I THINK I’VE FOUND NARNIA.

Embarking on a journey from the beautiful and tranquil region of Vaucluse, where the landscape seems to have been sculpted by the rough-skinned hands and loving heart of a Renaissance artist, to the charming provincal town of Uzès is akin to stepping on to a vividly painted Van Gogh canvass. A canvas where history doesn't just whisper; it pours you a glass of cold, crisp local Rose and sits beside you to spend some quality time.

As a retired wanderer and not the kind that regularly escapes from a care home but the kind that hails from the wild, wet west coast of Canada, the idea of walking through the ancient streets of Uzès in the soft embrace of the warm golden sun on an early spring morning, with nary a tourist in sight, makes me extremely happy. There's something utterly delightful in the thought of meandering alone through history, my steps the only sound apart from the distant chime of church bells and the occasional disgruntled French cat, disturbed from its sun-soaked slumber by my size 13 Birkenstocks.

Uzès, a town that seems to have been gently nestled into the French countryside by a benevolent giant, is rich with history that feels almost palpable as you walk its ancient streets and alleys. Founded in Roman times, the town is a feast for those hungry to glimpse the past. It’s as if each cobblestone is a breadcrumb leading back through time, and I, a Canadian and larger version of Hansel, am more than happy to follow, in the hope that they have fallen from a gigantic pain au chocolate & preferably without the subsequent witch issues.

At the heart of Uzès is the Place aux Herbes, a square serving as the town’s living room, bordered by arched pathways and lined with trees that have seen more history than we can fathom. The morning market here is a symphony of colors, smells, and sounds, a place where the local dialect is as thick as the daube they sell. To walk through it alone is to be a shadow, observing life in its most vibrant form without the need to partake.

The town's churches, such as the Cathedral Saint-Théodorit, with its Italian Renaissance-style bell tower, are monuments to faith and artistry. Venturing inside, the cool, hushed interior feels like a sanctuary from time itself. It’s easy to imagine the generations that have come here seeking solace or salvation, their whispers adding to the layers of history. As someone who has weathered the storms of the Pacific, standing in such a testament to endurance is both humbling and uplifting.

Accommodation in Uzès, particularly if one is looking for a touch of luxury, is like choosing which historical epoch you’d like to dream in. The 4- and 5-star options are as varied as they are splendid. One could opt for the Hotel Entraigues, located in the city center, where modern amenities blend seamlessly with ancient architecture, offering a rooftop view that competes only with the gastronomical delights served beneath it. It’s a place where one can feel like a king, albeit a king who thoroughly enjoys free Wi-Fi and espresso machines in his room.

Or perhaps the La Maison d'Uzès, a sumptuous boutique hotel that whispers tales of centuries past through its elegantly restored rooms. Waking up here is like being cradled in history, with the added benefit of an outstanding breakfast that could easily turn a morning person out of the most nocturnal creature.

Walking through Uzès alone, especially on a wonderous warm spring morning, allows one to appreciate the town’s beauty and serenity without the bustling crowds. The solitude amplifies the architecture's beauty, the heritage's majesty, and the gentle flow of daily life. It’s a reminder that sometimes, to connect with a place truly, we must experience it on its terms and in its quiet moments.

As a guy who has left behind the perpetual motion of the Western world for the serene cadence of retirement, Uzès offers not just a journey through space but also through time. It’s a place where one can stroll without purpose, lost in thought yet fully present. The lack of tourists is not just a boon but a blessing, allowing the soul of the town to shine through unobstructed.

In conclusion, as I, a humble Canadian with a newfound zest for life and a pension for adventure, wander through Uzès, I am reminded of the beauty of solitude and the rich tapestry of history surrounding us. This journey from Vaucluse to Uzès is not just a travelogue; it's a pilgrimage to the heart of tranquility, a lesson in the art of being alone without being lonely. And as for the humor that bubbles up like a spring in this ancient town, it's found in the realization that, after years of seeking company, the best conversations are often the ones we have with history, nature, and ourselves.

If you ever venture in this direction, I hope you don’t miss this place and have the same experience I now insist on having regularly. All the images in this post were captured with the new Leica SL3 and several new lenses (drop by my gear page if you are interested). Please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments box below the last image; I would love to hear from you if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

BACK FOR MORE OF LA DOLCE VITA.

Embarking on a journey to Rome is like agreeing to a truce with your feet: "You let me wander where I wish, and I promise to ignore every blister and ounce of fatigue that comes our way." Such was the pact I made, knowing well that to truly experience La Dolce Vita, one must do so on foot, covering an average of 15 miles a day. This is a tale of such an endeavor, a quintessentially quixotic quest through the Eternal City, where every cobblestone has a story, and every gelato shop is a trap of delightful calories.

**Day 1: The Vatican – Where St. Peter Keeps an Eye on the Sky**

Our journey begins at the Vatican, not just because it's a place of divine significance, but also because it feels right to ask for blessings before subjecting one's feet to such an ordeal. St. Peter's Basilica is not merely a church; it's a heavenly gate, grand and imposing, where the sheer size makes you wonder if St. Peter was expecting giants rather than humble humans. Inside, the opulence is such that it could make a billionaire blush. The art, the architecture, and the sense of serenity make it a place where even the most devout atheist might find themselves whispering a prayer, if only not to feel left out.

As for the Vatican Museums, they are a labyrinth of human genius, where you can walk in circles admiring everything from ancient Egyptian mummies to Michelangelo's masterpieces. It's a place where you're constantly torn between awe at humanity's capabilities and a vague sense of inadequacy about your own greatest achievement being your high score on Tetris.

**Day 2: The Trevi Fountain – A Splash of Hope**

No visit to Rome is complete without seeing the Trevi Fountain, a monument so lavish it could only have been designed by someone who never had to pay a water bill. Tradition dictates that one must toss a coin over their shoulder into the fountain to ensure a return to Rome. This is a clever ploy by the city, ensuring a steady income from people who are notoriously bad at throwing. Nonetheless, the beauty of the fountain at night, illuminated and majestic, makes you feel like part of an ancient world, momentarily forgetting the selfie sticks and gelato stains on your shirt.

**Day 3: The Colosseum and the Piazza del Pollo – Gladiators and Chicken**

Ah, the Colosseum, Rome's magnificent ode to a time when men were men and lions were nervous. Walking into the Colosseum, you half expect a gladiator to emerge and challenge you to a duel, only to remember that the most fighting you've done recently was with a can opener. Even in its ruined state, the structure is awe-inspiring, a testament to what humanity can achieve when we're not busy arguing on the internet.

As for the Piazza del Pollo, it's worth noting that this might be a slight mistranslation on my part, as "pollo" indeed means chicken in Italian, and I'm not entirely sure the Romans dedicated a whole piazza to poultry. However, Rome is full of delightful squares, each with its own charm, from the grand Piazza Navona to the intimate Piazza della Rotonda in front of the Pantheon. Speaking of which...

**Day 4: The Pantheon – Rome's Time Capsule**

With its grand dome and ancient doors, the Pantheon feels like a time machine. As you step inside, the oculus at the top of the dome casts a celestial spotlight that moves across the room, like the world's slowest disco ball. It's a place of quiet power, where you're reminded that once upon a time, this was the height of innovation and architectural prowess. It's also delightfully cool inside, offering a much-needed respite from Rome's summer heat.

**Day 5: Hidden Gems – The Other 900 Churches**

They say Rome has as many churches as there are days in the year, and on our final day, we set out to explore these lesser-known sanctuaries. Each church, from the Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere to the tiny, tucked-away chapels, is a world unto itself, filled with art, history, and a palpable sense of peace. These are places where you can sit and reflect on the literal and metaphorical journey and perhaps light a candle for your poor, beleaguered feet.

In the end, Rome is not just a city; it's an experience, a vast, sprawling museum of history, art, and life. It teaches you resilience (mostly foot-related), appreciation for beauty, and, most importantly, the value of a good pair of shoes. La Dolce Vita, it turns out, is not just about the sweetness of doing nothing; it's about the joy of exploring everything, one step at a time. So, lace.

So, in conclusion, I could have gone on to put you to sleep much faster with countless additional tidbits about Roman life and why it draws us back time and time again. Life is sweet here. Not unlike Athens, it reminds us where we came from. The mastery and brilliance of the people that inspired the future. What they accomplished without iPhones and Snapchat is amazing. Don’t drag one foot behind you like a slack-jawed troglodyte to the Olive Garden for bottomless bread sticks when you crave an unbelievable Carbonara, Tiramisu, or Lemon Gelato. Don’t tell yourself it’s the same. It isn’t. Planes from all over the world land at FCO airport daily. Get on one, and I guarantee you won’t regret it.

Live Well!

M.

Comments are most welcome.

All images were captured with the new Leica Q3 and downsampled to work with the Squarespace platform.

WHAT RHYMES WITH ORANGE?

A few days ago, I did what I often do over a cup of tea in the morning. That is infact to open up a map on the dining room table and mull over the options for a day of travel and adventure. A paper map, if you will. A paper map to most people today would probably cause them to cock their heads to the right with a look of bewilderment. Who in today’s tech-dominated app-based world uses such an inferior tool? Well, I do. I step back in time every day because I love a little bit of old school. After a short period of deliberation, I chose to visit Orange. Orange is just over an hour’s drive north of my home. A journey not just of mere miles but a leap through layers of time, seasoned liberally with that peculiar French flair for making even a simple road trip feel like a passage through a living museum, where every stone and corner bakery has a story to tell, often with a slight disdain for the English-speaking visitor. But let us not get ahead of ourselves.

Our adventure begins in the Luberon, that part of France where during most of the year, the sun douses the landscape in a light so perfect, photographers wonder why they bother anywhere else. The Luberon, with its vineyards and ancient hilltop villages, is the sort of place that doesn't just whisper but sings its invitation to wander and explore. It is here we start, with a Romanian-built SUV, a map, and a sense of expectation so palpable it could be bottled and sold as 'Eau de Adventure.'’

As I mentioned earlier, the drive to Orange is not long, but in France, distance is measured not in miles but in distractions. There's always a village that wasn't on your map, a vineyard that beckons with the promise of a perfect bottle, or a view so stunning you're obliged to stop, stare, and open your camera bag. French roads are a conspiracy against direct travel, which I wholeheartedly approve of.

Arriving in Orange on market day is like stepping into a painting by a French impressionist artist who is so good at capturing light and life. The sun is indeed out, casting a gentle warmth that makes the early March chill scamper away, sort of embarrassed at its own impotence. The market sprawls with a confidence that only centuries of tradition can bestow. Stalls burst with colors, smells, and sounds, sending frantic messages to your brain, causing utter delight.

The food, It's a symphony, a ballet, a high-wire act of flavors and aromas. Cheeses that wink at you with the promise of untold delights, olives that have soaked up the essence of the Mediterranean sun, bread that crackles with the sound of a perfect French morning. And the fruits, so fresh they seem surprised to find themselves out of the orchard. It's all here, a feast for the senses, where the biggest challenge is not what to buy but moreover how to stop buying.

But Orange is not just a market. No, that would be like saying the Louvre is just a museum. The Roman amphitheater looms with an imposing grace, a relic of a time when entertainment meant something a tad more visceral than scrolling through Netflix. Its ancient stones hold the echo of a thousand cheers, a monument to human ingenuity and our enduring love of spectacle. Walking its tiers, you can't help but feel a connection to those ancient spectators, a shared thrill that transcends time. It's humbling, and yet, curiously uplifting.

Wandering the streets and alleys of Orange is an exercise in time travel. Each corner turned reveals another layer of history, another story waiting to be discovered. Buildings wear their age with a dignified elegance, their facades telling tales of generations past. And through it all, the city's daily life flows with an easy rhythm, a reminder that while we marvel at the past, the present has its own charms.

The market, with its riot of colors, its cacophony of sounds, and its dizzying array of scents, is the heart of it all. Here, food, housewares, and clothing mix in a cheerful jumble, a testament to the French ability to elevate shopping to a form of high art. It's not just commerce; it's a celebration of life's daily pleasures and how.

The day passed in a blur, a delightful assault on the senses that left me exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure. As the shadows lengthen and the market packs away, there's a sense of having been part of something special, a communal experience that binds you to this place and its people.

And so, as I bid adieu to Orange, with its ancient stones and lively markets, its food that sings, and its history that whispers, I can carry memories of a day well spent. It's the kind of experience that makes me want to return, explore those streets and alleys again, lose myself in the market's embrace, and feel that connection to the past once more.

I hope that you enjoyed this trip to Orange. As always, if you have a moment, please leave your thoughts or comments in the box below the last image on this post.

Live well!

M.

All images included in this post were captured with the Leica Q3 in raw (.DNG) and processed with Lightroom Classic, a testament to the enduring power of light and lens to capture the essence of travel.

WHY YOU SHOULD VISIT THE RIVIERA VILLAGES.

Welcome, everyone, to the sun-drenched shores and pastel-hued panoramas of Cassis, nestled like a gemstone along the glittering necklace that is the French Riviera. But before we dive headfirst into this Mediterranean marvel, let us first chart our course, for even the most anticipated of journeys must begin with an hour or two of planning. For those of you with a penchant for the scenic route—or perhaps an aversion to the indignities of airport security—fear not, as Cassis is just a leisurely train ride away from the bustling metropolises of Marseille and Toulon. Simply board the sleek TGV at Paris's Gare de Lyon, sit back, and prepare to be whisked away on a journey through the picturesque Provençal countryside, where vineyards stretch as far as the eye can see and sunflowers nod and wink in silent approval. But should the songs of the open road prove too tempting to resist—and who could blame you, with the promise of impromptu picnics and roadside vistas aplenty—then by all means, rent a car and embark on your own odyssey along the winding coastal roads that lead to Cassis. Just be sure to pack a sturdy map—or better yet, make sure Waze is installed on your IPhone (other brands are available) as the abundance of speed cameras, narrow streets and labyrinthine alleyways of this ancient village have been known to frustrate & confuse even the most experienced of travellers .

First, a bit of background for those who may not have had Cassis on their radar, as we approach our destination, let us pause for a moment to reflect on the storied history of this charming enclave. Legend has it that Cassis was founded by the Phocaeans, those intrepid seafarers of ancient Greece, who sought refuge from the rough seas in the sheltered coves and tranquil harbors of this idyllic coastline. And though the centuries have brought conquests and conflicts aplenty—most notably the brief but tumultuous reign of Julius Caesar, who famously declared Cassis to be "the most charming of all Gaulish villages"—the spirit of resilience and joie de vivre that defines this community has never wavered. Fast forward through centuries of sieges, skirmishes, and the occasional invasion by pirates—because what Mediterranean paradise would be complete without a dash of swashbuckling adventure—and we arrive at the modern-day Cassis, where the only marauders are those on the hunt for the perfect seafood platter. But enough with the history lesson, for we have arrived at our destination, and the delights of Cassis await! As you wander the sun-dappled streets and mingle with the bronzed beauties and jet-setting sophisticates who call this village home—or at least their vacation home—be sure to take note of the myriad architectural wonders that dot the landscape, from the ancient Romanesque church of Saint Michel to the elegant Belle Époque villas that cling precariously to the cliffs above the harbor.

Now, let's talk cuisine. The gastronomic delights that await you in Cassis! From freshly caught fish served with a side of sea breeze to decadent pastries that practically beg to be photographed, this little slice of Riviera heaven is a culinary cornucopia. And fear not, friends, for even the most discerning palate shall find satisfaction amidst the plethora of cafes, bistros, and Michelin-starred restaurants that line the cobblestone streets. But I digress. I came not merely to feast—but to explore! And what better way to do so than by boat? Yes, my friends, prepare to set sail on a nautical adventure worthy of the most intrepid of explorers (or at least those with a penchant for sunbathing and Champagne). Whether you opt for a leisurely cruise along the coastline or a thrilling excursion to the nearby Calanques—those rugged limestone cliffs that plunge dramatically into the crystal-clear waters—you're sure to be treated to views so breathtaking, you'll forget all about the exorbitant price of your boat rental.

Of course, no trip to Cassis would be complete without a bit of culture—or at least a half-hearted attempt at it between sips of rosé. Fear not, for this quaint village boasts its fair share of historical landmarks and cultural attractions. From the ancient Château de Cassis, which looms ominously over the harbor like a guardian of bygone eras, to the charming Musée Municipal, where you can brush up on your knowledge of local history between bites of pain au chocolat, there's no shortage of opportunities to feel vaguely cultured before returning to your sun lounger.

And let us not forget the beaches! The beaches of Cassis, where bronzed bodies mingle with the occasional nudist and sandcastles stand as monuments to our fleeting existence. Whether you prefer the bustling atmosphere of Plage de la Grande Mer or the more secluded shores of Anse de Corton, one thing is certain: you'll spend far more time debating which swimwear to put on than actually swimming. And speaking of the harbor, dear reader, let us not forget the beating heart of Cassis—the bustling port where fishermen ply their trade amidst a cacophony of seagulls and sunbathers vie for the perfect spot on the quayside. Here, you can while away the hours watching the comings and goings of the local fishing fleet, or perhaps charter a boat of your own and set sail for the nearby Calanques, those rugged limestone fjords that have inspired artists and poets for centuries.

But our journey is far from over! Beyond the sun-drenched shores of Cassis lie a veritable treasure trove of hidden gems just waiting to be discovered. From the medieval hilltop village of La Ciotat, where time seems to stand still amidst the winding alleyways and ancient ramparts, to the cosmopolitan charms of Aix-en-Provence, where fountains splash and café terraces beckon, the delights of Provence are yours to explore. And, so we come to the end of our journey through the sun-drenched streets and sparkling waters of Cassis. It may just convince you that your next trip may be in this direction. Bon voyage!

All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q3 and it’s RAW images (.DNG’S) were processed in Lightroom.

As usual if you would like to leave your thoughts or comments plaese do so in the box below the last image. I do enjoy hearing from you.

Live well!

M.

AN EVENING OF STREET PHOTOGRAPHY IN MARSEILLE WITH THE NEW LEICA Q3.

This post is a little off-piste. After receiving a lovely invitation to join a group of talented local photographers in Marseille, I accepted and spent a wonderful sun-drenched evening walking around an area not on the tourist trail. These are a few of my favourite images from that memorable adventure. I hope that you will find interest in the composition. The second group of black and white photos should be seen to have the natural grit that I had assumed would come with time spent in this neighborhood.

These photos were captured with the Leica Q3 in the .dng (RAW) format. Some were later processed into monochrome with Lightroom Classic.

Live well!

M.

Please leave your thoughts in the comment box below the last image if you have a moment.

MONOCHROME IMAGES.

MY 11TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.

The Luberon Valley is a place so quaint and picturesque that even the local goats are Instafamous. It was from this very valley, this fine morning, that I embarked on a journey so filled with promise and potential liver damage that even Ernest Hemingway might have thought twice. My destination? The illustrious and immaculately tidy village of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a name that rolls off the tongue with the same complexity and satisfaction as a full-bodied glass of its namesake wine.

Now, for those unacquainted with the joys of navigating the French countryside, let me assure you, it's an experience akin to finding oneself in a real-life game of Mario Kart, minus the helpful floating question boxes (or so the kids used to tell me). The roads twist and turn with the kind of reckless abandon usually reserved for soap opera plotlines, ensuring that any journey is as much about survival as it is about sightseeing.

But let's not dwell on the near-death experiences and instead focus on the destination. Châteauneuf-du-Pape, or as I like to call it, "The Village That Wine Built." This place is so steeped in viticulture that even the feral cats seem to have a discerning palate for a good vintage. The village itself is a marvel of stone buildings that look as though they've been plucked straight from a medieval fairytale, complete with a castle that seems to frown down at the modern world from its lofty perch.

Ah, the castle. Or what's left of it, anyway. The Château de Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a name so nice they named it twice, sort of. This once-majestic fortress now serves as a reminder that even in the world of wine, not everything ages gracefully. Its history is as rich and complex as a well-aged Grenache, having played host to several popes during that curious period when Avignon fancied itself the center of the Christian world. It's said that the popes, in their infinite wisdom, decided that what the papacy really needed was a good vineyard because nothing says divine authority like a robust wine list.

And so, Châteauneuf-du-Pape became the go-to destination for holy men with a penchant for the grape. The village's reputation grew, much like its vines, until it became synonymous with some of the finest wines known to humanity. Or at least, make it known to those humans who can afford it. The irony, of course, is that the popes were probably too busy being pious to enjoy the fruits of their labour truly, but that's the Catholic Church for you – always thinking of the future.

Surrounding the village is the Côtes du Rhône wine-growing area, a region so fertile and productive that you half expect the vines to start planting themselves. Here, wine is more than just a beverage; it's a way of life. The locals speak of terroir with the same reverence that others might reserve for holy scripture, and to be fair, after a few glasses, you too might start seeing the divine in a well-crafted Syrah.

Wine experts and enthusiasts from around the globe wax lyrical about Châteauneuf-du-Pape, using terms like "bouquet" and "finish" with the kind of casual expertise that makes mere mortals feel hopelessly uncultured. These wines are the celebrities of the oenophile world, complete with their own entourages of adoring fans and eye-watering price tags. It's a place where the phrase "let's have just one more glass" can lead to life decisions that seem much less wise in the cold, sober light of day.

In the midst of this vinous Valhalla, a particularly clever wine cave owner, spotting the wide-eyed wonder with which I beheld his domain, beckoned me closer with the promise of capturing this oenological oasis through my camera lens. "For memories," he said, with a twinkle in his eye that should have warned me of the impending danger to my wallet.

This, dear reader, was no mere merchant of grape-based beverages; this was a maestro of persuasion, a virtuoso of the vineyard, who could probably sell ice to Eskimos or, more aptly, water to fish. His cave was several levels above Aladdin's and a cave of vinicultural treasures, each bottle more seductively labeled than the last, whispering promises of unparalleled delight.

With the skill of a seasoned conductor, he guided me through the symphony of his cellar, my camera clicking away, each shot capturing the amber glow of bottles that seemed to contain not just wine, but liquid history. It was only when he began to describe the wines, with a passion that bordered on the religious, that I realized I was no longer just a photographer, but a pilgrim at the altar of Bacchus.

Fifteen minutes had passed – or so he claimed, though I suspect time moves differently within the hallowed confines of a wine cave – when he presented me with a bottle. "This," he proclaimed, "is not just wine. This is an experience." The price, he assured me, was merely a numerical reflection of the celestial joy contained within.

And so, dear reader, with a sense of inevitability that would have made Greek tragedians nod in solemn agreement, I left the cave lighter of wallet but heavier of heart, clutching the most expensive bottle I have ever purchased. It was a transaction that defied logic, propelled by a blend of skilled salesmanship and the intoxicating atmosphere of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

As I emerged into the sunlight, I couldn't help but marvel at the cleverness of the cave owner, who had transformed a simple invitation to take photos into a masterclass in the art of the upsell. I had come in search of memories and left with a tangible, if pricey, token of my visit. In the end, I suppose, that's the true magic of Châteauneuf-du-Pape: the ability to turn even the most guarded of travellers into willing devotees at the church of the grape.

But what truly sets Châteauneuf-du-Pape apart, aside from its ability to make your bank account weep, is the sheer beauty of the place. It's as if the village itself has been marinated in fine wine, with every stone and cobble exuding a sense of timeless charm. The locals move with the kind of unhurried grace that suggests they've all reached some higher state of contentment, or perhaps they're just perpetually tipsy.

In conclusion, my journey from the Luberon Valley to Châteauneuf-du-Pape was more than just a test of my driving skills and liver's endurance. It was a pilgrimage to the heart of wine country, a place where history, culture, and viticulture come together as seamlessly as a well-balanced blend. So, if you ever find yourself in this corner of France, do yourself a favour and raise a glass to the popes who, in their infinite wisdom, decided that what the world really needed was a little more wine. Cheers, or as the locals might say, santé!

Live Well!

M.

p.s.

**No driving under the influence of intoxicants took place in the research for this post**

All of the images were captured with the Leica Q3. Thank you, Marc and Vinnie, at the Leica Boutique in Marseille. Any post-processing was done in Lightroom.

Please leave me your thoughts or comments in the box below the last image if you have a moment. I do love to hear from you.

Arles in Winter: Where Van Gogh Meets Viennoiserie.

Arles. The jewel of Provence, where the Rhône gently kisses the Mediterranean, and where, on a particularly crisp winter morning, I found myself parked adjacent to two long and narrow river cruise boats, both were tied up north facing at the dock. I sat wondering if my car was closer to Van Gogh's bedroom or the nearest patisserie. In its infinite wisdom, the sun had decided to grace those of us up with the birds, casting a golden hue over the town that even the most skilled Instagram filter couldn't replicate.

The streets of Arles at this hour are a curious mix of the sleepy and the over-caffeinated. Artists, those brave souls, are already out with their sketch pads, capturing the light that once inspired Van Gogh to, well, let's say, get overly enthusiastic with his self-portraits. I strolled along the quay, my breath no longer visible in the air, a reminder that while the calendar insisted it was winter, the temperature, hovering in the high teens, seemed to have missed the memo.

In the heart of the town, the scent of freshly baked croissants waged a fierce battle with the aroma of strong coffee. The local boulangeries, those temples of butter and flour, were opening their doors, emitting a warmth that seemed to beckon every soul in Arles. I watched as people, clearly more accustomed to the early hours around here than I, made their pilgrimage for their morning sustenance. There's something almost religious about the first bite of a croissant in a French bakery; it's like a sacrament but flakier.

As I wandered, I stumbled upon the Roman-built coliseum, or as I like to call it, the 'Arena of the Absurdly Old'. It's remarkable to think that this structure has been standing since 90 AD, hosting everything from gladiator battles to, more recently, tourists with selfie sticks. It's a testament to Roman engineering and modern-day marketing. I half expected a centurion to pop out offering guided tours, but it was just a man in a slightly less impressive uniform selling postcards.

The boutiques in Arles are a delightful distraction. Each one is unique, like snowflakes, if snowflakes were made of lavender soap and hand-painted ceramics. I wandered into one, pretending for a moment that I was the kind of person who could nonchalantly buy a €200 scarf without blinking. Sensing my internal struggle, the shopkeeper smiled and said, "It's okay, I too dream of being outrageously wealthy."

Lunchtime in Arles is an experience in itself. The cafes and bistros come alive, their tables spilling onto the sidewalks. I chose a spot in the sun, the kind of place where you can sit with a glass of local wine and pretend to write a novel. The menu was a delightful parade of Provençal classics – ratatouille, bouillabaisse, and something involving snails that I wasn't brave enough to try. The food, much like the town itself, is unpretentious yet sophisticated, like a farmer in a tuxedo. All that to say, after that tooing and froing, I decided to have an espresso and wait to have lunch later in the day.

The streets took on a more leisurely pace as the late morning pressed on. The artists had packed up, their morning's work done, replaced by couples strolling hand in hand and so many dogs, each looking like it had just stepped out of a French film about existentialism and baguettes.

As the sun descended, casting long shadows across the ancient stones, I found myself back at the river. The cruise boats were being prepared for their next voyage by a small Army (more appropriately, Navy) of young men working very hard to make everything ship shape and Bristol fashion. As I drove from the dockyard parking lot along the Rhone to Avignon, I counted my lucky stars. You see, the last time I was here, it was pre-covid, and the river cruises were packed with relentlessly embarking throngs of tourists rolling down the gangways to invade the city as the Romans had thousands of years previous. In reality what I observed back in the summer of 2019, were hundreds of new-age Romans, or as my friend Jaquie puts it, the “salad dodgers”, stumble down the gang plank onto terra firma. As I got further & further out of town, I couldn’t stop thinking about the absurdity of trying to capture the essence of a place like Arles in a few hours or even a 3,000-word blog post.

In the end, Arles is a town that doesn't just sit in the landscape; it is the landscape. It's a place where history and modernity dance a slow waltz, every corner holds a story, and every pastry shop is a potential love affair. As I neared home, I mused that Van Gogh had it right all along – sometimes, the most ordinary places are the most extraordinary, especially when viewed through the lens of a winter morning sun.

BATTA BING, BATTA BOOM!

Palermo. Where the traffic flows like molasses in a Siberian winter, and the cacophony of car horns serves as the city's unofficial anthem. I arrived at Falcone Borsellino Airport with the usual mix of trepidation and misplaced optimism that accompanies most of my travel adventures. The optimism, as usual, was the first casualty.

Stepping outside, I was greeted not by a welcoming committee but by an assault on the senses. The air was thick, not with anticipation, but with the unmistakable aroma of exhaust fumes, creatively seasoned with a hint of garbage. It seemed the refuse collectors of Palermo were either on strike or had taken a collective vow of non-interference. On the bright side, our driver for the journey to the AirBnB was a lovely man named Dario. He drove an older Volvo wagon that he referred to as a Swedish limousine.

The traffic in Palermo is not so much a system of transportation as it is a kind of vehicular ballet - a ballet where everyone has decided to freestyle simultaneously. Cars, scooters, and the occasional daredevil pedestrian weave and dodge with a kind of reckless abandon that would leave a health and safety officer weeping. I watched in awe as a Vespa, laden with a family of four and what appeared to be the weekly shopping, navigated a roundabout in a move that defied several laws of physics.

Then there’s the graffiti. In some cities, graffiti is a scourge, a blight on the urban landscape. In Palermo, it's more of a municipal art project with an open invitation. Every available surface is covered in a tapestry of spray paint, a vibrant, chaotic narrative that tells a thousand stories, none of which I could decipher.

Amidst this chaos, the Sicilians. Ah, the Sicilians. They move through their city with a kind of spastic grace, unfazed by the bedlam around them. They argue with a passion that suggests life-or-death stakes, though I suspect the topics are more along the lines of football and the proper way to prepare pasta. The volume of these public debates is something to behold. It seems that in Palermo, whoever is loudest is right, a rule of thumb that explains quite a lot about the local politics.

The street markets of Palermo are an experience unto themselves. They are less markets and more frontline combat zones where one battles for fresh produce and octopus. The air is rich with the smell of fish, spices, and the sharp tang of Sicilian cheese. Stall owners hawk their wares with the kind of aggressive enthusiasm that would make a Wall Street trader blink. I bought two arancini and a massive cannoli that I'm pretty sure involved signing away a minor portion of my soul.

But, oh, the architecture. Palermo hides its beauty like a secret, tucked away behind the veneer of urban chaos. The buildings are a hodgepodge of styles, each more grandiose than the last as if they were trying to outdo each other in a beauty pageant. Baroque churches sit comfortably next to Arab-Norman palaces, a testament to Sicily's layered history. It's a place where you can walk from one era into another in a few steps, provided you don't get run over by a scooter in the process.

And then there's the fashion. Sicilians dress with an effortless style that I could never hope to emulate. Men in impeccably tailored suits ride battered scooters, their elegance undiminished by the helmet under their arm. Women glide through the streets in outfits that seem to defy Vancouver and Toronto's “fashion” trends, looking as if they've just stepped off a Milanese catwalk rather than a crowded Palermo bus.

As I navigated the streets, dodging cars and scooters, inhaling the intoxicating mix of exhaust and arancini, I couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration. Palermo is not a city for the faint-hearted. It's a city with a vibrant, messy, chaotic pulse. It's a city that lives loudly and unapologetically. It's a place of contradictions, where beauty and chaos live side by side, and where every day is a dance with the unpredictable or Luigi and Fat Tony if you haven’t paid your protection money for the month.

In Palermo, I found a city that wears its heart on its sleeve, graffiti-tagged and garbage-strewn though that sleeve may be. It's a city that challenges you, shouts in your face and then winks at you, daring you not to fall in love with its maddening charm. As I left, weaving my way back through the ballet of traffic to the airport with Dario, I realized that I had indeed fallen for this chaotic, beautiful, maddening place. Palermo, you're a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, and I can't wait to return.

I hope you enjoy the images of Palermo below. Please leave a comment or thought in the comment box at the bottom of the page. I appreciate reading what you think.

Live well,

M.

All images were captured with a Leica M10-R and various lenses.

SIX MONTHS A YEAR STARTS NOW!

Bonnieux, my adopted home away from home. If you have never heard of it, don't fret – neither had I, until a twist of fate and a slightly misguided sense of adventure (or was it a mid-life crisis?) landed me here. This hilltop Provençal village that seems to have been designed by a particularly nostalgic set of gods with a penchant for puzzles and steep inclines.

You see, Bonnieux isn't just a village; it's a full-blown aerobic workout. I've lost more weight walking to the bakery here than I ever have in a gym at home. The place is perched – and I use that term with the total weight of its gravity-defying implications – on a craggy hill in the Luberon, offering views that stretch endlessly until they bump into some other quaint village or an olive grove that's been around since Julius Caesar was in short pants.

The history? Oh, it's rich. Bonnieux was a big deal when the Popes were in Avignon, probably because they needed a scenic retreat from all that divine responsibility. The old church at the top of the village is so ancient that I half expect to bump into Crusaders or Knights Templar comparing GPS coordinates. And let's not forget the Roman bridges and roads. The Romans, those eternal show-offs, left behind the Pont Julien – a bridge still standing after two thousand years. I'm convinced it’s due to sheer stubbornness.

Fast forward a few centuries, and Bonnieux, like every self-respecting medieval French village, got itself embroiled in the religious wars. Catholics and Protestants squabbling over God's fine print led to some rather spirited town meetings, I imagine. This historical mishmash has given the village an architectural diversity that's an absolute nightmare for anyone trying to pick a coherent colour scheme for their window shutters.

Then came the agricultural revolution, with cherries and olives becoming the stars of the show. The terraced landscapes here are a testament to what you can achieve with a bit of land, many stones, and a complete disregard for your back’s well-being.

The 20th century saw Bonnieux, like a retired movie star, fade a bit into the background. But then, as if in a plot twist, it found itself rediscovered, like an old vinyl record in a hipster's hemp shoulder bag from a “vintage shop.” Artists and writers, presumably tired of Parisian traffic and existential angst, decided Bonnieux was the place to be. Cue the restoration of historic buildings and the revival of those agricultural traditions, now considered quaint.

Today, as a part-time resident and full-time observer, I watch with amusement and a touch of pride as Bonnieux parades its history with the casual elegance of a catwalk model. The streets here don't just wind; they meander with purpose as if to tell you, "Slow down, you're missing the point."

Culturally, the village is a kaleidoscope. It's inspired more paintings and books than a village this size rightfully should. Walking through its lanes, you half expect to stumble upon an art easel at every corner or a writer musing under every tree.

So, why Bonnieux? Why did I, an admittedly eccentric apprentice writer who loves the quirky and the absurd, choose to plant roots here? It's simple. Bonnieux isn't just a place; it's a character in its own right, with a story that keeps unfolding in the most unpredictable ways. It's the kind of place where history isn't just remembered; it's lived in, laughed in, and occasionally tripped over.

In conclusion, come to Bonnieux if you're ever in Provence, looking for a village that combines breathtaking views with a workout regime fit for a Roman legionnaire. Just remember to bring good shoes and a sense of humour. You'll need both.

Don’t get any bright ideas and decide upon arrival that this place would also suit you down to the ground. Don’t let me catch you entering one of the three local real estate agents. I moved here to escape you, so find your own village. No hurry, sit; I can still pour you a glass of Rosè while you study your map!

As always, please leave your thoughts or any comments below. I do look forward to hearing from you.

Live well!

M.

All images were captured with the Leica SL2-S camera and 24-90mm lens.

IT’S TIME FOR REFLECTION WITH THE LEICA SL2-S

As I sit here, poised to retire for the second time – a feat so unforeseeable I might just invent an award for it – I can't help but reflect on the peculiar charm of stepping away from the familiar. It's a bit like leaving a party while still having a good time, only to realize you've forgotten how to use the front door and end up wandering into a surprise adventure, possibly involving wine, cheese, and the Renault of my dreams. That's retirement for you, or at least the version I'm embarking on.

You see, knowing when to move on is a bit like understanding the British weather – it's unpredictable, occasionally dampening, but always a good excuse for a cup of tea and some quiet reflection. Retirement, in this sense, is not an ending but a hearty nudge towards new, mind-expanding endeavors. For me, these endeavors involve venturing into lands where the language sounds like an exotic dish I'd be too scared to order, and customs that seem as baffling as completing “WORDLE” in Swahili.

Why, you might ask, would one willingly step away from the comfort of the known into the labyrinth of the unfamiliar? Well, for the same reason, you might choose to wear mismatched socks – for the sheer thrill of it. In my case, the thrill is supplemented by my trusty cameras, my silent companions in this journey of discovery. Wandering with them is more than a hobby; it's a sort of medicine, a remedy for the mundane, a way to see the world not just in colors and shapes but in stories and whispers.

These cameras have seen more than most eyes do – they've captured smiles in hidden alleyways, sunsets that argue with the horizon, and cats with questionable intentions. They're not just lenses and shutters; they're my passport to the unexplored, my ticket to a show where every act is a surprise.

And let's not forget the potent medicine of change and reflection. Change, after all, is the universe's way of nudging us out of complacency. It's like a friend who insists you try escargot for the first time, and before you know it, you're wondering how you ever lived without it. Reflection, on the other hand, is the quiet conversation you have with yourself afterward, possibly over a glass of something peaty, pondering the peculiar yet delightful path you've stumbled upon.

So, as I embark on this new chapter, camera in hand, ready to misunderstand foreign languages and misinterpret local customs, I do so with a heart full of anticipation. I may not know what adventures await, but I'm certain of one thing – they'll make for one heck of a story, possibly involving a lost map and a serendipitous encounter with a wise, yet slightly intoxicated, local sage.

In conclusion, retirement, or rather re-adventurement, as I prefer to call it, is not just about leaving something behind. It's about embracing the unfamiliar, finding joy in the perplexing, and capturing it all through the lens of experience – both literal and metaphorical. And if that isn't a recipe for a life well-lived, I don't know what is.

As usual, your thoughts and comments are always welcome.

Live Well!

M.

P.S. All images were captured with a Leica SL2-S and a 41-year-old adapted Nikon vintage zoom lens.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. AIR CANADA STYLE.

Vancouver Island. The name itself conjures images of rugged, rainforested landscapes and coastline so dramatically beautiful that it stops your very breath. It's the sort of place where one expects the unexpected, where nature still holds a firm grip on the sensibilities of the people. However, nestled in our cozy little home, with the relentless patter of rain providing a background symphony, I was grappling with a wilderness of a different kind: the impenetrable thicket of customer service at Air Canada.

Now, dear reader, you must understand something. It is the run up to the Christmas season, a time renowned for miracles happening in the most unexpected places. Yet, it appeared that the Air Canada Aeroplan ticketing office was immune to any form of holiday magic or, indeed, basic telecommunications efficiency.

It’s time once again for us to retreat to our Provencal hilltop. The task was simple, or so it seemed. Book a flight from Vancouver to Paris. A routine activity that “Chantel the ticket agent”, & the first voice of promise on the other end of the line after a 90-minute serenade of hold music that could only be described as the least successful tracks from the 1980s, managed to complicate beyond reason.

"Oh, the flights are very busy at this time of year," Chantel imparted, in a tone suggesting I had just asked to be transported to the moon in a pedal-powered spacecraft piloted by Neil Armstrong and Tom “Maverick” Cruise. I pictured her there, in a cubicle decorated with motivational posters about reaching for the stars, utterly oblivious to the fact that her lack of helpfulness was rapidly ensuring I wouldn't even leave the ground.

Just as we seemed to be getting somewhere, somewhere being a relative term when one has repeated their Aeroplan number sixteen times, the line went dead. Not just dead, but 'ceased to be, joined the choir of the invisible' dead. I stared at the phone, the silent betrayer in my hand, contemplating the cosmic unfairness of it all.

I embarked on the Sisyphean task of redialing, navigating the automated menu with diminishing patience and rising dread. This time, it was Marie Veronique (her name may have been) who answered, her voice carrying the unmistakable tone of someone who had been steeped too long in customer complaints and cheap office coffee monitored closely by “Terry Tate” the office linebacker”. If you wish to take a quick peak into what that environment looks like, please click the link below for some real life examples!

Mr T. Tate

Now, you might imagine that being a high-tier frequent flyer with Air Canada would afford some cushioning from the abrasive indifference of understaffed customer service during the run up to the holiday season. You would be wrong. So profoundly, achingly wrong. Marie Veronique, with the casual disinterest of a cat watching the wrong documentary, informed me that not only were there no convenient flights, but she also seemed to imply this shortage was somehow my fault.

The hours waned, my mobile phone threatening to overheat, and my ear was developing a distinct cramp that I was certain hadn't been there earlier that morning. The rain seemed to be letting up outside, but the stormy frustration indoors was reaching its peak.

It's humbling, isn't it? Here you are, a seasoned traveler with more air miles than Santa Claus, being subtly patronized over the phone by two individuals who hold the fragile thread of your holiday plans between their fingers, ready to snap it with no more than a bored sigh.

By the time I had rebooked – on a flight with more stopovers than a presidential campaign trail and at the approximate cost of a small diamond – I realized something profound. Chantel and Marie Veronique (not their real names), in all their infuriating un-helpfulness, had done more than just ruin my afternoon. They'd provided a stark reminder: no matter how grand one's status, we are all but mere mortals in the face of customer service's capricious gods.

And so, dear reader, as you embark on your holiday travels, remember this: pack patience, for it will be tested, long before you need to decide on which toothbrush to take. This process had taken way too long and my will to live. I felt drowsy and was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I sensed I was nodding off.

The journey continued, as most do, with a misguided sense of optimism that perhaps the worst was behind us. How quaint that notion was. We arrived at the airport, bags laden with the kind of necessary items one needs to survive a trip that included layovers long enough to ponder the meaning of life. There, at the departure gate, we were to be greeted by Francis – though "greeted" is perhaps an overstatement.

Francis, you see, had the distinct air of a man who had wanted to be anywhere else on the planet other than dealing with the likes of travel-weary, question-armed passengers. He didn’t so much check our boarding passes as he did begrudgingly acknowledge their existence, offering the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes, or frankly, any part of his face.

But the real treat, the pièce de résistance, was yet to come. The Maple Leaf lounges, oh, the sanctuaries for the weary and privileged traveler, enclaves of comfort and care. Or so one would think. At Vancouver, and later in Montreal, it became abundantly clear that "sanctuary" had been redefined to mean a place where apathy reigns supreme, and the snacks have seen fresher days.

The staff, evidently following what must be a comprehensive training program in nonchalance, barely registered our presence, much less our status. It's a talent, really, to be so consistently disinterested, and they were virtuosos. One might wonder, in moments like this, where the hefty fees and taxes one pays go. Surely not into the staffing budget, or indeed into any aspect of the customer experience.

No, one could muse, those funds are perhaps funneled directly into the essential aviation fuel that keeps this great airline aloft – or possibly into federal tax dollars providing luxurious accommodations for the likes of Prime minister Trudeau on his whimsical jaunts to visit the Aga Khan. Or perhaps a massive west coast beach house used as a retreat for windy walks and skipping stones across the tidal pools of Tofino’s beaches with Melanie Joly (too soon)? One of life’s great mysteries, indeed.

And yet, as our journey finally, mercifully, continued towards its Parisian conclusion, a revelation dawned, casting a warm, if slightly resigned glow over the entire experience. A soliloquy of sorts bubbled to the surface, a ponderous voiceover to the slapstick comedy of errors this adventure had been.

Oh, Air Canada, with your indefatigable ability to deflate the buoyant spirits of even your most loyal passengers, how do you stay afloat? It's simple, really. Your secret weapon: the existence of competition so remarkably below par that next to them, you appear a shining beacon of adequacy. Yes, WestJet, we glance in your direction with a knowing nod.

For it matters not how you are treated in the warm, indifferent embrace of Air Canada. The alternative could indeed be worse. And so, we continue, gluttons for punishment, or perhaps just hostages to geography, loyal in our disgruntled way. Because no matter how high one's status, in the grand game of Canadian airlines, we're all just playing in the minor leagues, hoping for a call to the show that, we suspect, will never come.

But here's the rub, the twist in the tale, the unexpected morsel of hope in our traveler's buffet of despair: from the time we arrived at the airport it had all been a dream. A concoction of the sleeping brain, a mirage of misadventures that hadn't actually transpired — just yet. My eyes flickered open, phone still nestled against my ear, hold music quietly serenading me, as reality dawned with the softness of a feather yet the shock of cold water. There I was, still anchored firmly, if not somewhat deflatedly, in my living room, not a single bag packed, not a single apathetic employee endured.

The ordeal with Chantel and Marie Veronique had indeed happened and was a certified reality, a dance with bureaucratic absurdity that no amount of wishful thinking could erase. Still, the future, oh that sweet unwritten symphony, remained a slate upon which no nightmare had etched its signature. What lay ahead could still be the smooth sail we hope for in the deepest reservoirs of our travel-addled hearts. Yet, I feel that everything that I dreamed was simply just time reliving itself based on the hundreds of similar negative interactions I have endured over years of travel around the world with A.C..

The beauty of this revelation, dear reader, is the succulent suspense it brings. Here we stand, at the precipice of possibilities, the brink of adventures untold. What Paris holds, what Provence promises, remains shrouded in the mists of Tomorrow. Could it be that the universe, in its infinite jest, has tucked away an upturn in our fortunes, a serendipitous twist waiting to erupt from the ashes of our airline-induced despair?

So, I invite you, no, I implore you, to join me on this journey of hopeful redemption. Stay tuned, for the road winds ever on, and in its curves, we might just uncover vistas of joy to dwarf the valleys of tribulations we've trudged through. Let us stride forth, hand in weary hand, towards that shimmering possibility that the path from Paris to Provence, sprinkled with the gold dust of French allure, can soothe the sting of any customer service scuffle, can heal the wounds inflicted by the talons of travel's trials.

Because, in that hopeful, perhaps naive heart of the traveler, lies the eternal optimism that the journey — unpredictable, tempestuous, and beguiling — will, in its final turn, make everything splendidly, breathtakingly better. After all, isn't that what keeps us exploring, even when the world seems bent on sending us in circles? Ah, to travel is to live, live through the chaos, and emerge, perhaps slightly ruffled, but undeniably alive in the tale that awaits its telling.

I hope you have enjoyed this post, different as it may be. Please leave a comment, as feedback is the best opportunity to learn from mistakes and make positive change. Said Air Canada customer service never!

Live Well!

Mark

Wandering Nice with my Leica Q2: Stories in Every Frame

When people think of France, Paris often steals the spotlight. But for those in the know, Nice, nestled on the stunning French Riviera, is a gem waiting to be discovered. And what better companion to have on this adventure than my trusty little travel camera (Leica Q2)?

Before diving into the wonders of Nice, I must mention my trusty travel companion. The Leica Q2. This camera is akin to a magic wand, encompassing immense power in a sleek design. Its intuitive nature made capturing moments on the go feel seamless. The Q2 was a silent observer, capturing the essence of Nice without intruding upon its natural rhythm. I have several other camera choices, but when I want to move about without drawing attention to myself with a camera that has the capability to capture images from 28mm to 75mm in a small package, the Q2 is the obvious choice.

Nice: A Palette of Pastel Dreams. The city itself seemed to be painted with a dreamy brush, often awash in pastel colours. Pastel-pink façades juxtaposed against soft lavender skies and streets lined with sun-bleached yellow buildings felt like walking through an artist's masterpiece. The sun setting over Nice transformed the city, with coral oranges and muted purples reflecting off windows and the serene waters. Every nook and cranny whispered stories, and the Leica Q2 ensured each tale was told in its full pastel glory.

A Dive into Gatorade Blue. Beyond the shores, the Mediterranean beckoned with its alluring shade of blue – reminiscent of a fresh bottle of Gatorade. This vibrant blue seemed unreal, almost like the sea had absorbed the very essence of the sky. Diving in, I felt enveloped by this refreshing hue, and above, the sun created a dappled dance of light on the water's surface. It wasn't just about swimming; it was about immersing oneself in a liquid canvas, and the Leica was there to chronicle every splash, every ripple.

Faces of Nice: Meeting a Legionnaire. Nice is teeming with life and characters. People who have seen seasons change, who have tales hidden behind every smile, every wrinkle. And sometimes, as a photographer, you chance upon someone who makes you stop and wonder. I came across a gentleman one morning on the Promenade des Anglais, a striking figure in a sea of tourists. Dressed impeccably, his demeanour hinted at a past full of discipline and pride. The sharpness of his attire contrasted with the weathered lines on his face, and I couldn’t resist capturing him in a frame. Later, curiosity got the better of me, and I returned the following morning, hoping he would be there. I felt compelled to introduce myself and hopefully learn a little about the man who stood out from the crowd. As we spoke, I learned a little bit about his military service. Though he was guarded about the specifics, his posture and pride hinted at a possible association with the French Foreign Legion. The Legion! A group shrouded in mystery and romanticism. I couldn't help but consider his evident battle scars with the tales of valour and romance that have surrounded the Legion for years. Perhaps I have come closest to meeting a real-life Beau Geste.

Nice through the Lens of my Leica Q2. In Nice, the interplay of light, people, and architecture creates a canvas that changes with the moments, and my Q2 was there to ensure I didn’t miss a single image. Its ability to render colours, from the azure blues seas to the pastel shades of Nice’s streets, was consistently astounding. And if you're like me, wanting to immortalize those moments, there's no better tool for the job than a camera like the Leica Q2. For in the end, travel is as much about the stories we bring back as it is about the places we visit.

Nice is the definition of a beautiful and opulent colour palette. My hope is that these qualities will someday attract you to visit the French Riviera. I am personally most happy when I wander from place to place with my favourite travel camera. Nice is one of those very few destinations that ensures that my Leica Q2 will never be called upon to capture a monochrome image.

Thanks for dropping by Walkacrossitall! I am always grateful for you sharing your precious time.

Live Well!

Mark

IT’S BEEN 7000 YEARS!

The humble olive! A fruit (yes, my friend, it's a fruit, not a vegetable) as mysterious and complicated as your recently divorced friend’s relationship status on Zuckerberg’s evil Facething. The olive's history is so entwined with human civilization it's practically writing its own book of never-ending history.

First off, the olive tree's origin: a tale as convoluted as an overcooked French ratatouille. Some say olives first graced the earth in the Eastern Mediterranean (Greece) around 7,000 years ago. Others argue its ancestors were gallivanting around Asia Minor. What's certain is that the olive tree has seen more history than the kitchen walls of my favorite falafel shop in the Muslim quarter of old Jerusalem.

Let's travel to ancient Greece, shall we? They used olive oil like it was going out of style (or, more accurately, coming into style). A hot bath with olive oil? Check. A dollop of oil in their food? Of course! Anointing themselves to look all shiny and godlike? You bet! Even their athletes were slathered in it, making them glisten like greased lightning.

Oh, but we're not done! Let's not overlook the brilliant Italians who used the olive as an opportunity to create something to serve with bread. The audacity! Who would've thought that pressing the life out of an olive could result in a culinary masterpiece? "Extra Virgin" and nothing else.

We can’t ignore the Spanish, who took one look at olives and thought, "Let's put this in everything!" They've cultivated an art form out of olive growing and turned their countryside into an olive oasis. A landscape dotted with olive trees as far as the eye can see.

Now, if you thought the olive's talents were restricted to food and skincare, brace yourself for its foray into home décor. Yes, that rustic-looking charcuterie board you just bought for an obscene amount of money? “Probably” made from olive wood. Those kitchen utensils that have a certain je ne sais quoi? Olive wood again! That fancy pipe you're using to smoke whatever with? We Canadians have a government that now encourages our “best and brightest” stoners to get in on a piece of their very own olive wood action. Yep, olive wood; it's as if these trees are begging us to use every part of them.

Think of an olive as a compact little universe of flavor. Each one is like a plot twist in your favorite TV show. Will it be bitter? Will it be sweet? Will it be stuffed with something inexplicable, like blue cheese or garlic? The suspense is real!

But alas, dear olive, what's the use of all this fame and fortune if you end up pitted and jammed into a jar, only to be retrieved during cocktail hour? The irony is palpable. A fruit with such a rich history reduced to a mere hors d'oeuvre. It's like finding the Mona Lisa on a postage stamp.

But wait, there’s more (Shamwow reference time) I've neglected the pièce de résistance of our olive odyssey: the Provençal olive market vendors! Oh, these marvelous men, masters of the olive, orchestrators of oil, tantalizers of tapenades. Dressed in their rustic ensembles (or jeans and t-shirts), they lure you into their stalls with smiles as oily as their wares and charm that could melt a pat of French butter on a freezing winter’s day.

In the bustling markets of Provence, you'll find an extravaganza of olive delights. Want an olive mix that combines the best of both worlds (or, in this case, the best of all worlds)? They've got you covered. From the sweet Picholine to the robust Tanche, each blend plays with your senses. The tapenades? Oh, don't get me started! These are not mere spreads; these are symphonies in a bowl. Whether it's a mixture of olives with capers, anchovies, and herbs or a delightful concoction of sundried tomatoes, garlic, and perhaps a whisper of truffle oil, each taste is an escape to the sunny hills of Southern France. It's a love affair between your taste buds and a Mediterranean breeze, prepared for your trip home in a “safety-first” plastic container guaranteed to prevent spillage 83% of the time.

So, the next time you visit your local supermarket, spare a thought for the olives in aisle three. Behind those glass jars lies a world of intrigue, passion, and culinary excellence. Embrace the contradictions, the unexpected surprises, and the unmistakable taste of the olive. After all, isn't that what life's all about?

Raise a glass to olives, dear readers. Or better yet, raise a martini adorned with one. It's the least we can do for a fruit that's been with us through thick and thin, through salads and sandwiches, through victories and defeats.

(Note: All images were captured with the self-confidence of someone who “thinks” he knows something about olives and his Leica Q2.)

Feel free to comment below if you, like me, find yourself inexplicably drawn to the world of olives. Or if you just like martinis. Either way, your thoughts are welcome and very much appreciated!

Live well!

Cheers…

M.

OTHER PEOPLE’S SHIT!

Ah, France! The land of love, fine wine, and pastries to kill a diet at twenty paces. But more than that, France is also the land of Brocantes - glorious gatherings of what I like to call "other people's SHIT." My wife calls it treasure hunting. I call it a relentless pursuit of tetanus.

The Brocante adventure begins bright and early with "Le Bargain Hunter" emerging from their habitat, armed with a coffee-stained checklist and an overpowering aroma of desperation and Gauloises cigarettes. These fine folks, whose fashion sense could best be described as "Walmart chic," have truly mastered the art of chain smoking in confined spaces and giving zero F#cks.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for a bargain, but my wife's love for Brocantes is something else entirely. It's a passionate, feverish love, like a French romance novel but with more dust and rust. I've seen her bargain with carpet sellers and pottery market traders with the intensity of a French general storming the beaches (ah, the subtleties of French military history, n'est-ce pas?), and all for what? A slightly chipped vase that probably once contained the ashes of someone's Uncle Henri.

Oh, the people! Let's talk about them. They're the true spectacle. One must admire the dedication of those who arrive even before the rusty gates swing open, like seagulls on the scent of yesterday's rock-hard baguettes. They peer through cracks, sizing up the loot, their faces twisted into masks of greed and anticipation. Bargain hunting or horror movie audition? You decide.

The Brocante sellers are a breed apart. They know the regulars; they've seen it all. Their smiles are as genuine as the "antique" Rolex watches they sell. If you're a newbie, be warned, these people can smell your innocence, and they'll charge you double for the privilege of taking home a slightly off-kilter chair that's been through the French Revolution (and not in a museum).

And then there's the stuff. Ah, the stuff. Tables groaning under the weight of mismatched tea sets, creepy porcelain dolls that seem to follow you with their eyes, and paintings of cats playing poker. My wife calls it character. I call it a reason to get therapy.

You see, I love my wife, and I have the mismatched furniture to prove it. Our second-floor living room is now a shrine to the Brocante gods, each piece with its unique quirk and questionable history. Our house is like a museum; only instead of "please don't touch" signs, there are price tags I'd rather forget.

And as for situational awareness? Forget it! It's a battlefield out there. People jostling, pushing, pulling, with no regard for personal space or social niceties. The French are known for their sophistication, but at the Brocante, it's every madame and monsieur for themselves. The only rule is that there are no rules, except perhaps the unspoken one: if you sneeze, you've bought it.

In the end, you'll leave the Brocante with a car full of someone else's memories, a wallet significantly lighter, and the satisfied smile of someone who knows they've bested you. Your wife will be on cloud nine, planning the next adventure into the world of tarnished treasures, and you'll be wondering if it's too early for a glass of Rosé.

So, dear reader, if you ever find yourself in France, by all means, visit the Eiffel Tower, take a cruise down the Seine, but don't miss the true French experience, the Brocante. Embrace the chaos, the dust, and the dubious bargains. If you're lucky, you might even find a treasure or two. Or, like me, you'll simply learn to smile, nod, and appreciate the eccentric beauty in the things – and people – that no one else wants.

This is simply life in France when you are trying to furnish a very old home. C’est la vie. I trust you have enjoyed this midweek check-in.

All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q2.

I hope you have a moment to comment below!

Live well.

M.

NOT FOR THE LACTOSE INTOLLERANT.

Behold, dear friends, the captivating chronicles of an audacious cheese voyager, not interested in products from the land of the free and home of the Whopper, but from places where cheese is considered indulgent rather than a questionable product from a laboratory. Picture it: a realm where cheese originates from pampered bovine creatures and organically mountain-raised goats, not from dubious aerosol cans.

Provence, a sun-kissed paradise nestled in the south of France, is the ultimate sanctuary for those who appreciate the artistry of milk alchemy. Our adventure commences in the village of Bonnieux, an understated hilltop village, where the intoxicating aroma of cheese dances through the air in competition only with the fields of surrounding lavender. The strong odours draw you into its irresistible, savoury embrace like bits of baguette into a super gooey fondue. Undaunted, when I arrive back after some time in exile on Canada’s left coast, I always choose a local signature cheese, Banon, an oddity that might seem extraterrestrial to the less experienced in this region.

As the shopkeeper passes over this fascinatingly wrapped orb of dairy delight, she does so with an unmistakable Gallic smirk, a non-verbal "You're not a disciple of the church of Cheez Whiz, are you?" My reassuring smile speaks volumes: "Rest assured, madame, I am not a sinner from the parish of Velveeta."

As if the unique Banon experience isn’t enough, next comes the quintessentially Provencal tradition of market day, a sensory extravaganza where one can truly explore the incredible variety of local cheese. Amidst the clatter and chatter of locals, stalls overflow with artisanal cheeses, each lovingly crafted and beckoning you to try.

Navigating the bustling marketplace, you're like a kid in a fromagerie, with every cheese more enticing than the last. There's the robust Pélardon, the subtle Crottin de Chavignol, the full-bodied Cabécou, the tangy Tomme de Chèvre, and the delicate Pouligny-Saint-Pierre – that’s just the goat cheese. Then, there's the marvel of sheep cheese – the sweet and nutty Ossau-Iraty, the earthy Roquefort, and the beautifully complex Brocciu from nearby Corsica. Lastly, for the bovine enthusiasts, there's the soft and creamy Boursin and the ever-sophisticated Brie de Meaux. It’s a veritable United Nations of cheese, all nestled within the vibrant French tapestry of a Provencal market day.

Brimming with new purchases, we retreat to our little home just 30 meters down the street, a haven just far enough from the guided tours and the (why so angry?) Belgians. Here, amidst the tranquillity, I indulge in my first wedge of Banon. Its taste is a symphony of flavours, delightfully creamy with a tart undertone, powerful enough to reduce even the staunchest Kraft cheddar die-hard to tears.

Over the years, I have ventured through an odyssey of cheeses. There's the titan Roquefort, an intimidating heavyweight capable of sending your taste buds into a tailspin. Then there's the ethereal Camembert, softer than a whisper yet carrying a cornucopia of flavours, and don’t forget Comtè. What about the various goat cheeses, so fresh they practically gambol on your tongue?

During this never-ending journey, my thoughts often wander to those innocent souls who’ve yet to look beyond the confines of processed cheese slices or perhaps even the Costco mega block of Cracker Barrel. Those unsuspecting masses, wandering from place to place with stops at the souvenir shops (obligatory t-shirt purchase), blissfully unaware of the culinary delights they're missing. It's a moment of creamy reflection, akin to the realization that some people believe reality TV is, well, reality.

At the termination of every local market day, my whicker shopping bag bursts at the seams, and I realize I am undergoing a further existential gastronomic evolution. I am no longer a mere self-declared cheese buyer with imposter syndrome but a true connoisseur of the curd. Will friends grasp the profound depth of my assuredly slow but considered metamorphosis? Or will they just stop and ask, "Mark, FFS, why are you carrying around so much cheese in that bag? Are you mental?”

So, to you, dear friends, I say: embrace your inner adventurer and set your course for Provence. Try the most formidable, nose-twitching cheese you can find. Perhaps, invite those unaccustomed friends, the ones who have experienced "culture" through a shore excursion or a trailer park in Arizona. Watch as they inevitably succumb to the irresistible allure of French cheese. And when that day dawns, with a well-aged wine and a knowing smile, say, “I told you so.” Because you, mon ami, are the cheese whisperer. You’ve influenced hearts and minds. Shoulders back, stand tall. Go out there, head held high, and smash it! Maybe one day you’ll trade in that desk for a market stall laden with fromage…

A big thank you for dropping by Walkacrossitall. Please leave a comment if you have a spare moment.

All of the images in this post were captured with the Leica Q2 and SL2-S with the 24-90mm lens.

Live Well!

Mark

ADJUSTMENT THROUGH ART.

As promised, today is Wednesday, and I am keeping my word to cobble together some thoughts and observations twice a week while I travel again this summer. Slipping into the rhythm of Provence is akin to mastering the art of watercolour painting - it's elusive, delicate, and if you're too hasty, you might just blur the lines. My initial days here in the valley were a whirlwind of trying to capture every hue and every shade, a futile attempt to encapsulate the essence of Provence into a single summer's canvas. But Provence, with its timeless wisdom and laid-back allure, gently guided our brush strokes. The thing is that I know better. I have to keep the notion that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I actually live here for a good portion of the year now. I need to adjust to “mellow” faster. A work in progress. I blame my haste over the last week on wanting to host my brother to the best of my ability. It is his first time in this region, and I felt as though we needed to “walkacrossitall” as soon as we arrived in Marseille from Barcelona.

Provence doesn't merely suggest tranquillity and enjoyment; it insists on it, like a seasoned artist insisting on the perfect blend of colours. It has taken me a full week to finally understand the language of the cicadas, the whisper of the Mistral, and the rhythm of the sun-dappled vineyards. We have just recently learned to breathe deeply, to let the scent of lavender fill our lungs and the taste of rosé linger on our tongues. We have learned to let go, to let Provence seep into our canvas and our souls until we are no longer otherwise consumed but a part of the vibrant tapestry itself.

The Luberon Valley, with its warm hues and vibrant landscapes, is a masterpiece unto itself. It doesn't need comparisons or benchmarks; it simply is. Our local boulangerie, with its golden baguettes and flaky croissants, was a revelation in itself. Thank you for opening your doors every morning at 6:30. Thank you for your perfect espresso and pain au chocolat. Both of these indulgences are my mood altering drugs.

As you may have read in earlier posts, I am a sucker for art. And even more so when I can get out of the heat to enjoy it. The transition from the languid lifestyle of Provence to the vibrant world of Dutch art was as seamless as a Van Gogh brushstroke. The underground gallery in Carrières de Lumières, nestled in the heart of Les Baux-de-Provence, was our gateway into this mesmerizing world once again. I think I have been to this venue at least half a dozen times now. The cool, dimly lit caverns were a stark contrast to the sun-drenched landscapes outside, but they held treasures of their own. I apologise now for writing about this wonderous place on more than one ocasion.

The Dutch masters, from the portrait artists of the Golden Age to the impressionists like Van Gogh, came alive on the rough-hewn walls of the quarry. Their works, projected in larger-than-life dimensions, enveloped us in a world of vibrant colours and evocative imagery. We found ourselves lost in the intricate details of Rembrandt's portraits, the play of light and shadow in Vermeer's interiors, and the swirling skies of Van Gogh's landscapes.

The gallery was a time machine, transporting us back through 400 years of art history. We walked through the streets of 17th-century Amsterdam, stood in the middle of a sunflower field under the Provencal sun, and gazed at the starry night over the Rhone - all within the span of a couple of hours. It was a sensory overload but in the best possible way.

As we emerged from the gallery, blinking in the bright sunlight, we carried with us a newfound appreciation for the Dutch masters and their contribution to the world of art. And as we sipped our Heineken (Dutch beer with Dutch art, why not?) at the gallery café, we couldn't help but marvel at the magic of Provence - a place that seamlessly blends the tranquillity of nature with the vibrancy of culture.

The scent of lavender and Provencal herbs permeated the air, a fragrant reminder of the region's rich agricultural heritage. The fields of lavender, stretching as far as the eye can see, are a sight to behold. The remnants of the recently harvested vibrant purple blooms swayed gently in the breeze, creating a mesmerizing tableau that was as soothing to the eyes as the scent was to the senses.

The local market in Saint Remy was alive with vendors of Provencal herbs - thyme, rosemary, basil, and of course, lavender. Each stall was a delight, the air around it heavy with the scent of fresh herbs. We spent hours exploring, picking up bundles of herbs, fresh produce, and the occasional bottle of local rosé. I think these next two locals should be giving a masterclass on how to enjoy every second on this planet!

Just bring your camera, and perhaps, a sketchbook.

Please leave a comment if you have a moment.

All images were captured with a Leica SL2-S and a 24-90mm lens.

Live Well!

M.

Images from the exhibit follow.

CLIMBING BACK ON THE CHEVAL.

Embracing the charm of Provence was as easy as slipping back into my old linen shirt; this region practically serenades us with its azure skies, warm sunshine, and a chorus of cicadas that sounds suspiciously like Edith Piaf singing "La Vie en Rose" as she wanders through the vines.

These loonie-sized (Canadianism) tree insects are the ones who serenade the valleys of Provence, their melody echoing through the olive groves and lavender fields, a soundtrack to our escape from the monotonous humdrum of the daily grind. With a healthy appetite for the joie de vivre that the South of France promised, we settled in on an epicurean adventure in the wonderous Luberon Valley, our refuge from the seemingly dystopian reality of Trudeau’s folly.

Nestled in the ample lap of the Luberon mountains, this (thankfully) overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make us forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the copious amounts of local rosé.

As we journey through the region, every winding turn of the rustic country roads teases our senses with a new spectacle - a tableau vivant of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant vineyards to the rocky cliffs, everything bathed in the golden Provencal sun. We half expected Julia Child to pop out from behind a vine to hitch a ride in our Renault. Once settled in the back seat, she could begin narrating our journey into the culinary wilderness.

On this latest visit, our first spectacle of the Luberon Valley was a quaint local produce market with such an array of colors and scents that even a seasoned gourmand (aka Fat Bastard) like me could explore with childlike wonder. We walked past stalls of ripe tomatoes and fragrant herbs, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of market vendors, providing the perfect soundtrack to our gastronomic documentary.

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Romans once tread here, proudly leaving their mark on the pristine landscape. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered ruins and ancient vineyards, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.

Our 30th wedding anniversary dinner was at a charming little restaurant known as L’Arome, tucked away in a cobblestone alley of our little village. The chef, a jovial man with a mustache that would make Hercule Poirot green with envy, served us a meal that was nothing short of a symphony on a plate. The local wine flowed like the nearby Sorgue River, and the laughter and conversation echoed around the terrace like a well-rehearsed orchestra.

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

Now, don’t let Provence’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of Paris, but that’s akin to comparing a fine Bordeaux with a rather introspective Coors Light or “NASCAR nectar”. And here's a thought, could it be that Provence intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep the hordes of tourists at bay? Maybe, maybe not. But one thing's for sure, the triumphant crème brûlée at the local dingy dive bar is even top-class. You would be a fool not to travel with the Michelin Guide, but as always, trust in your own senses and follow your nose!

As I bid you farewell once again from this pocket of tranquillity, our hearts and minds continue to fill with warm and vivid memories. A trip to Provence might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapters in our lives. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Provence being Provence. It's a place that offers a symphony of nature, a pinch of history, a dash of culture, and a good chunk of serenity. Just bring your camera. My intention going forward is to post on Sundays and Wednesdays. I hope you enjoy and continue to be ever so slightly entertained.

Please leave a comment if you have a moment.

Live Well!

Mark

p.s. All images were captured with the Leica SL2-S / 24-90mm lens and the Leica Q2.

Todd Inlet, Vancouver Island.

Ditching the hustle and bustle of Victoria was easy; the city practically begged us to leave with a vibrant display of blue skies, sunshine, and the cast of zombies from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller Video” waving to us in our rear view mirrors.

These are they who wander Victoria’s streets in an attempt to adversely effect & disrupt both young and old. With a healthy disdain for the current situation downtown, we embarked on an odyssey to the illustrious Todd Inlet to escape our seemingly dystopian post-apocalyptic city.

Hiding under the ample bosom of the Gowlland Tod Provincial Park, this overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make you forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the patchy cell reception.

As we journeyed north, every winding turn of the bucolic treed roads teased our senses with a new spectacle - an extravaganza of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant forests to the rocky cliffs, everything was drenched in morning sun. We half expected David Attenborough to pop out from behind a tree and begin narrating our journey into the wilderness.

The first spectacle of Todd Inlet was a gentle trail with such well-thought accessibility that even a wheezing porker like me could explore with ease. We walked past meadows and wetlands, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of unseen birds and insects, providing the perfect soundtrack to our nature-infused documentary.

History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Vancouver Portland Cement Company once stood here, proudly spewing smoke and industry into the pristine air. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered buildings and rusty machinery, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.

Soon after arrival, early morning, said goodbye to golden hour, and as sure as the earth is flat (kidding!), the rising sun graced Todd Inlet with a postcard-worthy spectacle. The Inlet was awash in a melange of hues that could make any half-decent landscape photographer weep with joy or weep for forgetting their tripod and long telephoto lens at home (for the 5th time in a row). Meanwhile, Butchart Gardens, nearby, erupted in a cacophony of diesel tour bus engines. These climate crisis deniers, packed with witless drones from the cruise ships, echoed around the inlet like an over-enthusiastic drum solo.

Now, don’t let Todd Inlet’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of the big city, but that’s akin to comparing apples with a relatively quiet, introspective pear. And here's a thought, could it be that Todd Inlet intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep M.J.’s MTV video dance troop away? Maybe, maybe not. Breakfast at the nearby Cafe Zanzibar was excellent, and thank you, Trip Advisor, for the gold medal tip.

As we bade farewell to this pocket of tranquillity and began the trek back to Victoria, our hearts filled with memories and our SD cards filled with photos (well, those of us who remembered their tripods and long lenses, anyway). A trip to Todd Inlet might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapter. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Todd being Todd. It's a place that offers a symphony of nature, a pinch of history, a dash of culture, and a good chunk of serenity. Just bring your camera.

Please leave a comment if you have moment.

All images captured with a Leica SL2-S and a 24-90mm lens.

Live Well!

M.

NARBONNE, THEY TOLD US TO BEWARE THE HORRORS OF A FRENCH PROTEST.

At some point early this week, a renewed desire to explore took hold of us, and we decided to revisit Narbonne. This, an otherwise lovely medieval town previously tainted by the winter of our discontent. My last visit here was in January 2020, one month before Covid set in. In addition to the fear of catching the plague, the weather was atrocious and certainly not what you would expect from this Mediterranean jewel , no matter what time of year. No more snow, no icy winds - this time, Narbonne greeted us with open arms and a welcoming glow from a glorious sun. The call of the South of France was hard to resist, particularly given the promise of the ancient city's history and famed gastronomic delights.

Like a shy maiden hidden behind the veil of our experience, Narbonne revealed herself under the bright summer sun. As we navigated the streets and canals, we quickly realized parking was as rare as finding a family size bag of ketchup chips and a 2L bottle of cream soda. However, with dogged determination we managed to land a little spot not too far from our lodging, a quaint, unassuming hotel that we stumbled upon on hotels.com. We were greeted with a generous glass of Rosé and an exquisite charcuterie board - both unplanned but warmly welcomed refreshments - atop the hotel’s sun-drenched rooftop. The radiant heat, the tantalizing flavors, and the soul-soothing breeze all worked their magic to banish our travel fatigue.

Once our spirits were rejuvenated, we wandered to the town's pulsating heart, ready to uncover Narbonne's myriad of treasures. We strolled through the picturesque streets as the architecture whispered tales of a time long past. Narbonne, you see, has a rich history dating back to the Romans, who used it as a crucial trading port. Vestiges of this period can be seen on the Via Domitia, the oldest Roman road in France, uncovered right in the city's center.

For the history buffs out there, Narbonne's Archaeological Museum is a must-visit. It is bursting with artifacts and exhibits that speak volumes about Narbonne’s history from prehistoric times to the Middle Ages. Here, your senses are taken on a journey through time. The cathedral, a marvel of Gothic architecture, another gem, seems to stand as a testament to the city's former ecclesiastical glory.

Narbonne is not just for history lovers. The Halles de Narbonne, an indoor market, is a culinary paradise where local produce, meats, cheeses, and wines from the region reign supreme. Each vendor is an expert in their craft, offering tips on the perfect cheese for your palate or the ideal wine to accompany your baguette.

In the evening, the city becomes even more magical. Its streets, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, are lined with lively cafés and restaurants, each offering its slice of the famed French cuisine. The aroma of freshly prepared meals wafts through the air, the sound of clinking glasses echoes around, and the sight of people enjoying their repast makes for a very enticing scene.

In hindsight, it feels like Narbonne was waiting for this second chance, and it has indeed won us over with its charm and energy. Yes, there's plenty of history, but there's also vibrancy, a lively food scene, and a welcoming atmosphere. Here's a toast to giving places a second chance and to the enduring allure of Narbonne!

Oh, and how can I forget? Amidst all the charm and history, Narbonne decided to spice up our visit with a dash of contemporary French political theatre - a good old-fashioned protest against retirement reform. You've got to hand it to the French; they do know how to throw a protest! Even in this serene, historically rich town, the winds of dissent were blowing.

Just as we were enjoying a lovely cold glass or two of Monaco and an Aperol Spritz in a picturesque cafe by the canal, a sea of placards, banners, and passionate locals filled the streets, marching, singing, and waving baguettes (a nice touch of French resistance, wouldn't you say?). The retirees were out in full force, shaking their walking sticks and chanting slogans. I half expected a chorus line of seniors to start a can-can routine in the middle of the square. And you know what? Despite the disruption, the restaurant continued to serve, and the wine flowed - because it's France!

There was a brilliant moment where one particularly feisty grandmother, armed with nothing but a fiercely worded sign and a fiery spirit, managed to bring the march to a halt just to adjust her beret. Let me tell you; if there's anything more French than protesting your government while sipping a glass of red, it's making sure your beret is perfectly angled while doing so. This city, ladies and gentlemen, has a sense of style, history, cuisine, and a flair for the dramatic. Narbonne - the city that never fails to impress!

I hope these few words and photographs inspired just a little bit of interest in visiting this area. Please leave a comment if you have some time; I really enjoy hearing from you.

Live well!

M.

The Magic of Casa Julian in Tolosa.

As you wander through the cobbled streets of Tolosa, a charming Basque town nestled in the verdant Oria Valley, you'll find an unassuming gem that has been serving gastronomic delights for over six decades: Casa Julian. Established in 1954 by Julian Arrieta, this family-run steakhouse has become legendary among steak connoisseurs and food enthusiasts alike.

Tolosa lies about 30 minutes south of the foody capital & coastal city of San Sebastián, easily reachable by train or bus. But it's not just the ease of access that draws you to this enchanted town; it's the magnetic allure of the famed Casa Julian. Stepping into the restaurant feels like entering a time capsule, with its rustic stone walls, smoky aroma, and the heartwarming sight of the family tending to the grill. The menu may be simple, but it has been perfected over generations. The pièce de résistance, of course, is the Txuleta, a succulent, bone-in ribeye steak cooked to perfection on an open wood-fired grill. The dining experience is rounded out with traditional sides, such as roasted piquillo peppers, fresh salad, and crusty bread, all paired impeccably with local Basque wines.

As you savour each bite of the heavenly steak, soaking in the convivial atmosphere and animated conversations, you'll be struck by the genuine warmth and passion of the family who keeps Casa Julian's culinary legacy alive. Matías Gorrotxategi, Julian's son, now helms the grill, while his sister, Pilar, tends to guests with a heartening smile. The unpretentious ambiance, punctuated by the sound of sizzling steaks and the clinking of wine glasses, is nothing short of intoxicating.

Once you've basked in the glow of Casa Julian's culinary wonders, it's time to explore Tolosa and let the sumptuous meal settle. The town's picturesque streets and plazas provide the perfect backdrop for a leisurely post-meal stroll. As you amble along the Oria River, make your way to the 13th-century Church of Santa Maria, a stunning example of Basque Gothic architecture. Continue to the colourful Plaza de Euskal Herria, where weekly markets and vibrant cultural events breathe life into the heart of the town.

Your enchanting walking tour of Tolosa would not be complete without indulging in the town's famous sweets. Pop into a local pastelería to sample the delectable Xaxus, almond-based pastries that are the pride of the town. As you relish these sweet treats, you'll find yourself reflecting on the delightful marriage of tradition and culinary prowess that defines both Casa Julian and the charming town of Tolosa. The magic of this Basque haven will leave an indelible mark on your heart, beckoning you to return to its enchanting streets & alleyways time and time again.

And now to walk it off!