Cover Art
Les Dentelles de Montmirail are vertical jagged outcroppings of white Jurassic limestone which rise behind the wine village of Gigondas. This geological anomaly is visible for kilometres and is a landmark in the southern Rhône Valley.
The outcroppings are named after the French word for ‘lace.’ While they look solid, in fact they are so thin that in places holes pierce the limestone so that hikers can look through and into the next valley.
GORDON BITNEY
Illustrated by Paul Dwillies
Published by Ardath House, Canada
Copyright © 2013 Gordon Bitney
Published by Ardath House
All rights reserved. No written or illustrated part of this book may be reproduced, except for brief quotations in articles or reviews, without written permission from the author.
Designer: Rebecca Davies Design
Illustrator: Paul Dwillies
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Bitney, Gordon
Provence, je t’aime / Gordon Bitney ; illustrated by Paul Dwillies.
Electronic monograph..
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-0-9917243-5-2
I. Title.
PS8603.I885P76 2013 C813’.6 C2013-900417-3
First published by Granville Island Publishing, 2008
The author may be contacted at
This book is dedicated to
Marie Hélène
Introduction
We visited Provence to see friends who had recently purchased a stone house in a charming village. The trip was meant to be just a vacation. However we enjoyed ourselves so much that we returned the following year, possibly to get it out of our systems. In fact we found the area even more interesting and beautiful than before. By the third visit we were looking at real estate. Our lives had been planned and we could see well into the future as to what we wanted . . . or so we thought. Provence changed that permanently.
We bought a house even though I was still working and couldn’t be out of the office for more than three to four weeks at a time. That meant my wife took on the challenging task of managing most of the renovations as well as decorating and furnishing the house. Fortunately she had retired and moreover spoke French fluently.
Marie-Hèléne survived it. I took longer and longer vacations and then finally retired as well.
Our lives had been turned upside down, our plans reorganized, and we loved it. We travelled extensively in France and couldn’t wait to get into the car to see another village, Roman ruin, aqueduct or vineyard. Italy and Spain were within an easy day’s drive, and the TGV could get us to Paris in a morning. The wine cellar grew and our tastes broadened. We made an effort to visit every famous restaurant from Léon de Lyon in Lyon to Pic in Valence. Oddly enough it was the small local restaurants with no Michelin stars that most impressed us. It is worth saying that Provence is still growing on us and in our hearts.
Provence je t’aime is a story based on the things we saw and did.
—Gordon Bitney
Arrival
Our home in Provence
A banshee-like cry brought us upright and awake. It was followed by confused hissing and screeching and the sounds of chaotic scrambling at the foot of the bed. Furious scratching of claws across the tiled floor and out the open door onto the balcony had us on our feet to investigate.
“They’re at it again,” said Marie-Hélène.
Dawn had barely arrived, but it provided enough light for us to see Tabitha standing aggressively at the edge of the balcony with her tail thrashing, gazing fiercely down the olive tree at another cat descending rapidly to the ground. The ear-splitting shrieks were being replaced by quiet, deep growling, which suggested the row was at an end.
“Well, at least Myrtille didn’t bring in any live mice last night,” Marie-Hélène said as we returned from the balcony to the bedroom.
“I thought they might have learned to get along with each other by now.”
“I think you’re still dreaming. After the fights between those two last summer?” . . .
“I’ll make the coffee.”
French doors in the kitchen opened onto the balcony, where Tabitha was now sitting with her tail twitching back and forth. I walked out and stood next to her at the railing. In the cool and now calm, if not peaceful, morning air, the pale blue sky was crisscrossed with contrails from jets making early morning flights. The sun broke over the hills to the east, spreading light in the valley. Aside from a cock crowing in the distance there were no sounds—so different from the constant city traffic in Vancouver.
The previous day we had travelled from Vancouver to Lyon, a twelve-hour flight, and then driven for two hours from Lyon to our house in Nyons. We arrived at four in the afternoon, which, with the change in time zones, was then seven in the morning Vancouver time. In effect we had lost a day’s sleep. After having stopped to buy groceries en route, then carrying in the luggage, opening the shutters and letting Tabitha out of her travel cage to reacquaint herself with the place, we had had a bite to eat and gone to bed early. The weather was warm and the house needed airing, so the windows and balcony doors were left open during the night.
Marie-Hélène pulled at the fridge door and reached inside to lift out bread, eggs and bacon. This was not going to be a typical French breakfast, but we needed food to help us adjust to the time change and to ease our travel stress. We had learned that not eating properly only made the process more difficult.
The blue sky was glorious compared to the dull grey clouds of Vancouver in April. I walked onto the balcony and looked over the railing to see Myrtille, the neighbour’s cat, at the base of the tree looking up. Tabitha emitted another growl.
“Myrtille wasted no time finding out that we were here,” I said, trying to make conversation out of the situation.
“Since we made this her home two summers ago, she must feel she has property rights ahead of Tabitha.”
That
