Monday
Insides still unsettled, we limped off courageously on what proved to be an easier walk. I painstakingly recorded the distances travelled each day using an inaccurate pedometer. It was meaningless, because variations in the terrain and vertical distance travelled were much more significant than horizontal mileage.
There are loads of books about the joys of Provence, most of them accurate. There is no point in repeating it all here, but needless to say that the geography is beautiful, there are all kinds of herby aromas and colours, field flowers and butterflies, wild life and bories (a kind of dry stone conical shepherd’s shelter). The towns are picturesque but touristy. The food and drink is incomparable, and, contrary to the stereotype, we have always found French people consistently friendly and helpful. Why would anyone walk elsewhere? Orages, that’s why.
Tuesday
Suddenly, we could feel the season change. Sitting outside for breakfast was chilly, and it remained cloudy and cool all day. Good weather for a strenuous climb, but autumn has a melancholy edge, no matter where you are. Farmers were bringing in the grapes. Terry had an impressive episode of tetany in her hand, probably due to carpal tunnel syndrome. Then, at the top of a ridge, she had a migrainous visual aura and had to sleep for a while until it passed. At the beginning of ‘Three Men In A Boat’, the narrator reads a medical book and decides he has got all the diseases in it except Housemaid’s Knee (read the relevant passage here). He wonders about his usefulness to medical students for educational purposes. We are beginning to feel the same. On the long scramble down, I thought my gout might be starting up. I had a pang of regret that we had left the travel insurance documents on the kitchen table at home.
Wednesday
More thunderstorms were forecast, but the weather was excellent all day and we enjoyed the walk. We reached a deep gorge with huge limestone stacks and sheer drops. At the bottom was the auberge, a collection of very old cottages built into the side of the gorge. Ours had a mezzanine and a high ceiling, plus a huge column of precarious limestone that hung threateningly over what had been designated as ‘my’ bed.
We rarely talk to other English people on holiday. We did exchange Christmas cards for about 10 years with a couple we’d met on holiday, mainly because I had shown uncanny powers when I had said, on sight, “That bloke’s a social worker”. When we asked, he was a probation officer. Although this degree of sustained friendliness was extremely unusual for us, it happened again in the gorge. At the bar by the pool we got talking to a couple who were retired doctors, Ian and Kaush. It turned out that we had many connections and mutual acquaintances, but the main thing was that they were very good company. We ate with them two nights running, and we agreed to meet back in the UK. I think we probably will.