Gordes

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The GPS induced nightmare of last night is still raw, and I wake up still feeling brain dead. We decide that today we'll try to do very little. I tell Issy that I think that we should take a short drive to the village of Gordes which is about 25 kilometres to the north of Lourmarin. I'm not sure that this quite fits with her definition of doing very little. In her eyes I suspect doing very little entails not moving more than a few metres from a lounge next to the pool.

The first part of the trip takes us through the forested hills immediately to the north of Lourmarin. We enter the very pretty village of Bonnieux, where the main street is only wide enough for one car, so we wait at a set of lights for several minutes while traffic comes from the other direction.

Gordes is set on top of a hill with excellent views over the surrounding countryside, and is clearly a very popular destination. We go into the church, and then onto the caves of the Palace of Saint Firmin which are a series of cellars dating back to the 13th century. The cellars are believed to have been used predominantly to make olive oil, and our visit includes a short video on their history and the history of the village itself. There's evidence of Gordes having being occupied since Roman times. It suffered significant damage during World War Two, much of which was inflicted by the Germans in retaliation for attacks by the Resistance, which was strong here. It has only become a tourist destination in recent decades after being rebuilt, and is now popular with artists and celebrities, many of whom have homes here. We drive back to Lourmarin past the village of Rousillon. This is apparently famous for its red ochre deposits, which are very evident from the road.

The petrol gauge seems to have dropped very quickly, although this might just be because I haven't been paying it enough attention. I think that I can see it falling further as I watch it, and it's now below "empty". I tell Issy to use the GPS to find the nearest petrol station. I'm not sure why I bothered. It doesn't know. Of course it doesn't know. We limp into Lourmarin. I think we're running on fumes. We use other more reliable electronic devices to find that there's a petrol station about ten kilometres away, and decide that we'll go there on the way back to Marseille tomorrow. We're not sure what we're going to if we run out in the meantime. Maybe a long walk will do us good. I can feel another sleepless night coming on.

I go for a dip in the pool and we spend some time relaxing before walking into the village for what promises to be yet another stressful session of trying to order dinner. We'd like to leave here having at least once known what we were going to be served before it arrived at the table. We get lucky and find a pizza restaurant. Pizza menus are generally easier to translate than menus at more upmarket establishments, and we have some idea what might be on perhaps as much as a third of the dishes here. Even more miraculously our waiter speaks English. I think we'd be a lot less stressed if we'd found this place a few nights ago.

The tactic I've been adopting in trying to deal with waiters and other restaurant staff is to just "oui" in answer to any questions I don't understand. It would be unfortunate if the question was one for which "oui" wasn't the right or appropriate answer such as, for example, "do you speak French?" I generally run with this tactic until I'm inevitably asked a question for which "oui" is very definitely not an appropriate answer. This might include for example "do you want to sit inside or outside?" At this stage one of two things usually happens. The best outcome is that the conversation starts again in English. Unfortunately the more usual outcome is that I get a strange look that says "don't pretend you can speak French when you can't" and my adversary then continues on in their mother tongue. The situation generally degenerates quickly from there, and the rest of the meal becomes a nightmare. I think I need to come up with another tactic.

We've noticed that lots of people seem to bring their dogs to restaurants in France, and there's one under the table next to us. The waiters usually bring them bowls of water, and their owners feed them chips and other local delicacies from the table. France seems to be a lot more dog friendly than our homeland when it comes to things like restaurants and trains, which we agree is a very good thing.

Issy and I discuss what we'll do differently the next time we come to Europe. We agree that we'll stay in fewer places for longer, and we'll try to avoid using a car. Apart from the issues with narrow streets and our beloved GPS, the other downside to having a vehicle is that it always seems to be really difficult to find anywhere to park, and when we do it's usually a long way from where we want to be, or horrendously expensive, or both. We also agree to bring a whole lot less luggage next time. My back and shoulders are still on strike after struggling up and down stairs at all the stations we've been through, and I'm sure half the clothes we brought with us are yet to see the light of day. What were we thinking?

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