be a serious dissertation, touting the many uses of lavender, and we found it hilarious reading.

“SOME USES OF THE LAVENDER FLOWER AND OF ITS ESSENTIAL OIL

It was used for more than a century as a medicine before winning over the perfume industry. Therapeutical uses of lavender oil.

(From LA LAVANDE FRANCAISE, published around 1925 by R.M. GATEFOSSE)

The flower and essential oil of lavender have ever been provencal medicines. The flower is mainly used as an infusion against sore throats. The oil heals small wounds, burns and insect bitos it is widely used for both man and beast.

The antibacterial properties of lavender oil and its healing properties have been given prominence by several scientists (notably Mssrs. Caujolle, Giraud and Gattefosse) who confirmed the well-established learnings of earlier research and of tradition. They showed that the power of lavender oil was not limited to the more harmless cases, but could also fight serious ailments.

R.M. Gatefosse quotes a 16th century work entitled "A history of the Plants as they are born in the Vicinity of Aix and in several other Places in Provence", by Dr. Garidel, Royal Professor of Anatomy, mentioning that lavender oil was distilled by provencal peasant-farmers and used to heal wounds and as a vermifuge. He adds that Seunert useds spike-oil against pubic lice.

In the Flower Laboratory (Buc’hoz, 1772), we learn that the virtues of lavender oil are many. For brain disease, for hysterical vapours, for epilepsy, 10 to 12 drops in an appropriate liquid, 4 to 5 drops taken on an empty stomach in a spoonful of wine, clear away migrane and fortify the stomach. Mixed with St. John’s-wort oil, it is an excellent liniment against rheumatism, palsy and convulsive movements. Not only does it kill worms, but also vermin and insects.

For hysteria and convulsive movements, it is difficult to guarantee the result. But lavender oil, even without St.John’s-wort oil, is very good as a massage or nib-down against ache, muscle fatigue, etc.

And for the throat, if you do not fancy lavender tea, try a flew drops (2 to 3) in a teaspoonful of honey!

PROPERTIES

As with the other aromatic labiates, Lavender displays its stomachic, diuretical, sudorific, cholagog, carminative, stimulating, antispastic and vermifligal qualities. It is thus advised against lack of appetite, wind, colic, beginning dropsy, jaundice, liver and spleen disorders, nausea, dizziness, apolectic fits, migraine and headaches, general weakness, congestion, fainting, epilepsy, neurasthenia, nervous palpitations, tremor, asthma, the flu, whooping cough, sluggishness, scrofiila, laryngitis, leucorrhea, eye weakness, etc.

Father Kneipp and his successors Eckstein and Flamm (1933) after him, praise the use of essential oil of lavender against dyspepsia coming with putrid termentations, against superinfections in digestive disorders, such as some headaches, loss of appetite, general ill-being, etc.

Externally, washing with warm decoction is useful against rheumatism, gout, swellings and bruises, effusion of blood, dislocation and sinew injuries. The dry plant is used to make sachets that are applied onto bruises and atonic swellings. Lavender baths are considered as particularly fortifying, beneficial for rheumatism, gout and paralysis. Lavender fumigations have been praised against bronchial catarrh. Lavender flowers steeped in brandy cleanse and bring about the healing of old ulcers. So is it for essential oil, which is antiseptic and healing, and for lavender spirit, that are applied as lotions and rub- downs on atonic ulcers, rheumatic pains, diseases of the skin and the scalp. A lavender oil ointment used as a dressing helps clean and close wounds. The alcoholic tincture diluted in water is also uaed as a gargle in tongue paralysis. After serious lung diseases, congestion of the lungs and pneumonia, applying lavender oil on the chest to tone up the organ is recommended.

GARGLE: a few drops of oil per mouthful of water.

From the Book of Medicinal Plants by Fourniet. 1947-8

SMOKERS:.disinfect your bronchi through inhalations, one bowl of hot water with 4 drops lavender oil.

VERMIFUGE: a few drops on a lump of sugar is what used to be given to children.

PEST DESTRUCTION: dab a lavender-oil moistened cotton swab behind the cars to avoid children catching lice. This advice given by teachers is still topical today because of renewed lice infestation.

DOMESTIC USES: in your wardrobes, that is how moths used to be repelled. A few drops of essential oil on the lavender flower sachets.. . and a sweet scent for your linen.

DOMESTIC ANIMALS: to rid them of their parasites, regularly dab some lavender oil round their necks.

DEODORANT: be careful to put it on a saucer, for the pottery has a porous bottom to make evaporation easier: just a few drops of the oil will give you the atmosphere you have wished for. The perfume burner works much faster than the diffuser.

We cannot possibly tell you of all the virtues of lavender for fear of tiring you, about so diverse are its uses that it can really be called versatile.

IN OUR SHOP, YOU ARE GUARANTEED TO BUY NATURAL LAVENDER OIL. THE INFORMATION GIVEN IS VALID ONLY FOR THIS QUALITY.

We moved on to the gift shop to buy sachets for friends, and we asked the clerk for directions to the hiking trail. She didn’t know that was a trail. There was a street market going on across the street, and we found an Englishwoman there who was very helpful. She didn’t know the hiking trails we wanted, but she had several suggestions. Among them was the Forest of Cedars which could be found by following road signs from Coustallet, and, since anything with road signs leading to it sounded good by then, we decided on that. After purchasing a picnic lunch at the bakery, we headed for the forest. On the way we spotted a hiking trail, and we decided to come back to it after lunch and a hike in the forest of Cedars.

Arriving there we found a lovely picnic area with large round concrete tables and concrete benches in a shady grove of tall trees. Many French families were picnicking there and, after lunch, playing boules~ which, along with tennis seems to be the national sport. Every little town, however small, sems to have a tennis court and a place to play boules.

When we finished eating we found a path and started hiking. The path turned out to be a long par course through the woods, and we had it to ourselves. Eventually we circled around to our starting point, returned to our car, and drove to the trailhead we had seen earlier.

We started out on the trail marked “To Murs,” a fairly wide trail, well manicured, but with very few markers. After a short time we came to a long stone wall with a sign on it. An Englishman who was hiking with his Swiss wife stopped to read it, and he translated for us. It seems that this wall was built in 1806 when the plague was decimating Marseille. The wall was intended to keep out the plague carrying rats from Maraeille and was thought to have done its job because this area remained free of the plague.

As we continued along the trail, it became a nature trail, and many of the plants had identifying plaques. The path eventually led us into a village dominated by a huge castle, and we walked around its walls despite the no entry signs that were posted in front. We were amazed to see blinds on some of the windows and, on a stone platform jutting from an upper story, a patio table and two chairs. Someone was living there! As we walked on a small path behind the castle, a large car drove up, and the elderly castle owner stuck her head out of the window and asked what we were looking at. I told her the castle, and she said it was closed. Hoping to be invited in, I smiled and apologized for trespassing, but she just said it was all right and drove on.

We continued on toward the center of town, through streets lined with ancient houses, their cold stone walls softened by cascading roses and window boxes full of colorful flowers. We met the Englishman again and asked him where we were. It seems we had walked to Cabrieres.

We found a phone booth and phoned Bob and Susie. A few raindrops fell, but the winds intervened and blew the clouds away. Then we hiked back to the car and drove back to our cottage. It was 5:30, and we were starved so we drove into town. All the stores were closed, and we couldn’t buy groceries, but we found a pizza stand and took home a delicious tuna pizza.

Today we went to Lea Baux, a fascinating walled city sitting atop bare rock high above the valley of vineyards and olive groves that fan out from its base. It was once home to a castle-fortress that was built in the 11’ century and destroyed in the 15’ century. The approach to the ruins is an awesome sight as one first sees the remains of the fortifications growing out of a rock in lonely splendor. It becomes a chilling sight as one remembers that Pope Gregory XI, the “Scourge of Provence,” forced his prisoners to jump from the castle walls to their death.

We, having finally learned that in Provence one should pass the first parking lots and drive close to the site, parked near the entrance and walked along the narrow rock paved streets up hill to the tourist office. There, the girl behind the desk explained that we were in the new city, and the old city could be entered through the museum. Admission tickets to the ruins could be purchased in the museum.

We decided to have lunch first. Colorful little shops lined the streets of the “new” city, and tkheir windows displayed santons, herbs items made from Provencal prints, lavender products, posters, and post cards. It was noon, and the restaurants were filling fast. We found one with tables on a deck facing the eroded grey cliffs that dominated the landscape. Our lunches ware wonderful Greek salads accompanied by pita bread.

We window shopped on our way to the museum and then stepped through a door to the history of the area. The displays told the story of the town and how it had been the scene of sieges and revolts over the centuries.

Beyond the museum was a bare grey rock plain on which stood the remnants of what was once the fortress and castle. The chapel, part of the hospital in the 12’ century, had been restored, and a film was playing there. It, alone, was worth the price of admission. To the accompaniment of symphonic music, pictures of Provence, its landscape and people as painted by Van Gogh, Cezanne, and Gaugin, appeared upon the screen. Suddenly everything we’ve seen in the Provencal countryside had a frame that separated it from anywhere else, and our observations and memories were given new meaning as we saw them through the eyes of the artists. I’ll never look at an olive tree in the same way again, and the colors of Provence will take on a new brilliance in my memory. Though I’d seen the pictures many times before, until I saw Provence I couldn’t comprehend the realities of the twisted shapes and the softness of the colors exposed by the dazzling sunlight.

We left the chapel and walked to the huge wooden catapult standing in the center of this stone plateau. It was an amazing creation that could hurl stones as big as canon balls incredibly long distances to either defrnd the castle or lay siege to the enemy.

Beyond the catapult, a walk brought us to the outer edge of the plateau where we looked down at the fields in the valley below. It was a peaceflñ panorama.

A little further on, stone steps bad been carved and led to the four ramparts, the highest points of the battlements. Flanked by an iron railing, the steps, slippery and worn to irregular shapes~ offered a way to capture the feeling of being at the very top. We climbed very slowly as it was hard to get footing. Once on top, we could see and appreciate even more the strength of the location.

It was time to retrace our steps and head back, so we found our way to the car and started for home. We kept accidentally getting off the route, but somehow all the roads connect and one is headed for his destination, but by a new route. It happens on every excursion. The nicest part of this ride was a lovely section where we drove beneath a bower of plane trees four miles long - an incredible, breathtaking sight. We arrived in Isle Sur is Sorgue, marketed for staples, and went to the market at Velleron to buy fresh picked fruit for our fruit salad dinner.

Today we decided to follow the “Gmnd Luberon” tour outlined in the Michelin guide. Len was particularly interested in the panoramic view described as the climax of the hike to Mourre Negro, the site of the television relay station from Nice to Marseilles. Michelin gave it three stars.

We stopped for lunch in Saignon, a tiny village along the way. The only restaurant faced a little square that was dominated by a large stone fountain, its spray giving a sense of cool in the hot noonday sun. We ordered smoked fish and a potato tart. We sat at an outside table, and ashaggy grey dog resting by a flower pot in a doorway seemed to have been posed there to provide an unforgettable memory. A couple from Delaware, their daughter, and a big golden retreiver sat at the next table. They were living in Leiden, Holland for a year. The daughter, who was about fifteen or sixteen, was attending an English school there and learning four languages at once!

After lunch we drove to Castellet and again got lost, winding around tiny roads and looking for Auriboau where we were supposed to leave the car and start the hike. We turned around the second time we arnved at Castellet and drove until we finally saw a sign to Auribeau. Arriving there we found where others had parked their cars, so we left our car and started searching for the trail. Añer asking directions of 2 people, we found the trailhead and our trail, distinguished by blue blazes painted on the rocks and on some trees.

At 11:40 we started our walk. The path was paved with loose rocks and seemed like a dry stream bed except that the rocks were jagged and sharp instead of rounded and smooth. The trail went steeply up hill - straight up bill without a switch back. Deep gullies were cut into some parts, and tree roots suzfaced to hinder our progress. The forest was thick with oaks and pines. Birds were singing, but there was no other sign of animal life. Tiny wildflowers grew in the underbrush, and an occasional wild rose appeared, its pink blossoms ruffled by the welcome winds.

The climb seemed endless. We met a Dutch couple coming down, and they warned us of the steepness ahead. We kept on going. The rocks slipped beneath our feet, and we had to stop several times to catch our breath. We kept saying we should turn back after the next turn in the road, but each turn brought us nearer the top, and we plodded on. A shepherd taking sheep through the woods to higher postures stopped to talk to us, and we rested for a while and watched his dogs work the flock. We marveled at their skill and reluctantly turned away to continue our trek up the mountain.

After about 1 1/2 hours the trail joined an unpaved road, and, just as we were about to give up, a Swiss couple stopped on their way down and told us we only had 20 minutes more to go. They said the view was worth the hike because you could see all the way to Marseilles.

We trudged on up the road and finally ariived at the tower at the very top. The view was magnificent in every direction. Way down below orchards, vineyards, farms, and forest were reduced to little squares of color. It was a beautiful sight but quite similar to ones we had seen at Crestcllet and Leg Baux where the hikes were much easier.

The steep road down proved really slippery. Len had forgotten his boots, and he skidded to a fall three times. The walk back took only about 45 minutes. We had to grab shrubs to keep from running. We only met one other couple on the return trip. There were no Frenchmen on this trail. They all knew better. We’ve observed that we rarely find the French out hiking. It is usually Germans, Kdutcb, and Swiss that we meet on the trails.

Once in the car we proceeded down hill, but a huge cement truck, taking up the whole little road, was relentlessly coming toward us. Len had to back ½ a block uphill to a spot where he could maneuver just far enough off the road so that the truck could pass, but with no room to spare. We started down the road again, found the highway, and were on the road to home. As usual, cars were riding our tail, passing on blind curves, passing on hills, and driving at unbelievably high speeds. Len thinks that the only reason floorboards are put in French cars is to keep the pedals from depressing any further.

Upon arriving at the cottage, we had just an hour to shower and dress and get to the Araxes hotel for Idyll’s dinner party. What a lovely setting for a party. Tables were set up in a glass enclosed garden room by the pool. A terrace beyond the pool looked out on the river. Awnings over the terrace took on a festive appearance, tiny lights glimmering from their overhead supports. We visited over cocktails with several people we had met at orientation. Everyone was very friendly, and all were having a good time.

Dinner was another story. Several people had come on the Untour as a group, and we had the misfortune to sit next to two of them and across from two more. They were obnoxious people who rejected our every attempt at conversation and acted as if we weren’t there. We left with Cathy as soon after dinner as possible.

We stopped in town to call Judy and then went over to Cathy’s to see her place and say goodbye as she leaves for Paris tomorrow. A letter from Debby, who, with her husband, Dick is traveling in France now, was awaiting us in our cottage. She bad thoughtfully sent directions for finding several hiking trails that they had taken, and she sent descriptions of the hikes. Timing is everything. The events of today have thoroughly convinced us that France is not for hiking.

Destination - Arles today, but first we detoured for lunch at Paradou, a little village on D17 near Fontveille. The “Insight Guide” recommended the Bistro du Paradou for an excellent Provencal meal, and it was a wonderful recommendation. As soon as we were seated a bottle of red wine was brought to our table, opened, and poured. After a short wait~ bread and a starter salad were served. The salad consisted of lettuce, hunks of diced tomato, tiny pieces of prosciutto, and on top of it all - a poached egg! I told Len that if I had made it at home he would have laughed me out of the house, and he agreed. But it was good! Then came the main course, braised pieces of breast of chicken in a lemony sauce, boiled potatoes, and a garnish of delicious curly mushrooms, a type we’d never seen before. Our table and silver was cleared; new plates and silver were put down, and a huge platter of cheeses with knives for cutting and a fork for serving appeared. Though we tried to control ourselves, little tastes only served to convince us that the cheese was wonderful, and we soon found ourselves cutting 2nd helpings and washing them down with the excellent red wine of the region. Then, the waiter gave us a choice of a butter and apple tart or a crème caramel. Regretfully we both chose the tart hoping it was a bit healthier than the custard. Coffee came with the meal, but we turned it down. The bill came to 300 francs (about $30.00 each), and the meal was worth every penny.

Then it was off to Arles and an eagerly anticipated visit. The countryside was Van Gogh country - olive groves, tall narrow cypress trees, grape vines, and wheat fields, and as the wind stirred the branches and whirled leaves in the air, one could see the scene as through the eyes of the palmer. It was quite a thrilling experience.

We parked on the outskirts of Arles in a space next to the quay that ran along the Rhone river. Then we walked through the gate to the old city and up the hill to an arean built in the 1st century and still used today for bullfights. We made our way up to its tower and looked down at its Roman arches, its exquisite carvings, its pillars, and its thick walls. Then we walked ½ way around the middle deck admiring and feeling amazed at the intricacies of its construction. At the lower level, we rested for awhile and watched several young men practicing for a bull fight. One of them was holding bull horns and chasing the others who would leap onto the wall and out of the arena.

After the arena, we walked to the Museon Arlaten, rooms of recreated life of Provence in days past. The attendants were costumed, and the exhibits offered looks at tools, furniture, clothing, fishing gear, dolis, santons, fabrics, bicycles and carts, portraits of iS’ century residents, and much more. It was very interesting, and we spent about an hour browsing among the many displays.

We were really tired, sleepy, and thirsty, so we sat at a bar and had coca colas before walking to the Roman theater, a building constructed in 27 B.C. As we walked along the colonnaded corridors that enclosed an open air garden, we were struck by the similarities to the hospital in San Rnmy where Van Gogh had spent a year. It was hard to imagine how this building was ever used as a theater. Upstairs, we were walking on the roof of the corridors below, and we marveled at the built in strengths that could bear the weight of hundreds and thousands of visitors over the years and still remain intact through the centuries.

It was time to head home, and the most notable thing about this drive was that we didn’t get lost once and only had one scary incident while driving. Our landlady delivered welcome letters from Judy and Susan, and we spent the evening reading and re-reading all the news from home.

We consulted the Michelin guide again and decided to follow the Petite Luberon tour starting at the village of Menerbes. This was a small town built, as are many of the small towns in the area, on the top of a cliff The views were magnificent as we looked down on the vineyards and orchards. The clock tower in the main square was just striking l2:OO as we walked up the hill to see it. Beyond the square was a l4th century church, and on either side we could look out over the stone walls and see the squares of green farmland far below. A new villa, built within the ramparts of an old castle, intrigued us, and we wondered about its history.

We made our way back to the car and drove to our next destination, Bonnieux. After a long uphill drive, we parked the car and started walking downhill to find a restaurant. A menu board advertising “Bourrides, a Provencal specialty” aroused our interest, and we decided to eat at that restaurant and try the local specialty. It was quite a production. The proprietress placed a small table next to the one where we were seated. Upon it she put a large bowl of soup, rounds of baguette., a bowl of garlic flavored mayonnaise, and a big bowl of warm cod and another fish which we couldn’t identify. She put 3 slices of bread spread with the mayonnaise into our soup bowls and poured soup over them. Then she filled our plates with fish and potatois that had been cooked in the broth. The soup and bread were wonderfiul, and the fish was good but very bony. All in all it was a pretty good meal but nothing we would order again.

Fortified, we walked around Bonneiux, climbing up its cobbled lanes until we reched a view point from which we could look down at the valley. A woman standing there looked at us and exclaimed in .nprise, “We saw you the other day!” She and her companion were the Dutch couple we had met on the trail to Mouri Negre. We talked for a long time. They had visited Seattle las tyear and located many relatives there. They had stayed there for a while and then went on to the Canadian Rockies. Their relatives have invited them back, and we told them that if they ever come to California, they can stay with us. Their names were Peter and Willy Louts, and we liked them very much.

We kept on climbing on the stone passageways until we arrived at the 12th century church. It’s so amazing to see these relics, so sturdy, still standing there after all the years.

Coming back down we were met by a startling sight, a closed wooden door with a cat’s head sticking out! Closer inspection revealed that a round hole, the size of a cat’s head, had been cut in the door, and the cat was watching the tourists go by.

We lost our parking lot! We couldn’t recognize the streets we had traversed, and we wandered around until someone overheard our panicked voices and pointed us in the right direction. Luckily the parking lot was not fr away, and we breathed sighs of relief when we found our car.

We drove to Oppede. The Fisses, Untourists who bad invited us to visit, lived there. Jeanette Fiss had quickly drawn a sketch map for us at the party, and they were renting the Rivella house. After several unsuccessful stabs at finding the house, we stopped at the village store to ask directions.

The storekeeper told us how to get to the olive mill which the sketch showed as close to the Rivella house, and we drove there and went in to ask directions. The owner’s wife, who spoke no English, called to her husband who was outside doing some work. He came in and gave us directions to the house which, he told us, was just a short distance away. We drove to the house we thought he’d described, but a small sign on the gate said “Perez” not Rivella. We decided to take a chance and drive down the driveway anyway, and, as we stopped and got out of the car, a little truck drove in. A short, wiry man got out and greeted us with a “bonjour,” and we told him we were looking for the Fisses. He said they didn’t live there and added something else in French, but we didn’t understand. Then he said that he was Spanish, and he asked if we spoke Spanish. Finally, between the two languages, we were able to make ourselves understood, and he beckoned us to come with him. Leading us through an open gate to a building in front of his, he knocked on the door and shouted, “Angela!”.. As no one answered, he informed us that she was sleeping, and he led us to an adjoining door. This, he told us, was where the Fisses lived, but no one was home. He walked us back to his house and his wife caine out. Soon the two of them were conversing excitedly in French. Mr. Perez told us that the Fisses usually go out about noon and come home at 6:00.

As hes poke a white truck pulled up, and the man from the olive mill stuck his head out the window and said, “You’re at the wrong house.” We told him we knew, and we thanked him for coming to see if we had found our way. We told Mr. Perez that we’d leave a note and come back later, and we stuffed a note into the door. Len commented on the beauty of Mr. Perez’s swimming pool, and the friendly man proudly took us into his pool house and showed us all his equipment.

After a few minutes more of conversation, we drove off to explore the old village, Oppede le Vieux. Again we climbed through cobblestone paved courtyards, and this time we found the ruins of a castle. We walked around its walls and came to a tower with vaulted ceilings preserved within its Gothic arches. Flowers grew out of the crannies in the walls, and on one side of the castle a steep precipice fell away into the thick woods.

We were very tired, and, after poking around for awhile looked at our watches and decided it was time to try the Fuses again. This time, as predicted by Mr. Perez, they were home and welcomed us warmly. They invited us to stay and have salad and an omlette with them, and we stayed and had a good visit. During the course of the conversation we told them about our talk with Mr. Perez and how he had told us of their schedule. They broke up laughing. The information was accurate, but they had never met the Perezes!

We spent a long day today, but it was a nice change of pace. We drove to Cassis, a colorful beach town on the Mediterranean, traveling on the toil road, a beautiful divided highway and a real contrast to the roads we had grown accustomed to. Crowded with vacationers, Casis boasted a sandy beach on either side of town, a long line of brightly painted cafes &cing the water, a harbor full of boats, and hotels catering to the hordes of people enjoying the Mediterranean sunshine. After enjoying huge bowls of steamed mussels accompanied by a bottle of white wine and all the French bread we could eat, we boarded a tour boat for a ride to see the calanques. These are inlets bounded by steep white cliffs, supposedly the highest in Europe. Mountain climbers were scaling a precipice, and bathers were stretched out on the white rock plateaus at thebasc. It was a bit too cold and windy for us to swim, but the water was remarkably clear, and we could see through the glass bottomed viewing box at the middle of the boat.

The boat returned us to shore, and we walked around the harbor for awhile. Several groups were playing boules in a large clearing, and we watched for a few minutes before walking to the beach to see the sunbathers. Then, as it was getting late, we got in the car for the long ride to Isle stir Sorgue. We treated ourselves to strawberry crepes at a creperie and then returned to the cottage.

Our Idyll schedule listed a bullfight at 3:00 at Morieres today, and since French bullfights are bloodless, we decided to drive there to see it. The village was a small out of the way place, and it wasn’t an easy trip. The roads wound through a forested area with the typical white rock outcropping.. At noon we spotted several clearings where middle aged couples were setting up card tables and chairs and preparing to have a picnic lunch. There were very few signs to mark our way, and at one time in St. Jaques we found ourselves, thoroughly lost, on a blind street in a residential area. A woman was just getting out of a car, and her 9 year old son, absolutely naked, ran out to greet her. We pulled over to ask directions, and the boy was giggling in embarrassment. His mother sent him in to put his clothes on. She was beautifully dressed and immaculately groomed, and she said, in perfect English, “I’ll bet you are lost,” before we could utter our magic words, “Pour allez a.” We talked for a few moments. Her husband worked for an American firm in Austin, Texas, and her family loved the U.S. and planned a move to Austin. Her sons were very athletic and wanted eventually to go to the University of Texas. She tried to give us directions for getting back on the right and finally said, “I’ll get in my car and lead you because it’s very confusing.” We thanked her but told her we were sure we could find it with her instructions.

On the right track again, we finally reached Mouriers. It was a tiny place with a café, a restaurant, and a frw little stores on the main street and a hotel with a restaurant on the cross street. It was 1:00, and we decided to purchase tickets first and then eat. After asking at several places, we finally found the bar where tickets were being sold. The bartender pulled out a seating chart and asked where we wanted to sit tomorrow. We said we wanted seats for today, and he informed us that there was no bullfight today!

We retreated to the restaurant at the hotel and sat on the porch and had a salad Nicoise. A bullfight was scheduled at San Remy at 4:00 so we decided to drive there. We bought our tickets and made our way to our stone seats at the arena. The music from Carmen was blaring over the loudspeaker as people came straggling in. At 4:00 a fanfare announced the start of festivities to the small crowd, and a big black bull came bounding out of the chute. Eight young men, dressed in white, marched into the ring.

Each one was holding a set of claws in one hand, and the bull was wearing a red rosette between his horns and a white rosette on either horn. The contest revolved around who could capture the rosettes. The boys would run across the ring and taunt the bull who, in turn, would paw the earth and run after them. The boys would narrowly escape by jumping out of the ring, vaulting from the fence to the walls.

It was quite a show, but after seeing 4 bulls, we decided that we had had enough. We drove back to Talc sur Ia Sorguc, bad a refreshing dip in the pool, and then cleaned out the refrigerator for dinner: a cup of soup, white asparagua, salad, olive bread, melon, wine, and cookies.

It’s 10:00 p.m. and still light. I’m sitting on the patio, writing. The white horse in the field ahead is tossing his mane. The mountains behind it are slowly darkening. The air is balmy. The laundry is in the macbine~ and through the open door I can hear the machine revolving clockwise a turn or two, stopping and revolving in the other direction. We will go to sleep before the washing does. Our vacation in Provence is nearly over.

We needed some bread and some food from the charcuterie this morning, so we went into town for the weekly market. Just like last Sunday, the village was alive with color. People crowded the stalls and filled their baskets with all the wonderful things offered. We bought bread at the boulangcrie and dinner at the charcutaie and then browsed among the stands. A delightful singer serenaded the crowd, accompanying himself on a hand organ. We stopped at a stand selling delicious tapenades and took home a container of a black olive, tuna, and basil and one called caviar of Provence to have for lunch with our French bread. A man in a pointed hat wove his way through the crowd carmying a catge wlith kittens for sale. We stopped at a booth with pressed flower pictures, exquisitely done, and we were terribly tempted but didn’t know who could use them. We bought some Greek olives and then wandered around trying to discover where we parked our car. We paused to watch a youngster fishing in the rivacr and afterwards found our car in the parking lot where we bad left it.

After a sumptuous lunch at home, we were both tired and napped for about 2 ½ hours. Refreshed, we decided to go for a walk. We knew there was a trail somewhere around Lagnes, and we drove around trying to spot it. At a picnic area outside the village we saw what looked like a trail leading into the bills. A young couple out walking their dog told us that it was a nice walk through a game reserve, and we should follow the green blazes on the rocks. We parked and started out. The sun was beating down, and the rocky path kept going uphill through wildflowers and scrub. The views of the valley below were magnificent - checkerboard fields with tiny villages set in amongst them. We passed a house built bourielike with stone. It bad an incongruous tv antenna perched upon its rock-slab roof. We walked on until we saw a village fir in the distance, and, knowing we couldn’t reach it and return before sundown, we sat on some rocks for awhile and drank in the peace and quiet and absorbed the view. Then, reluctantly, we hiked back to the car. We returned home for a delicious charcuterie dinner.

We decided to go to Carpentras today in the 90 degree heat to see the synagogue. It was a hot drive, but we found Carpentras easily, parked the car near a school, watched the children at play, and then started walking.

Our first stop was at the old St. Siffren cathedral, a building started in the 14th century and not finished until the 16th century. Entering by a huge squeaking door that closed behind us with an explosive bang, we walked in complete silence down its side aisle where the sarcophaguses of saints, each in his own enclosed space, lay, dimly illuminated by candles lit by the faithful. The pulpit was elaborately carved, and the stained glass windows high above, let in only small amounts of light. We walked back up the center aisle and again shattered the silence as we opened the massive squeaking door and stepped out into the glaring sunlight.

Then, we began our search for the synagogue, the oldest in France, dating from the 14th century. It is still in use today, and we were eager to see it. We kept asking directions, and though we always seemed to be only one or two blocks away, we just couldn’t find it. We stopped at a candy store with a mouth watering display of chocolate and filled a bag with hunks of chocolate with orange and big pieces of chocolate with hazelnuts. The storekeeper gave us directions, but we still couldn’t find the synagogue and finally asked a young boy who was kicking a soccer ball in the street. He said he would take us,and,after running to an open window to tell his mother, he escorted right to the door. We thanked him beaucoup and gave him a big piece of candy. It was 12:30, and the synagogue was closed. To our dismay, a sign said that it wouldn’t open until 3:00, and it was much too hot to wait. We followed the signs to the tourist office. It was closed too, but there was a bench outside, and we sat down to eat our picnic lunch.

Since it was our last afternoon in the area, we decided to go to Fontaine de Vauclusc, our favorite of all the places we had visited. It was a short drive before we pulled into the village and were treated to the sight of its chateau firmly ensconced on the top of the cliff After a short walk we were once again looking at the foamy waters of the Sorgue rushing over rocks and diving into pools below. We walked on the promenade along the river enjoying its cooling effect, visited for a moment at the shop where I got my dress, and decided to go to the Resistance museum because we bad missed it on our last visit. After renting an English tape and two headsets, we walked through two floors of an extremely interesting display. The French resistance movement didn’t accomplish much in World War II, but the museum honored those who fought and it told the story of the occupation of France, the collaborators of Hitler, the hardships of the French people, and the liberation by the Allies. The treatment of the Jews was given quite a bit of attention, and we were sickened by the Nazi propaganda films and their depiction of Jews. Much space was given to pictures of the concentration camps, and we were sad to see that only 2 or 3 other couples had come to see this museum.

Hot and tired, we found a table at an outdoor restaurant on the river bank, and we enjoyed cool beers while sitting under an awning, protected from the sun. Then we got back in the car and drove home to swim. The unheated pooi had warmed in the sunshine and felt wonderful. Refreshed, we started packing, had dinner, and cleaned house.

This morning Madame (Josephine) Resimont came to our place at about 8:30, and I got a big hug and 3 kisses goodbye as is the French custom. We loved both her and Joseph, and they had been wonderful landlords - so helpful. How we wished we could speak the language better and could have had real discussions with them. We left our names, address, and phone number with them and hoped they would come to California and visit.

We had our last petite dejuner in Use sur Ia Sorgue - café mix lait and chocolate buns, and we were off on the A7 toll road for Marseilles. It cost us l9 francs, and we only had to ask directions once! If we had another week here we might even be able to get back to our starting points the same way we came. I don’t think we accomplished that once on the whole trip.

We deposited our bags at the Primotel, our hotel which was right next to the Marseilles airport, left the car at Avis~ and boarded the bus to Marseilles. Once there, we took advantage of the pocket size guide and wonderful city map Ada and Richard had sent us, and we walked from the bus station to the “Old Port.” It was 1:00, and all the guidebooks said that we mustn’t leave Marseilles without eating bouillabaisse, so we stopped at the Restaurant Alexandrie on the port facing the yacht harbor and ordered our lunch. The street was bordered by restaurants, and the shelters for their outdoor seating were covered by a long line of brightly colored awnings. The lamp posts held baskets of flowers. The harbor was jampacked with boats of all descriptions. People in all sorts of attire strolled on the walk. Several Moroccan men came to our table selling carved wooden figures and semi-precious stone necklaces. The waiter brought wine and followed it with a sliced baguette and a spread made of mayonnaise, olive oil, and very hot pepper. Then he arrived with a huge platter of fish and shellfish. He put pieces of bread topped with spread in each of our bowls, piled fish on top, and ladled soup overall. There was cod,whitefish, and another fish we couldn’t identify. There were mussels, langostina, and tiny crabs, no bigger than the first joint of my thumb. It was good but didn’t compare with chopino, but we did our duty and sampled Marseilles bouillabaisse. I think I liked the bourrides better. The soup and bread combination were separate from the fish, and the garlic in the mayonnaise mixture really added flavor.

As we ate we noticed a church sitting high above the city with a gilded statue atop its tower, and the waiter told us it was Notre Dame de La Garde. Its appearance was so striking that we thought we’d love to see it, but without a car it looked like an impossible climb. Instead, we walked along the quay to the end, watching as a boat was lifted on to a diy dock and others were being painted or repaired. Boats were leaving or returnin& and bikini clad women, waiting to tie up at dockside, stood like mastheads outside the cabins. A man who was working on one of the boats told us we could take a ferry to the other side of the port and a taxi to Notre Dame de la Garde from there. He said it was also possible to walk there but that it would take at least ½ hour. We got on the ferry for the 4 minute ride to the other side and then elected to walk. It was a real climb. Ahead of us a grey habited nun walked steadily upward, and as we struggled to follow her to the top, we decided she must be doing penance.

Steps led from the hillside to the church - about 1 ½ blocks worth, and the hot sun of southern Prance best down upon us, but it was worth the hike. The place had quite a history. The building was begun in 1214 on the highest hill in Marseilles. It was called La Garde Hill because the Marseilles’ watchman was stationed there and lit bonfires to show the absence of danger or made clouds of thick black smoke if he saw something suspicious. The chapel was dedicated to "Our Lady of the Garde.” In the 16~ century King Francois a fort with a drawbridge built around the church, and its strategic position helped to save the city during many attacks upon it for centuries thereafter. In World War llGerniany ruled Marseilles, and when the French tanks battled to take it baclç, ammunition made large scars in the facade and these scars are still apparent today.

The statue on top of the tower is made of copper covered with gold leaf. It is of Mary holding Jesus and is 32’ high and 7’ wide. It weighs 9½ tons. The support for the statue weighs another 5½ tcns~ so the shole thing totals 16 tons! That church was really made to stand.

From the terraces we could see all around Marseilles - the harbor and islands, the red tiled roofs, and all of the bustling city. It was quite a beautiful sight, and we spent 10 or 15 minutes walking around and admiring it.

We went into the chapel and sat quietly for a few moments admiring the mosaic floors and walls and the gilded statue of Mary and the baby Jesus on the altar. Many people were lighting candles, and, because we knew it would make Madeline and Oscar happy, we lit a candle for each and bought each a souvenir book about the church.

We walked back down the hill, stopping for a moment at a tank that was mounted as a monument to the French troops who liberated the church in World War II. Back at the harbor, hot and thirsty, we stopped for sorbet at a Glacier. We ordered melon, a flavor we’ve just discovered, and every mouthful was a treat. We followed it by drinking 2 large carafe, of ice water, and, our thirst finally slaked, started back to the bus depot.

As we stood at a corner waiting for a signal to change, we heard shouting coming from behind a bus. It sounded like a riot was going on, but when we got to the other side, we saw that there bad been a terrible accident. A motorcycle with 2 people on it had collided with the bus, and the cyclists were crushed beneath the bus wheels. The shouting was done by onlookers who had banded together to try to lift the bus off of the victims.

There was nothing we could do to help, so we left the scene and ducked into a nearby department store just 5 minutes before closing and bought a black sash for my new dress. Then we got on the bus and were soon back at our hotel where we visited in the lobby with other Idyll people before going into the dining room for dinner. Afterwards we went up to our room to get ready for our trip home - just in time. The heat of summer has come to the south of France.

THE END