Day 18 : Avignon ( for sure ), Ponte du Gard Aqueduct, and the Saint Remy Bull Festival.

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Today is definitely Avignon Day.
I started yesterday with a bit of background on this important city, so if your memory is like mine, read it again. As my parents used to say when we were in a hurry, and I appeared to be elsewhere, “ I’m not going to repeat myself !” Luckily for you, there is no implied punishment attached to this, and I don’t think there ever was for me. It was just an often futile attempt to get me to snap out of it, fire up, pull your finger out, and as my father never swore in his life, that’s as colourful as it got.

Approaching Avignon, via Google Maps, the overall impression and welcoming committee leaves a lot to be desired. According to Tim, France has a view that cutting back overgrown roadside weeds is rarely done, because they will die anyway, and they do provide nutrients for bees and other insects. It just looks horrible. And why does bamboo flourish on every inch of vacant ground. It’s probably too late to control it now.
The first glimpse of suburbia seemed to resemble a rundown industrial area, and a temporary campsite. Small allotments were concealed by grey stained concrete walls fortified with barbed wire, and the road outside was reserved by lengths of hessian tape draped between two old car seats. Modest, cement sheet clad cabins hid at the back of each block, concealed by caravans, cars, and collected of second hand materials that might be used for renovations or repairs. The streets were littered with rubbish and old vehicles, but fortunately this was a small sample of Avignon.

We approached the Castle walls and entered the carpark through a new entry made in 1972.

With limited time, we decided to take a tour on the tourist train that wound around the Old Town for 45 minutes, highlighting the history and significant points of interest. You are viewed as a caged animal by those on foot when you take these tours, and in a way you are. The jury is still out for me on the value of them. Lunch was gnocchi with mushrooms at a restaurant in a quiet, cobbled, shady little plaza, away from the hectic rush outside the Popes Palace. The most impressive part of Avignon is the battlements surrounding the old town, stil in remarkable condition. They are 4360 metres long, and would have been impenetrable when they were built in the 14th century. We drove away from Avignon at 2pm, with an hour to spare before the Bull Festival at the stadium.

A stop at the Ponte du Gard was included in the spare hour, so we needed the visit to the Aqueduct to be brief. There’s not much to do except look at it so I couldn’t see a problem.
The Ponte du Gard is a well preserved three tiered aqueduct built around 19BC. Each block was carved by hand and transported from nearby quarries. It is 275 metres long, 48.8 metres high and could transport 20.000 cubic meters of water per day. It’s existence enabled water to be transported to Nimes for over 300 years, and is just another example of Roman ingenuity. The gradient down hill is just 2.5cm over its length, as this is the grade they considered was ideal to deliver the water at a practical speed. I have dropped all these stats at your feet just to show how amazing it is. It’s considered the greatest Unesco World Heritage listed site, and it would be hard to argue against it.

We only stayed for about 30 minutes, walked around the site, Tim waded into the river, took some pics ( yes, the pictures are his ) and I chatted to a family from Bern in Switzerland for a while. It was a interesting cultural exchange, and I’m sure they left feeling short changed.

They first asked me if I spoke English, and I replied, “ Sort of, I’m Australian.” It would have been funny if they hadn’t thought I said Austrian. The father said something in Swiss, and that’s never a good sign. Do the Swiss like Austrians; the look suggested, not so much. Eventually, the youngest daughter who is a trainee nurse, asked where I was from. Rather than mention an Austrian town, Melbourne, Australia, was my slow clear reply; we were friends again. The mother explained to me that her English was not good but she spoke some Spanish.

“ No problems, habló español, poco,poco. “ said I. Luckily we stuck with English and I didn’t have to use my complete range of Spanish, and ask where the toilet is, and do you take credit cards. It’s really a bit better than that, but I wasn’t keen to have it tested today.

The Viaduct was amazing. I know, lots of things are, but this was the Romans at their best. So was the Maserati taxi in Avignon, burbling it’s restrained horsepower, dying to get out on the open road.

And so we’re we. We had to get back to the Bull Festival

Tim said he couldn’t see it taking more than an hour or so to see the events, leaving time to go to the Roman village nearby, but guess who was most enthusiastic to see out the entire event. It was exhilarating watching the strategies used to retrieve the ribbons from the horns, and the nine razateuers worked as a team to help each other succeed. The bulls were definitely different, and some bulls displayed more aggression, while others more brains. The bulls were not injured, even though some jumped the barrier into no man’s land and had to be coaxed back onto the arena through a number of gates around the fence. They would stomp one foot, put their heads down and look for a victim. Sometimes they just stared into the crowd as if they had found someone to challenge. One bull rammed the barrier and snapped a timber rail that I would estimate was 50mm thick. It’s a sport for cool heads and nerves of steel.



The smart regulars brought cushions. Sitting on concrete terrace seats for 4 hours is a pain in the butt.

In an arena the size of four basketball courts , nine young men in tight white outfits, probably to deny the bulls any chance of hooking onto loose clothing, risk serious injuries, daring fired up bulls to attack them, in the hope of removing ribbons from their horns as they get close, with each one earning a cash prize, not to mention the prestige and reputation for doing well at this sport. Our favourite looks like Nick Kyrgios, and is one of the most successful so far. He has the smile and carefree attitude, without the aggressive outbursts. A tenth man, in his forties, acts as a provocateur, and just gets the bulls attention before the razeteurs runs out in front of the bull. He is obviously retired from competing and now act as a distraction; no less dangerous.

It’s half time, so everyone is heading to the toilets or buying drinks. The second half is being heralded in by the brass band, so I’ll get back later.

That last bull wouldn’t leave the stadium and return to the pen when his time was up, so they sent out Daisy ( my naming ) , an attractive looking cow, I assume, with a bell on her neck, and one provocative wave of the tail and the bull followed her straight in. Who said females are the weaker sex?

The men who compete with the bulls, the Razeteurs, race across the front of the bull as he advances, trying to claim one of the ribbons attached to the horns. They jump from the arena to the fence behind the barrier, often launching themselves and gliding through the air. Danny, the guy who was judged most daring for the day, was awarded 200€ and a trophy. All the other trophies go to the bulls.

Dinner tonight was at an Italian restaurant in town and we were home by 9.30. At the moment I can hear loud explosions, and there are fireworks showering the sky with sparkling balls of colour, overlapping, and putting a definite goodnight to today. I will post in the morning after popping up a few pics.

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Photos

The Stadium
It was a full house.

Pre Bull Entertainment
The Carmargue Horse Display.

Young Boy Showing The Oldies How Its Done
He looks about 7 years old

Comments

[Susan Petch]

Viva les bulls
Glad they don't kill those bulls. Very brave blokes.