TheFitzyreport

First horses, now bulls, a bakery that has been making communion wafers for Lourdes forever, and a market that makes visiting the artist town of Pernes-les-Fontaines worth it’s weight in asparagus. White or green. 

Who knew that Provence has a tradition of bull running? There are two sides to the story, both rated G, no blood involved. In the Spring when the markets are bursting with goodies, the river bed in Pernes becomes a showcase of skill. Legendary white Camargue horses lead a pack of horn-wrapped bulls through a crowd of young people who admire but nevertheless take challenge in grabbing the bull’s tail and forcing it to the ground. The horses, field-friends of the bulls, protect their cousins. The children, holding forefingers at each side of their head to mimic the bulls, wait for the moment to charge, a rite of passage that could lead to them becoming ‘raseteurs’ in the arena. Being a professional gives a financial reward, for the risk, and for the success of raking a feather from the head of the bull without losing an arm. Did I say no blood? This is not a bull fight in the Spanish sense, the bulls go home for another year of field work, while the raseteurs go on to become dancers or high jumpers. Everyone wins.

The local convent, meanwhile, continues their century old tradition of making communion wafers for the church. It’s a busy time before the bull season, and it’s god’s work. If the bread sold in the old bakery next door is any indication of their craft, I’ll be standing in line come Sunday.   

A horse is a horse of course, of course! Nothing speaks to me quite like the recent discovery of cheval at the local Saturday markets. While I’m called to new taste sensations, they don’t generally evoke a jingle or twinge of hesitation in their purchase. Not like horse. Years ago I spent my first white Christmas in France with friends whose mother made delicious lapin in white wine and cream sauce. Unbeknown to me it might have been a different first experience, as I recently discovered Madam Fouquet could also buy horse meat at the markets if she arrived early enough. I was delighted to find this chapter of traditional cuisine still thriving in a generational stall in the heart of Green Provence. Delighted and challenged. The stall is a permanent feature in the midst of a 6 day carpark, that on the seventh day becomes a maze of seasonal temptations stacked perilously on fruit boxes. Magically everything disappears at the end of the day, except the longstanding tiled boucherie chevaline.

The family’s son was proud and enthusiastic about our carnivorous curiosity, it seems horse meat became a menu item through economic necessity (Napoleon preferred his spiced with gunpowder) but more recently is a specialty item with a contested future. I have tasted kangaroo despite being a fan of Skippy, so why my hesitation with horse? Maybe it’s because Skip didn’t have quite the romance of Black Beauty or Hi-Yo Silver, and there are certain childhood memories that should perhaps remain intact. After all, what would Mr Ed say?

Provence is too perfect. Immaculate fields of lavender undulate with swathes of pastel around medieval villages. Cottages feature bluish-purple shutters that hang like proud flags on white walls, draped with wrap-around wisteria above perfumed yellow roses. Cherry trees, bejewelled with plump rubies sparkle between horse trails and vineyards. Red poppies turn fields and roadsides into magic. Church bells strike the hour from steeples towering above the village chateau from which vantage point there can be no modern distractions. No wonder the Impressionists found such inspiration here, no wonder Van Gogh went mad with the spectacle, no wonder Nostradamus could see into the future. 

Actually these days Nostradamus is remembered not so much for his prophesies as for his recipes. In France anyway. From the heart of his alchemy he devised processes for replacing liquid with sugar in fruit, creating spectacular confiture, marzipan and nougat. What a genius! He paid for his wizardry by being expelled from university, but Provence has collected the royalties on his cookbook (Traité des fardements et confitures) these past few hundred years, and everyone claims to make their jellies and sweets from his original recipes. 

Perfection is a beautiful thing, which on the one hand can require bureaucratic manicuring (regulations on becoming part of a medieval village in Provence can be as complicated as the etiquette of playing petanque) but can also happen perfectly naturally. One evening we rode to a spectacular field of red poppies to capture the vibrant silhouette of the setting sun when Sean was disturbed by a man from the local farm. Thinking he was upset about our presence, Sean spoke with his eyes and hands about the beauty of the moment. Without a word the man disappeared, then came back a few moments later extending his cupped hands, full of big luscious strawberries. Then he disappeared again, just like magic.  

To visit Provence is to be invited for a picnic on Claude Monet’s bridge. Make sure you take the scenic route to get there, so you catch the best at the local markets and the early rising nougat makers, just as they stir the honey into the almonds. The smell will take you to heaven, where you will find an old wizard working on a new book, this time with copyright, and called Nostradelicious.