Cat Larrison, 1988

All it took for us to launch another adventure was Thérèse’s suggestion that Sisteron, a town located in the foothills of the Alpes, is worth exploring. Renie found a wonderfully quirky gite—an ancient stone pigeon tower, Le Pigeonnier de Mon Père—in Chateaufort, a tiny isolated village thirteen kilometers of narrow, winding roads from Sisteron.

In the Middle Ages, owning a dovecote was a sign of wealth since the birds were a source of meat and the excrement was valued as fertilizer and as an ingredient in gunpowder. At the time of construction, pigeon holes made of wood, wicker, or pottery or hewn into the rock walls lined the interior from top to bottom. Every pigeonnier was built with a band of protruding rock or slippery tile near the roof to prevent rats and other predators from poaching its prey.

Our new nest has four floors of about ninety-four square feet each connected by steep and narrow stairs. The ground floor houses the well-equipped kitchen (oven, cooktop, microwave, refrigerator, sink, dishwasher, washing machine) and a sizeable table with four chairs. Really, it is a marvel of efficiency, ingenuity, and character. An area for reading and relaxation furnished with two comfortable chairs and a TV is on the second floor as is a bathroom with shower. The comfortable double bed and an antique dresser occupy the third while a loft with two squishy mattresses and a large window framing a magnificent view of the small valley and massive white granite ridge tops it off.

Upon awakening I heard the two-note sound of what I thought was a cuckoo clock. The chiming was regular and repetitive, exactly like the clock we had years ago. But it was a real cuckoo—a European harbinger of spring. Mostly though we listened to the sounds of near silence—the gentle breeze as it rises and falls, the belled cow roaming in the distance, the tolling of bells at a neighboring monastery, water shimmering in the moss-covered stone trough on the terrace and dripping from the nearby community fountain dated 1885. We were surprised when the mayor arrived to loan us the key to the village church. We let ourselves in and paused to embrace the simplicity and prayerful atmosphere of the sacred space.

Sisteron is situated on the Durance River, a tributary of the Rhone, and is dominated by the hilltop citadelle that dates from the 12th century. We suspected that something unusual was happening when we arrived at the Romanesque church for Sunday Mass a little early and found it already crowded with well-dressed men and women. After we were seated, I noticed ribboned nosegays of lavender and roses adorning each pew. When the organist began pounding out Mendelssohn, we realized we had become wedding crashers.

We didn’t want to leave the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence department in this region of southeastern France without seeing at least a few more sites. Entrevaux is a medieval fortified village on the Var river. After enjoying an aperitive while admiring the architecture from outside the walls, we crossed the meandering river on the stone bridge that replaces the drawbridge and wandered along attractive narrow streets.

We were captivated by the cathedral whose simple and plain exterior belies the magnificace of the richly decorated interior.

Diane longed to be near the water again because—that’s her thing. She had heard of Collioure, a seaside town only fifteen miles from the Spanish border that was beloved and painted by certain French Fauvists. That was a strong signal that the town would be worth seeing.

The gite we booked is a little farther down the coast from Collioure, near Saint Cyprien. And what a wonderful residence it is. Massane is one of two side-by-side cottages located within the former barn and stables of a classic centuries-old farmhouse. The amiable owners and their sons continue farming many acres of wheat, corn, and grapes on the same land that their ancestors tended during the past two hundred years.

Marie has excellent taste and a flare for design. She keeps the two gites up to date and well outfitted. The call of a nightingale greets us as we enter by a wooden gate and pass through a private garden dominated by tree size oleanders blooming pink and red. The house is immaculate and the large amount of space more than makes up for the sacrifices the pigeon house required. Just thinking of Marie’s home-crafted strawberry preserves full of whole juicy France grown strawberries makes my mouth water as I write.

We walked along the long boardwalk at Saint Cyprien in bright sunshine and wind so strong that we could hardly stand upright. There were whitecaps on the sea. These are the weather conditions that make this area a favorite of windsurfers and sailors. There are similar towns up and down the coast—modern towns that attract large numbers of visitors in summer. One of them could be called Destin-in-France with its mini-golf, roller-coasters, fast food, and ice cream stands galore that cater to families.

When our good friend, Phil, asked us what we would do if we lived in France for a year, we answered that we imagined we’d be doing pretty much the same things we do at home but while speaking French and without the junk mail. So why should we be surprised by a flat tire.

We had decided to explore Perpignon, the last major city before the Spanish border, only about twenty kilometers away. It was one of those days. After browsing a small uninteresting market and a larger even more uninteresting one, we walked about a million steps along not very clean streets to tour a barren, long-abandoned, but well-restored, castle. When we finally found our car again, the left front tire was flat.

It was an opportunity to voice seldom used vocabulary. “Mince, le pneu est dégonflé.” Among other words. But . . . our French phones were charged, the agency representative spoke a little English, and the mechanic arrived within forty-five minutes to put on the spare. Since removing the damaged tire revealed a large rip that couldn’t be repaired, we spent the next three hours at a tire store where we bought TWO new tires because, of course, two matching tires were required. We were fortunate though. Insurance covers the costs.

Vines and vineyards are everywhere. Lining hills and moseying up to church doors and ancient stone buildings. It’s like this all over southern France. Whereas Lambesc is in the heart of Provence and the center of the appellation of the Coteaux d’Aix wines, this is the region of Collioure red, white, and rosé table wines and Banyuls, the sweet wines produced from the same vineyards. We did enjoy a few hours in Collioure. It is an especially lovely village, but since it was the weekend of the Feast of the Assumption, a major holiday, it was mobbed.

Grief is no stranger to our adventure in France. We are heartbroken at the news of the death of our friend, Helen Porter. So, yes, Phil, we are doing about the same things we would be doing at home, all the while thinking of and remembering with great affection our friends and family.

Diane and Renie, June 11, 2022