Matin

Breakfast is over, which paves the way for another important deliberation: What is for

lunch? And where? However, this imponderable will have to wait just a few moments to

provide space for the rest of the morning. The sun keeps rising, the shadows shortening, and

cats are getting lazier. Cats are not known for their continually long bursts of dog like energy,

preferring instead the languidity, characteristic of a feline louche. It knows food will arrive

either by its slave’s own hand or it will bob by in front of it in avian or rodent form. There is

no need to go around chasing hope and its shadow. Why risk effort when effort comes to you?

Indeed, effort is required to find or keep one’s preferred snoozing spot, be that windowsill,

garden wall or tree. If a Provençal cat is ever spotted doing something as strenuous to its

demeanour as actually walking, one may notice that each paw is carefully placed in front of

another almost sloth like in deliberation. There is not a hint of any thought in its head

beyond focusing on saving energy for when it might become needed. Should a wall impede

progress, a walk around it should suffice but if not then the morning’s saving up of its energy

store should allow one jump to the top where no doubt the cat will become overcome with the

effort and lie down to sleep in the sunlight dappled shade of a tree. Mice grow fat, safe in the

knowledge that food is plentiful, and the cats grow lackadaisical.

As the morning progresses, the sound of vines fizzing with the sound of sugar creation

in their big fat black grapes can almost be heard, and definitely imagined. The gnarled black

old vine stump crack in the heat as it rises, the leaves whistle and rustle as the wind slips down

from the Rhône Valley. The dry-stone encrusted earth that passes for soil is alive with tiny

insects and miniature dust swirls. Row upon row of green leaved vines stand in field upon

field across the landscape. There are no hedges to obscure the view from the road. There is

always a ditch. At irregular intervals, cypress trees appear as if to mark the boundaries of the

domains. Then suddenly a field of vines gives way to regular spaced olive trees that are

similarly hard at work using the sun to imbue their fruit with juice and oil.

Along a quiet dusty country road, you may hear the rumble of an old Citroen 2CV.

Long gone from English roads, these relics of a bygone era can still be seen bouncing and

creaking their way over farm tracks and stone dusted ‘chemins’. You know this car from its

unmistakable shape of an arched roof and a design which harks back to the 1930’s when

mechanics was a simpler affair involving nuts, bolts, hinges and trust. The ‘air conditioner’ is

an open window or the hinged flap just under the windscreen. The window does not have a

sophisticated mechanism, rather it is hinged in its middle and one just flips the bottom half

upwards.

Somewhere, a farmer is working hard at keeping the fertility going. The only evidence

is a tractor that might noisily appear, rattling its way across the countryside. There is of

course weeding and pruning while the harvest is awaited, but as in most agricultural work one

does not see vast sweating armies of labourers toiling away in the morning sunshine being fed

on soft bread and cold pastis until lunch time. Provence is of course at work, but it is not

visible. The evidence of the labour of bakers, butchers and brewers is all around, the work it

takes to get the produce to market is not. As if by magic the invisible hand of the artisans

come to market in order to satisfy the demands of the discerning shopper. Insurance is being

sold, cars are being maintained and the law is being ignored all over the region, but you will

not see it. You will however see men gathered together in small clusters taking a drink at the

bar tabac.

The bar tabac is where one goes to get coffee, a glass of wine or brandy even in the

morning, and gossip. They are rarely spaces of artful design. Function takes pride of place

over form. Indoor lighting is a ‘on or off ’ matter, harsh strip lights or none at all. They will

have tables and chairs outside where one waits to be served, but do not be in any hurry. The

owner or waiter will not. The small cluster of local men will most often be found inside, even

on a bright day, with perhaps a pastis, and catching up on the racing or football. They talk in

a form of French unknown or documented in polite textbooks. They will acknowledge your

presence, especially if you utter the mandatory ‘bonjour’ as you enter. This is custom and

practice and will seem to be rude if you don’t. The French will greet each other with a

handshake and a back throated tobacco encrusted growling noise as much as a Cornish

Farmer does on discussing the price of livestock. Strangers on bicycles in weird clothing are

more than tolerated especially if one can brighten the day with tales of derring do on famous

Tour de France stages being attempted or kilometres undertaken. Each morning at about the

same time, the same small cluster of men will arrive at their various appointed minutes in the

same bar tabacs to exchange the same pleasantries, rituals and gossip. They have already

bought their baguettes and have left the domestic duties to the wives back at home. The

scenery outside the window will not have changed except for the seasons, so nor will any of

their habits till one of them dies. No women are ever seen at this hour in the bar tabacs. Ever.

A cat may wander across the car free road to sit under a café table, but that is as much

actual physical excitement as can be handled. And so it is that life will have to be created in

talk. This is where one’s lack of cultural knowledge and the language severely impacts one’s

enjoyment and connection. The thick patios of Provençal is at times unrecognisable as French

in any case. The veracity of the subject under discussion is a small matter. The point of the

exercise is the talking itself.

Farmers farm, wine growers hope, chefs source their ingredients. They will do so

infused with a variety of liquids. Meanwhile, cyclists cycle often armed with bottles of water

and rehydration tablets. The electric bicycle is certainly making a showing, they at first look

no different from any other normal nonsporting bike. A clue is often the age of the rider.

Grey haired, wiry legged tanned like old leather and the bike kitted up with panniers, yet, the

machine goes along with ease even up rather steep hills. It is not uncommon for a younger

fitter cyclist to be passed on their way up to a col by a pensioner couple having a wonderful

day out in the high hills. Early morning is a good time to go out before the real heat of the

day kicks in, but an electric bike might make that less of a necessity.

Yet the most common sight out on the open and empty road is the sports cyclist in full

kit. He may be with a small group or is found in ones and twos. It is most often a bloke. Age

however is no barrier, with the sight of men the very wrong side of 60 dressed up and belting

around the countryside, not uncommon. Beware though that Lycra though popular and

extremely useful is not always the most flattering of materials. It is probably better that cyclists

move past your eye-line quickly so as to cause least aesthetic offence to the sensitive. It is a

strange phenomenon that those with the greatest potential for providing an experience of

seeing curvaceous art on wheels flash by, are those least likely to do so. There are of course

many young very fit, very athletic male cyclists out on the road that could provide a fleeting

glimpse of firm buttock for the ladies, however the padding in most shorts provides that area

of the anatomy with the same shape as a bonobo’s bum. Prominent but not pleasing. Very fit,