Aigues Morte and the Canal Du Midi Friday 18th July

The sheep jumping from the tower at Aigues Morte - don't ask!

We have been used to walking long distances on flat surfaces in Florida, but suddenly we are discovering muscles in the backs of our legs. Yesterday we had wandered up and down the tiny back streets of Montpellier, unaware that we were climbing steps, descending alleyways and working our way up hill and down dale. This morning we awoke and stumbled about complaining bitterly about being stiff, but rather than just sit around, we got organised early and drove down through Lunel to the ancient walled town of Aigues Morte.

It’s an old haunt of ours so we didn’t feel the need to work our way around the ramparts or climb the Constance Tower to see where poor Marie Durant had been incarcerated for her faith for 38 years back in 1730. On our last visit, we had seen inside the tower and shuddered at the grim existence of the women who were imprisoned for their faith. A single hole in the central floor area was the only route through which food would come up in a basket, and presumably their waste would go down. I was particularly interested in this bit of history because it was French Hugenots who fled to Cape Town in search of religious freedom, and who were largely responsible for founding the excellent wine farms of the southern Cape in South Africa that we had been supporting for many years!

The great thing about Aigues Mortes is that it is a living town despite its extraordinary setting amid the massive stone walls that surround it. Throughout the summer months, the inhabitants put up with living inside a tourist trap, but I can imagine that once the German, Belgium, British and French invasion has packed up and gone home, it will return to being a rather nice place to stroll around without being confronted with endless shops filled with every trinket that the Carmargue region can come up with.

This trip, we turned our back on the town and bought tickets for a boat ride along the local stretch of the Canal du Midi. Taking into account our aching legs, it was delightful to relax in an easy chair on the top deck and enjoy the passing scenery. The sun beat down, and if some of the bare skin on show had been on a barbeque, I would have taken it off for fear of it being overcooked. It was encouraging to see how many children wore hats and dark glasses, but there were several who wilted in the fierce Mediterranean sun and only chirped up when we reached the “manade” or bull farm. Clearly the boat owners have an arrangement with the farmer, and he and his young son obligingly galloped about on their snowy white Camargue horses and rounded up a few of the black bulls. There was lots of dust and cheering and the chance for the youngster to poke the bull with his long pronged stick, but I was happy in the knowledge that these bulls are not killed in the ring, but the idea is that the razateurs attempt to cut off the rosette worn between the lyre shaped horns, and rather than being put to death for his efforts, the bull is cheered and taken home for a good supper.

Having owned and ridden the sturdy Basotho horses for much of my life, I was interested to know more about the famous Camargue horses. It seems that in the same way that Lipizzaner horses are born black and turn white after five years, the Camargue horses stay dark until their fifth year when they appear in all their glory. I understand that the males are ridden while the females are only used for reproduction. It sounds like a reasonable deal to me!

Pink flamingos, white horses, black bulls, large grey herons, vines that once grew in sand and fields of rice make this an extraordinary area to visit, and it’s easy to see why people will spend large sums of money to hire a boat and then trundle slowly up and down the canal which we were told helped to created a route which was navigable from the Atlantic to Eastern Europe. Judging by the accents on the boat on which we travelled, a great number of people who could have viewed the water from their own front yard had come to see it in the south of France.

The beans that we planted two days ago have almost doubled in size, and this evening we scaled the wall into the paddock next door and scooped up a sackful of ancient horse manure. Nothing like it for bringing new life to the wilted roses, and already the garden is starting to look cared for and clean. Jean’s sister Michelle has offered us the use of her trailer and rotovator, and next week we can make a serious start on the vegetable garden or “potager” as it is called. No respectable French garden can be without a few rows of beans, lettuce and the like, and we are determined to get up to speed before the winter months arrive.

Last night Jean’s two daughters plus the expectant father came for supper. They are a jolly bunch and although the French is pretty high speed, I manage to keep a grip on the conversation despite being unable to join in. It’s a relaxing change for me and I let the talk ebb and flow around me and enjoy the sight of everyone sitting out under the platane tree with the candles gently flickering on the table and the crack and crunch of fresh bread. The barbeque is doing stirling service and the girls clear the table, and Jean and I marvel at the wonders of small children who grow up to become useful adults!

We have found a market. Saturday morning and we drove up country to Sommierres. It was only when we walked in under the gateway and into the old walled town that I remembered that we had been there many years ago. Happily we had arrived before the crush of visitors, and the stall holders were still busy setting out their wares as we wandered about. Without a throng of people, it was possible to photograph the ancient buildings, and by the time we were ready to escape the crowds and the heat, it just remained to stock up on Herb de Provence and a good chopping board, and resist the delicious but horrendously expensive local goat cheese, and head back home.

We did call in at a nursery on the way back and were virtually given a bag full of geraniums. The owner knows that the season is drawing to a close, but if we are clever, we can enjoy the last few weeks of brilliant colours and then cut them back and save them for next year. By then we will have experienced our first winter in years and will have sampled the pleasures of living in the south of France without the heat and outside of tourist season. Maybe by then my French will have improved and I will be able to keep pace at the supper table, but failing that, I can set about teaching our new grandson the basics of English!