Tour de France

La Grande Boucle they call it, 'The Big Loop'. And that it certainly is.

Every day these cyclists are knocking over distances that I get tired driving. We saw Stage 19, their longest stage at 222km.

As good Aussies would, we packed heavy for the afternoon out, cheese, ham, bread, chips, 4 x beers, 1 x bottle of Rosé, water. Book, iPad, phones. Hats, sunscreen, picnic blanket.

We looked out of place. Most Frenchies turned up empty handed, some with a single bottle of water, some with a chair and not much else. Not bothered by the long wait, nor the sun, just waiting to cheer the cyclists as they ride past.

Thankfully we had Granny stay at home and mind Elliot. A good decision I think, a 4 hour outing, including travel time (40 mins) waiting time (199.5 mins) and race time (0.5 min). Not to mention the small patch of land, about a metre, between the road and the slip down the mountain.

The atmosphere was great and the time went quickly, not as quick as the bikes, but still quick. The highlight of the waiting time was the freebies, we'd read earlier that some of the sponsors drive through prior and throw merchandise to the crowds. We hoped to pick up a few bits, just for fun. What we didn't expect was competition as fierce as the time trials. The sponsor trucks lasted a good 30 minutes and I'm certain there would have been a few black eyes and twisted ankles by the end, it was brutal.

To the lady in the picture who took this too seriously - calm the F down. Don't take stuff from under our feet or on our picnic blanket, and do not try looking in our bag.

The cyclists, the reason we were there, were fantastic. Making the incline look easy, they pushed up the hill at around 40km/h, 170-odd km's into their 222km journey. Some of them looked like they had just started. What athletes.

Cudos to the French for planning a good spectator event in typical French fashion - by really not planning much at all. Lack of directions, no crowd control or instruction, no facilities, but I guess it worked.

Great day out, we'll have to do it again ;)

#teamŠKODA


Scott. 

Melons worth celebrating

Last week we attended the Melon en Fête in Cavaillon, THE melon capital of Provence. A weekend of activities and festivities celebrating all things melon. From tastings to artworks to traditional costumes and bands, and even the running of the Carmague horses and bulls through the streets!

Until you have eaten a melon from Cavaillon you have not tasted melon. I read somewhere that if sunshine had a flavour, this would be it! I know rockmelon at home will never live up to this, we have been spoiled. Ok, I'm sounding a little too food-enthusiastic now, am I turning French?!

Food is so obviously an obsession in France. Unlike in Australia, where we shop in supermarkets and we can get almost any produce at any time of the year (granted, most will have zero flavour), the French will go without all year and when a particular food comes into season it's worth celebrating. They (and us) will stuff themselves silly with berries and melons and figs in the summer, or asparagus in the spring. Autumn will bring mushrooms and the revered truffles! 

In the summer it has been cherries, melons, strawberries and stone fruits. The cherries were on the trees one day, gone the next, and for two short weeks we ate the most glorious tasting cherries every day. And then one day they were gone. My cherry man told me the season was over and he was now selling his apricots ... they too, would be finished in the next couple of weeks, so eat as many as you can .... until next year!

A xx

Casting long shadows

If Elliot wakes before 7 we're on. If he sleeps till 8 we're not going, it gets too warm and I sweat too much. 

Our morning walks are terrific. 

After successfully negating the request "Daddy, iPad", I tell him we have a better plan and that we are needed to feed the chickens, see the horses, pat the dog or simply check on the progress of the grapes, which are due to ripen in September.

 

We head off in the pram early, out the drive way, he waves back, "bye house", "bye car", "bye Mummy" and recently "bye Granny". We pack an apple, a banana, our water and some biscuits for our animal friends.

There are not many cars about early so we walk on the road and up the hill to the north side of Saint Pantaléon city limits, and some days down the hill to the southern city limits, either way we officially enter no mans land as once outside the city limits, we are between towns and are temporary nomads. 

The views are amazing, the air crisp, streets quiet. We'll walk for about an hour and land back at our one and only and therefore favourite bistro for a coffee and an apple juice. 

Perfect start to the day, and perfect time just chatting with my little man. 

Scott. 

Wild West in Provence

"No way am I riding that!" I said when I first saw the mechanical bull.

It was the first night of the Saint Pantaléon fête.

We were pleasantly surprised a few weeks after landing is this tiny hamlet in the Luberon, that in addition to their one shop/restaurant/bar that they also had a very popular annual fête!

Night one was the warm up, we dressed nice and headed down to the fête early, filled with anticipation of what the night might hold. We were humoured when we arrived to see that the staff literally outnumbered patrons by 2 to 1.  

 

To the back of the Mairie (aka Town Hall) a car park had been converted to the Wild West. Inspired no doubt by the Mayor's Scottish brother-in-law, who lives in Austin, Texas, U S of A. 

They had done a stellar job in transforming the otherwise unused car park with a spectacular view into an authentic looking mini-Texas, with one exception reserved for the local twenty-somethings who rocked their tightest and brightest new tracksuits to the fête and parked themselves at the corner of the bar all evening, looking ever so sharp. 

Night one we came, we saw, we had beer(s), wine and a cupcake - and said we'd return for night two, the dinner. Some 200 people in a town of only 150 had booked their spots. 

We requested that Agathe, our host, and our only English speaking friend in St Pantaléon, seat us near some English speakers.

We arrived later on the second night and the crowd was building. Elliot was thrilled to see that the jumping castle was back in action, and the line dancers were just warming up as we arrived, a dancing group from nearby Goult. 

The night was a hit. Not only did we get English speakers, we landed the seats next to the Mayor of Saint Pantaléon, and his extended French / Scottish / American family. 

We had a terrific time chatting about them, about us, about the town, about Australia.  

The 5€ carafes of wine ensured everyone had a good time, it also lead to my decision to take on the bull at 11pm. The man with the controls spoke little English, but asked (in French) whether I played rugby, Alison quickly answered on my behalf saying 'yes'. That pleased him, he had played with some Australians and South Africans back in his day, it also caused him to turn the buck and spin dials up and laugh intensely.  

I didn't win the longest ride prize, but I was pleased I didn't throw up.
That was a win in itself.

Scott