dimanche 29 juillet 2012
Simple vacations are sometimes the best…
Published in The Republican Herald July 29, 2012
Sometimes, the simplest of vacations can be the best. All it takes is some sun, some shade, a rocky path through a pine forest, a dirt road across a vineyard, the buzzing song of the cicada, swallows swooping overhead. I’m just back from such a week and I still have the buzz of the cicada in my brain, along with the scent of pine, of ripening figs, of pink and white oleander and bright yellow broom.
I’ve been to Provence, that part of southern France that has been pretty much turned into a household word all over the world ever since, in 1989, British author Peter Mayle published A Year in Provence. That was the first in a series of books about the region by Mayle and by others cashing in on a trend that made southern France the place to be—to the point that Mayle once found a bus filled with Japanese tourists at his door. Unbeknownst to him, they had been promised a visit to his home as a part of their tour of Provence.
Luckily for me, I was in the far-western reaches of Provence, in a place well off the beaten tourist track, in Congénies, a little village with a bakery, a green grocer’s, and a sewing supplies shop. That’s all, the complete inventory of local businesses, all three huddled together on the narrow village square. There are also three religious institutions: a Catholic and a Protestant church (called a “temple” in French), and a Quaker meeting house with roots going back to the 18th century.
During the reign of Louis XIV, this part of France, home to many Protestants, was in open rebellion against the king, who had outlawed the practice of the Protestant faith. Rather than flee abroad, as many Huguenots, or French Protestants, did at the end of the 17th century, those of Congénies and the surrounding region stayed on and fought for their religious freedom, suffering much persecution. Still today, their descendents take pride in their Protestant identity and possess an independence of spirit that seems to me more American than French.
In other strange ways, these western reaches of Provence remind me of a miniature Far West. Though Romans colonized the region over two thousands years ago, and for centuries, the wide plain at the foot of the hillside village of Congénies has been planted with grape vines, the terrain remains rugged and rough, as do the inhabitants.
In this corner of Provence, neither civilization nor the elements have succeeded in smoothing the rough edges of the people or the land. Even the accent has a western twang. At the local bakery, the attractive blond behind the counter hands over the “pang” (the bread, le pain). And there are villages whose names seem plucked right out of a Zane Grey novel about the Old West. One example is “Aigues-mortes,” which translates as “Deadwater.”
Still further west of Congénies, there are buffalo ranches and in Congénies itself, there are plenty of bulls, some of which like to escape from their pens. Faithful readers already know about them, for this is not my first visit to these parts. Last summer, you may remember, during a bull run through the village, my dangling foot was grazed by a bull’s horn.
On this trip too I had an adventure, but not with a bull. On a very early morning walk through the vineyards to avoid the 100° of midday, I was surprised, but not worried, to see a white Camargue horse, a member of one of the oldest breeds in the world, running towards me across an open field. I was surprised by such an energetic greeting (usually all I get is a raised head when I pass the grazing horses) but felt assured the horse would stop once it got to the fence. Except that this time, there was none. The horse just kept running straight towards me!
Since childhood, I have been allergic to horses and though like all girls, I admired their beauty and wanted to ride, all I got for my trouble was a bad fall and swollen eyes. I have never had much contact with these noble beasts and I stood wondering if I were about to be attacked (it didn’t seem wise to run, the semi-wild Camargue horses are known for their stamina and their speed).
Instead, the horse stopped short in front of me and stared soulfully into my eyes. She looked lost and lonely. I raised a hand and caressed her snout, which seemed to be just what she wanted. When I set off along the dusty road next to the field, I had a white horse following me.
But she didn’t follow me for long. Further along, we came across another horse, this one penned in. When he saw my companion he went wild, galloping from one end of his corral to the other, bucking, eyeing the fence as if he were considering a jump. I think it may have been love at first sight, and I was no competition for what a stallion has to offer, so my newfound friend stayed behind as I continued my morning hike.
That encounter reminded me of one I had a few years back walking along the railroad tracks outside of Auburn, PA. I was staying at my sister’s home, taking care of her standard poodle Day-glo, a very difficult but endearing pet. Just like in Provence, I rose every morning around six to walk through the countryside, hurrying to the banks of the Schuylkill, where I liked to watch the morning fog rise in spooky wisps. Day-glo liked it too and we would descend to the water’s edge so he could take a mid-walk drink.
Back on the tracks, with scrub pine scenting the air on each side, we heard movement behind us and stopped. Running towards us, as if towards its mother, we saw a spindly-legged fawn. Deer are everywhere in those woods and usually upon seeing a bobtail disappearing into the wetlands, the dog strained, trying to break loose of my hold. This time, he froze, as stunned as I was to see a deer following us. The deer froze too and we all stared, curious, unsure of what to expect from such an unusual encounter. Was it the peach-colored poodle the fawn had taken for one of its own?
Then Day-glo jerked and it was all over. The fawn bound back into the woods, disappearing from sight.
In both encounters, one in Provence, the other in Schuylkill County, there was stillness and magic, the very stuff the best vacations are made of.
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