We like to think it was better in the good old days, more snow at Christmas, simpler ways, less fuss over shopping—or ordering from amazon prime, more giving from the heart. In some ways we may be right, in others, surely wrong. Times change; the human heart is constant, we’ve always been good at love and at hate.
I have had memorable Christmases, one of the most, in Provence, where Noël takes on mythical proportions for the French. I did not experience a traditional Provençal Christmas, with its 7 dishes and its 13 desserts, but I was there, early in the morning, hiking in the mountains, to a high crest above the Mediterranean, with on one side the sea, on the other, France as about as unpeopled as it gets, another sea, this one of stone, waves of arid, jagged mountains, swelling towards the distant snowcapped peaks of the Alps.
We had a picnic in our backpacks, some fresh baguette (French bakeries open very early in the morning, every day of the year, because bread is indeed the country’s staff of life), some saucisson sec, dried pork sausage easy to cut with a pocketknife, a chunk of hard cheese, some apples, a bottle of water, a thermos of coffee, a simple Christmas feast.
It was cold where we’d left the car, in a small village, a cluster of stone houses, a simple church, in the shadow of hills to the east. The ground was covered with frost, smoke rose in white tendrils from terra cotta chimney pots set atop red tiled roofs. Sheep grazed in nearby fields, their bells tinkling in the pure, brisk morning air.
We climbed and climbed following steep paths used for centuries by shepherds and contrebandiers, smugglers. Sometimes hillsides were terraced, the remains of what once may have been olive groves, orchards or vineyards. On a high plateau, in the golden light, we came upon an abandoned chapel, its entrance, a round stone arch; its only window, a split in the wall of the nave, perfectly placed so the morning light fell on the stone altar.
We stopped for some water before we embarked on the steepest part of our ascent. Far below we could see the village from where we started. The sun had risen above the hills, and rooftops were steaming; surrounding fields had gone from frosty white to brown. We were hungry but agreed, our Christmas feast had to wait till we got to the top.
The terrain was rockier, better suited to goats than humans. We had to watch our step, sometimes using our hands to rise from one level to the next. But the crest was within reach and all our energy went into getting there.
When we did, overheated despite the cool air, faces flushed, we plopped down on a smooth rock. We caught our breath, then filling our lungs with the mountain air, embraced a spectacular view encompassing sea, mountains and snow.
And something else. I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. Had the effort been too much? Was I hallucinating?
The sun was high; the sky, a brittle blue. Not a cloud, no mist, only sun, sea, coast and mountains. And out to sea, a giant emerald emerging from the swirl of aquamarine waters. It glistened, its emerald beauty crowned with a golden halo. Really, was I imagining things?
No. This was Corsica. The island was 150 miles away. Sightings from the mainland coastal mountains were rare. A set of atmospheric conditions had to line up just right. That Christmas day, everything was in place for what remains one of the most stupendous visual experiences of my life and one of the best Christmas presents I’ve ever received.
After our climb, we’d earned our picnic. Contemplating the island wonder before our eyes, we ate slices of saucisson, broke off pieces of baguette and cheese, washed it all down with water and drank hot coffee with apples for dessert. Our fatigue, the cold air, the mountain silence and the companionable silence we kept, brought out the flavor of our meal and never have bread, dried sausage and cheese tasted so good. More than a Christmas meal, this was a Christmas feast, with a feast for the eyes not being the least of our pleasures.
After resting, we chose a different route down, towards a different village, where even on Christmas day, a bakery was open in the afternoon. This one had a few tables where you could have hot drinks with your pastry. In one of the glass cases, Provençal Epiphany cakes were on display.
In northern France, where it’s called a “galette,” the Epiphany cake, round and flat, is made of buttery puff pastry and filled with almond paste. It is heavy and rich. In Provence and across much of southern France, the Epiphany cake is more like a very light and sweet bread. It is decorated with candied fruit and rock sugar. For this kind of cake, texture and sweetness are everything. It must be light but not too airy nor too sweet.
Once again, that Christmas day bestowed on us an unexpected gift, a perfect Epiphany cake, decorated with candied orange peel and sprinkled with powdered sugar. It was delicious with our hot chocolate and when I bit into “la fève,” what used to be a dried lima bean hidden in the cake, today a tiny figurine, I became the Epiphany queen. I even got a gold cardboard crown.
After that treat, we still had to get back to our car, two miles along deserted roads with the setting sun at our backs. A cold wind was rushing down from the mountains. Sheep were bleating, their bells ringing as they were herded into pens for the night.
I did not go to church that Christmas nor did I sit down for a Christmas feast with all the trimmings, but I remember that day as a celebration of all Christmas is supposed to be. Simple sharing, simple giving, simple gifts, wonder and awe.
Dear Readers, may you have a merry Christmas and may we carry the Christmas spirit throughout the season and the new year, with peace on earth and goodwill to all.
