I love August. It is the month we always used to come on holiday here, and so it is associated with many happy memories. We used to look forward so much to escaping from almost constant rain and waking up to blue skies, and now even although we are living here I have not got used to that. Outside my bedroom window is a bank of lavender and in the morning I wake up to sunshine filtering through the shutters and the sound of bees already humming amongst the flowers outside. Camille, our little brown and cream cat, loves to stroll amongst the bushes as soon as I open the door for her. By 9am the temperature is well over 30 degrees and the butter left out for breakfast is in danger of melting. Between midday and about 4pm it really is too hot to do anything that requires much effort. Not that that stops us from trying of course and we often seem to find ourselves out walking amongst the olive and pine trees, or making our way down to the market. Or, less pleasantly, running to catch one of the few buses that make the 50 minute journey to the local centre of administration for the Var department, Draguignan.
When we were on holiday here we used to stay on campsites, and one in particular became our favourite, right on the beach. Long days were spent enjoying swimming in the warm sea water or sketching views of the countryside or just sunbathing. We would go on costal walks, along rocky paths bordered by scrubby trees and bushes on one side and sparkling blue water on the other. We would visit, and revisit, the beautiful hilltop villages of Ramatuelle, Grimaud, and Gassin. And we loved to go into St Tropez by a back road, and stroll through the old streets surrounding the orange and yellow bell tower and along the harbour front past all the millionaires’ yachts along to the artists stalls.
Without transport we have not been able to visit the beach this summer, but at least the appartments where we are living share a swimming pool which feels like a real bonus, if not almost an essential here. The pool is very popular with children, and watching them I think how fortunate they are to grow up in such beautiful surroundings and in such a favoured climate.
One of my favourite place to visit in the Var department of Provence is the beautiful little hilltop village of Bormes les Mimosas. The steep old streets, many with steps, are lined with pastel coloured houses in shades of pink, cream and terracotta, overflowing with tubs and baskets of flowers. The main street , pedestrianised, is full of enticing little shops selling jewellery, clothes, bags, antique style items for the home, precious stones and an assortment of local crafts. The main road which skirts the village, never overly busy unlike on the coast only a few kilometres distant, is bordered by magnificent tall palm trees and pavement cafes, from which there is a wonderful view of the Mediterranean.
I think what makes Bormes special for me is the combination of colours, from the orange and cream of the buildings to the dark green of the palms and cypresses, from the bright sparkling blue of the Mediterranean to the duskier blue greens of olives. vines, and chestnut trees on the surrounding hillsides.
The sun is setting, a glowing red ball surrounded by a halo of soft pink, silhouetting the pines whose dark green outlines stand sentinel on the crest of the hill. In the valley the inhabitants of Vidauban are winding down from the activity of the day. Some are sitting on their terraces having an evening meal, others are enjoying an aperitif in the cafés down in the square. The scene is very peaceful, very calm.
It’s not so calm in our apartment. After numerous attempts my two sons have at last been offered jobs in the grape harvest. The only problem is, the château where they would be working turned out today to be about 20 kilometres away, down winding country lanes called chemins which thread through vineyard after vineyard interspersed with thickets of pine trees. So now we have the enormous problem of desperately needing the money the grape harvest work would bring, but not being able to afford transport of any kind to get there. The château is too isolated to be near any bus route and an old second hand car would cost around € 500 but even that is beyond us. Although one of my son’s has ridden bikes and scooters in England, in France you need a French license to do so. At the moment the problem sadly seems insurmountable. I do wish I had a family to fall back on, but being an only child of long deceased parents, I do not.
On a brighter note, however, I do feel things will work out sometime eventually. In spite of the difficult times I’ve had in life (and there have been quite a few) in the end situations have resolved themselves.
The sky is still red and the lights are twinkling now in the village. It is very beautiful and I am very fortunate to be able to experience it.
At the moment we do not have a car and so we are having to make our way around on foot and by bus. This feels exhausting in the heat of August, especially carrying 4 litres of milk daily uphill from our nearest Intermarché supermarket (a chore we usually reserve for early evening when the sun is just starting to go down a little).
However, when on the bus you do see more of the countryside than in a car and you can get to meet people this way. I have a favourite bus driver, a lady with fair hair and huge sunglasses who is extremely chatty. When she is driving I make a point of sitting in the front seat, and so far we have discussed the weather (always sunny), electricity bills (she only had her heating on for 3 weeks last winter), house renting, cars, washing machines, furniture, neighbours (her’s) and so on. She drives the same route every day – between Vidauban, where we live, and Le Muy, where our bank is, a distance of about 12 kilometres. As I usually make the trip about once a week, we have got to know each other quite well and she sends a cheery wave when driving past if I am on foot.
Another plus of not having a car is not being caught up in traffic jams! Vidauban itself is a quiet little town, but the A9 motorway stretching from the Italian to the Spanish border is just a few kilometres away. In August it can often reach a standstill (although not as often as a few years ago now that France has prohibited the driving of lorries on motorways at the weekends during the summer holidays). Anyway, the other evening we were making our way back from Intermarché as usual, laden with carrier bags, and were surprised to see our route through the pink and cream housing estates, with colourful gardens of purple and red bougainvillaea ,clogged up with cars crawling along at a snail’s pace. We found ourselves constantly being beckoned over by the anxious occupants, asking where they were and “how long did the queue stretch for” (which was right through the town). It transpired that there had been either a fire or a major accident on the motorway – accounts varied. But the funniest question, asked by a middle aged French lady on holiday, which had us laughing all the way home thereby considerably the lightening the load of the shopping bags, was “Have we arrived at Nice now?”… Nice only being the 5th largest city in France and some 100 kilometres distant!
There was a forest fire here yesterday – right behind our apartment. The hillside with path leading up to the chapel is covered in old olive trees, scented pines, and scrub, and there are lovely views looking down onto farms and vineyards below. However, with little rain and scorching sunshine for months now, the vegetation is tinder dry and late afternoon yesterday the hillside was enveloped in billowing clouds of smoke. We were first alerted to it by a neighbour knocking on our door and telling us to pack all our papers, in case we had to evacuate. This was followed seconds later by a deafening roar of helicopters and aircrafts zooming by overhead and causing the windows to shake. I sent my two sons out to reconnoitre while I panicked as to what to do. We have no furniture yet, just plastic garden chairs rescued from the roadside, my concern was the paintings I had set out to dry all around walls of the room. After hurriedly packing them into some large boxes and reassuring our puzzled, but thankfully not frightened, cat I went out to see what was happening for myself. Small crowds of people were gathered watching, wondering what to do, as the aircraft sprayed what appeared to be red dust (in fact a mixture of fire retardant chemicals) on the blaze.
Amazingly, it only took minutes – well, about ten – for the rescue services to get the situation under control. But then, forest fires unfortunately are a regular occurrence in the Var in summer, and the fire services here are on constant alert and well rehearsed as to what action to take. A striking contrast after moving over from Cornwall, England where in recent summers flood damage has been a major problem!
In the evening I climbed up through the terraces of olive trees to the chapel on top, and saw the full extent of the fire damage. It was sad to see the trees and shrubs blackened and the ground covered in ash – probably caused by a cigarette butt.