Provence je t'aime. Gordon Bitney
every type of assistance.
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That first spring we made shopping trips for furniture and assorted other things to make the house liveable. Once we had the basic necessities like beds and kitchen appliances, we decided to furnish the house as much as possible with genuine provençal pieces. Their simple rustic craftsmanship has a relaxed elegance that immediately attracted our attention. We resisted the detailed and fine antiques, opting instead for furniture that could be used for day-to-day living. The wear and patina only added to their charm.
I came across a small oval-shaped keg with a long leather strap to carry it over a worker’s shoulder. He would have filled it with wine each morning which he drank over the course of his day working in the vineyard.
For pottery the village of Dieulefit just north of Nyons was the place to go. It had become a centre for potters because of the fine clay deposits nearby. We drove over to visit the pottery studios scattered along the streets. The variety was astonishing and some of the pieces so artistically made we sometimes bought just for the pleasure of owning them.
Some villages had Sunday marchés for antiques and a slew of other goods. We carefully searched through the junk spread out on the sidewalks, hoping to turn up a genuine piece that had been painted or damaged but was repairable. We began to understand that a lot of paint remover, steel wool and furniture wax can often bring back the finish of a unique table or chair made from a rare wood. The seller either couldn’t be bothered to do the work himself or didn’t recognize what he had for sale. Before buying the house, neither of us had ever guessed that treasure-hunting would become one of our most absorbing pastimes.
There are different qualities of used furniture outlets, selling anything from high-grade antiques to worthless junk. The antiquaires sell the real thing at prices that assure the buyer the piece is both genuine and valuable. Then there are the brocantes, selling a second tier of quality where old and increasingly rare provençal furniture is more likely to be found. We bought a chest of drawers with an inlaid wood pattern.
In the summer, villages hold vide-greniers where anyone can come and spread out their goods on makeshift benches or on the ground, to sell anything from old shoes to their grandmother’s linen and silver. Often our best buys came from these attic sales. I found a set of old boules still in their worn leather carrying case. Marie-Hélène picked out a two-seat wicker chaise.
We were told that the gypsies on the outskirts of Nyons were good at recaning. Marie-Hélène drove over to their encampment with the chaise and returned the next week to pick it up. The man had done an excellent job, but when she handed him a fifty-euro banknote he had to call his son over to give her the correct change. He couldn’t add or subtract.
On weekends the village marchés aux puces are places to buy smaller things like bric-a-brac. We tried the trocs that sell furniture nobody wants, hoping to find some misplaced bargain, but gave up on their inventories of junk after a few visits.
Never knowing from week to week what might turn up, we returned now and then to L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. It is by far the best hunting ground for antiques in the area, and is the second-largest market in France. The merchants share large buildings and their pieces arrive and sell daily. To hesitate buying something expecting to return the next week is to miss out. In all likelihood it will already be on its way to New York or San Francisco by air freight, or in a van operated by Hunter’s Humpers headed for England. I couldn’t help but think that at the rate these pieces were selling it was highly unlikely Provence would have any provençal furniture left in a few years.
It was at L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue that we found the bistrot Chez Nane, where we lunched during our Sunday quests for antiques. Located at the back of one of the buildings, it is frequented by the brocanteurs. The food is simple French bistrot fare, but the patio is trellised and covered with vines. On one side, fish and ducks swim by in the canal. The shaded setting with clusters of grapes hanging over the tables offers a delightful escape from the frenetic Sunday market. In all likelihood the person we had been negotiating with an hour earlier would arrive and nod and wish us bon appétit before joining friends at a nearby table reserved for them.
We decided we needed French provençal chairs for our dining room. We hadn’t had much success until we noticed a set of seven in one of the stalls. This was a rare find. The brocanteur wasn’t there; the fellow at the stall across the aisle said she would return in a few minutes. We waited, but after some time she still hadn’t returned so we discussed moving on. He saw that we might do so and came over.
“She won’t take less than two hundred and ninety euros for all seven,” he said, asserting his expertise.
Marie-Hélène and I glanced at each other. We had been ready to pay more than that. The price marked on the chairs was four hundred and eighty. I looked at the fellow and feigned some concern.
“We could pay two hundred and fifty, but we can’t wait any longer. Can you help us?”
“Beh oui. Je pense,” he replied.
I paid him while Marie-Hélène brought the car around and folded the back seats down. Just as we had loaded the last chair in the hatch of the car a woman came by and stopped.
“Those are my chairs!”
“Oh yes,” I said. “The fellow in the next stall looked after it for you and we paid him.”
She went off to see him, while we closed the hatch door and headed for home.
• • •
Our drives took us an hour north on the A7 Autoroute to Valence for shopping in the boutiques, to Barjac situated deep in the Massif Central for a giant outdoor spring antique market, and an hour and a half south-west on the A9 Autoroute to Nîmes to see the Jardin de la Fontaine and the best-preserved Roman amphitheatre in France. Nearby, the massive 275-metre-long Pont du Gard, part of the aqueduct that the Romans built to supply water to Nîmes some two thousand years ago, rises almost 50 metres over the Gard River.
In Nîmes and Arles, ferias with bullfights are still held each year, although they are less violent than they once were. The bullfighters are unarmed, and their goal is not to kill the bull but to snatch the ribbons off its horns. On the other hand, the bull is free to do all the damage it can. Angered bulls have been known to pursue their tormentors over the arena barrier and up into the stands amid terrified fleeing spectators.
We were walking past the amphitheatre in Nîmes when I couldn’t resist telling Marie-Hélène a story about a man visiting a city in Spain known for its more traditional bullfights.
“He had an introduction from a friend to a very good restaurant in Barcelona. The maître d’hôtel welcomed him warmly when he arrived and showed him to an excellent table. The man accepted the suggestion of the waiter for the dinner. When the maître d’ returned at the end of the meal to ask if he had found the dinner to his satisfaction, the man said it was excellent, but he noticed that someone at the next table had what looked like a very unusual dish.”
I glanced at Marie-Hélène to see if she was listening, and then went on.
“‘Can you tell me what that dish was?’ ‘I most certainly can, monsieur; it was bull’s testicles.’ The man was very interested now, so he asked, ‘I would like to return tomorrow evening and try that. Would it be possible?’ The maître d’ said he would do his best. So the man returned the next evening and as promised the dish he requested arrived and the man ate it. Once again, the maître d’ returned after the meal and asked if he had enjoyed it. ‘Yes I did, but I noticed they were much smaller than the ones you served the other gentleman last night.’ ‘Well, that is true, monsieur. . . . You see, some days the bullfighter wins, and other days he does not.’”
• • •
While Marie-Hélène is fluent in French and has a natural grasp of dialects, I had learned the language in university and could read, write and speak reasonably well—or so I thought. I began to realize that I had a very small vocabulary and that my pronunciation was apparently abysmal. I learned this when the gardener turned to Marie-Hélène