Fountain 12. Place de Charles de Gaulle, Carpentras 28 July

                                                       Place de Charles de Gaulle                   

Sunday.
Bleak as a Lowry painting.

 Hot sun, hot wind.
Empty, apart from a boy in his car with music thumping

through open windows as he braked too hard around a corner.

Obviously, I had completely misread the posters in Malaucene. 

"The Jewish Music Festival" I had come to see wasn't something that was spilling out onto the streets.

 Or advertised in any way in the town, even at the locked tourist office.

 

    Unless, of course, this banner said all that needed to be said and I couldn't read between the lines.


However, I found the flee market which was spread eagled over a long stretch of ground under plane trees which were already dropping their leaves.
It is a gross exaggeration, as I do not have a divine parent nor did I cook my son for dinner, nevertheless, I can appreciate the torments of Tantalus.

 Browsing the vide-greniers with an overladen motorcycle is achingly full of fruitless yearnings.
 A verdigris figure twisted upwards supporting a pair of putti which had been part of a water feature, a red and white striped silk chaise longue, a mountain of white damask curtains, and a weathered, oval gilt mirror with fruit entangled candle sconces were all utterly impossible.  Setting my sights on the realistic, I bought two crucifixes which were encrusted with pale, compacted soil. The vendor had found them in a medieval village using a metal detector. I threaded them on a string and tied them around my neck.

At a table of war memorabilia: unpolished medals, bomb casings, dented helmets, etc. was an enameled box whose insides were speckled like an egg in yellow and green. The man said it was a soldier's lunchbox. After reading so many soldiers' names, sadly the ones who no longer needed a lunchbox, I felt I must rescue this remnant of domesticity and comfort. I studied the scratches made by a fork and the patches where the enamel had been chipped away and tried to imagine how it felt to carry something so dainty when there were bombs going off.
 I made good use of it while traveling. It was the perfect size and shape to be stuffed full of tissue packets which eventually were replaced with newly acquired treasure.

 

             The remaining crucifix, as I lost one of them somewhere along the way, is now polished through constant wear, and reveals the figures which decorate both sides.
And, interestingly, it labels me, rightly or wrongly,

 as I have discovered many times.

 

To get a bit more historical information, I have just googled my very
 special, unique, never been seen before lunchbox,

and you can buy them on e-bay. Or etsy. oh well...

Fountain 11. The Source at Grosseau, at the base of Mont Ventoux. 27 July.

                     This is just for the record. To keep order in my generally asystematic life.

 I have already written a post about this water depot on July 29th, just after I had been there to collect water. I could say the 'been there, done that, got the tee shirt' expression, although I don't know if people still say that anymore. I never have because most things feel far more profound than a simple tee shirt experience.  I did once buy a tee shirt announcing I had "been there". And the there that it was, was the Grand Canyon. I was 19 and it seemed ironic.

Very far into the background on the left you can see a tiny little someone filling their bottles.

St.-Michel-en-Pierre, Malaucene

 

St. Michel from the north

 

The west door.

I know nothing of this door.  

When I first saw it I thought of Nkisi, the figures from the Congo which are inhabited by spirits. As part of the ritual, metal nails are driven into the object as a vow or treaty to protect against evil. I made this mental observation before I knew anything about the church's history. When I discovered its connection with Clement V and the violent dissolution of the Knights Templar it seemed to make some kind of sense.

At 6pm I was shooshed from the church and I retraced my steps towards the fountain. The four women had been joined by a young girl. All eyes were on me, making me nervous and clumsy; I didn't know where to look. I caught the heel of my boot in a small hole and went flying until I landed near the feet of the women.

They leapt up, seized me by the arms and half carried/half dragged me to their bench. They wiped my hands with flowery hankies, dabbed scented water on my face, fanned me with their scarves and smiled glorious white and golden smiles when they saw I hadn't been seriously hurt.

Fountain 9b and 10 Malaucene, 26th July

  Fountain 9b

Oops. The minor classification irregularity is due an error in counting, perhaps because I was outside the butchers and despite the happy fat pig placard, the air had that yellowy-pink, lard and offal aroma that doesn't sit well with vegetarians.

                                                                    Fountain 10

This rather grand lavoir with its classical pediment sits opposite the church of St-Michel-en-Pierre, built in 1309 by Pope Clement V who, like me, enjoyed spending summers in Malaucene. Perhaps he was seeking a diversion from all his problems with the Knights Templar and Philip IV, not to mention his big papal house move from Rome to Avignon.

In a thin strip of shade, four expansive Muslim women sit leaning against the church in that solid, legs apart, two feet squarely on the ground position. Heavy cotton scarves weigh down their heads and they watch my every move. They continue talking, accompanying their words with delicate wrist gestures and readjustments to their scarves. Their eyes follow me as I wait for a gap in the traffic and cross the road. When I am close enough to hear their voices, they go silent. I raise my hand to greet them. "Bonjour" I say with my friendliest smile. They don't know where to look now and like frightened little birds in a nest, their heads bob about searching for anything to fix upon. It feels as if I've done something terribly wrong, made a cross-cultural faux pas that I know nothing about, so I do what I can. I keep on walking.

Fountain 9a La Placette le Francois Brager, Ispagnac. 25th July

  It was such an intimate square that I hesitated before turning into it.
It was full of the midday silence broken only by a thin trickle of water
 from the two water spouts.
On a bench facing the fountain sat three pretty teenaged girls dressed in white.
They appeared quite suddenly as I was parking Louise where she wouldn't topple over
 on the slope and cobbles.
While I was busy with the prerequisites for exploring the village: unzipping the tank bag for my iPad, fountain diary, glass vial, unzipping another pouch for sun cream, peeling off my jacket and running a thin cable lock through the sleeve and fastening it to the handle bars, pulling off my boots and socks and stuffing them under my jacket, slapping on my plimsoles, unrolling my water bottle from its waterproof trousers insulation, stretching my hat into a recognizable shape, they sat like stone.
 The smell of fresh fruity shampoo hummed in the air above their heads.

Les Pieds en l'Air

                                             Les Pieds en l'Air - Ecole du Cirque

According to my favorite astrology book, Sun Sign, Moon Sign by Charles and Suzi Harvey, I "feel that circuses and seances are as essential to a healthy life as three meals a day and eight hours sleep." Too right; not that I often eat three meals a day or get anything near eight hours of sleep. However, I do often go to the circus. (In fact I saw "The Invisible Circus" in Bristol a couple nights ago, which sounds like I should score double points for simultaneity, but they were quite alive and of this world.)

A couple years ago, on my first visit to Malucene and Mt Ventoux, I was only passing through on my way to somewhere further south, a famous place like Avignon or Aix or Arles. On the map it was just another name on my route, not a destination.

The whole town seemed to be hiding somewhere deep in the tunnel of shade created by the plane trees which lined the streets. It felt like nowhere I had been before. It also felt strangely familiar, compelling me to stay, at least for the night.

Under the craggy white shoulder of Mt. Ventoux was the campsite, and next to the campsite was an enormous red circus tent.
 I knew I'd feel at home here.

Inside the hot shadow of the tent children would flip and spin and swing upside down
through the air.
Diabolos leapt off their string, tiny feet manoeuvred an enormous ball and I understood what moved Picasso to create some of his most tender and wistful work.

Picasso's Acrobat on a ball 1905

This summer Malucene was my first 'official' destination.
I met with my circus friend, Stephane, and watched his young acrobats rehearse for the evening's performance. They had grown so much in two years: stature, confidence and skill. I felt proud of them.  They were doing what I had always wanted to do and I felt a little bit sad, because for me, that particular boat has already sailed. Somehow a circus composed of a dozen middle aged neophytes would not have the same appeal.

Breakfast on the road.

 

Breakfast on the road always tastes better. 

Some days, up early with a cup of black Earl Grey, I'd plan out my route and then drive until I found a suitable boulder or bench or wall to sit on. There I would boil the kettle and rifle through the panniers. If I had happened upon a patisserie I might have chosen something sticky and nutty, otherwise I'd put together my own sticky and nutty: slightly stale bread, under a golden drizzle of honey, sprinkled liberally with roasted peanuts and sliced banana.

 High above a town in the Lozere, buzzards mewed, a dragon fly rustled its dry wings and a bicyclist zipped past calling out "Bon appetit!"

I straddled the wall, pulling at the elastic bread with my teeth while peanuts rolled off, clanged onto my blue tin plate and bounced to the ground. 

Ants, alert to the scent of food, meandered and gossiped before marching off their spoils.