We walked today out of town along narrow one car width roads through a landscape of vineyards and chateaux in a gentle excursion beyond the city limits. We picked up our dog poo and faced that moral conundrum that the porters of dog poo are want to meet, the coming to the garbage bin of a private residence and the opportunity to dispense of your dog poo into an acceptable but unapproved receptacle. My wife, somewhat surprisingly, was for the commission of the nefarious act, but I, uncomfortable, found support in the rather large sign above that explicitly disapproved such behaviour. Clearly, as you find with Google’s predictive completion of search questions, we were not the first to have that idea. This is we have determined is doggy country, dog walkers are numerous and the pervading vibe is tolerance and warmth. The landscape appears to be either flat or hilly, none of that in between stuff you get in Ireland, and for the most part we’ve been dog walking on flat one lane roads unbounded by hedges, introducing fields of olive trees, lavender and of course vines. Natalie, who has lived in these parts for years, assured us on a short hike last weekend that the fields of vines would soon turn green, that the next time we hiked these parts it would look totally different. Coming from Ireland, that island of chlorophyll, it seems a little overstated to talk about green Provence. Here the dominant colours are dried out browns, the tone being set by the beautiful Provencal beige limestone with its faded caramel hues. The soil is dry and flakey, and the angst around lack of rain, around climate change and failing water supplies, is ever present here, and will surely increase as we move from winter into spring, when the vine leaves will bud, reaching a crescendo and beyond as we enter the long hot, dry summer. The change in climate we endured coming here was abrupt. The amount of water consumed by us all, two legged and four, has probably doubled from Ireland. When we arrived over three weeks ago there was light frost in the mornings which would burn off during the day as the all powerful Provencal sun laid down the law. Now at the end of March, the mornings and nights are less chilly and the daytime sun is warmer, getting up to 20°. Sitting out at night, smoking a joint, under a brilliant star dappled sky, not a flicker of wind, is amazing. In March! It is the clarity of the visibility, the quality of the seeing which really strikes home. I enjoy the contrast in temperature between the cool interiors and the warm exteriors. The air temperature is cool which keeps the house cool and then in the afternoon the sun heats up all it touches, giving you a pleasing contrast, that will fade and be a hallucinogenic memory as we leave the cool comforts of winter behind. People here tell us that we are entering the best season of the year, Spring, when it becomes warm enough to sit outside, and before the mosquitos gain mastery of the skies. The mosquitos here are particularly vicious I was told, little evil bastards. In this land, where thyme and rosemary grow on the side of the road, it’s not surprising that they have an active pollen season, which according to the Chinese medicine practitioner who gave Ali a €60 treatment yesterday, is now in full flow. Assembling those two factoids…I guess we are entering the best of seasons if you don’t have a pollen allergy.
Price du jour
Parmesan 200g. €4.99. Aldi