Aix-en-Provence.

My new destination is Aix-en-Provence, the artist Cezanne's town. I'm in a lovely little bed and breakfast with French country decor and Cezanne-esque paintings everywhere. I wander along the Cours Mirabeau, supposedly the most beautiful main street in France, it's a covered walkway of trees reaching towards each other, coming together in an arch. I lunch at Le Grillon, which is a beautiful turn of the century cafe. I have the usual, warmed goat's cheese with a lavender honey and black olive tapenade on little crispy rounds of toast. Of course I have wine, I am in France so it's de riguer. It's starting to warm, the skies are south of France azure blue.

The next day I walk to Cezanne's studio, sixteen minutes away by google maps but after forty minutes, I'm puffing up a hill in heat that comes on suddenly, only to discover there's not even a gallery there, it's his studio. I stay a while, trying to imbue myself with his ghostly presence and his equipment as he supposedly left it and then head back to town for lunch. I'm starving after the long walk and I'm sure he would approve, as his paintings were very evocative food wise.

I stroll into another part of town and find a wonderful outdoor food market. There are paper cones of saucisson which I know my partner would love; bunches of vegetables tied up with string for soup; melons nestling in orange tissue paper like gifts. I find Cezanne's favourite cafe, Les Deux Garcons and decide to have a late decaf coffee there and try to feel his presence. It was here he conversed about life and politics with his famous French writer friend, Emile Zola. It was an interesting friendship that began at school when Cezanne was rich and Zola was poor but slowly Zola became famous and they crossed monetary barriers. Cezanne's father cut his allowance and as Cezanne hardly sold a canvas, Zola subsidised him.

I wander and find interesting shops quirkily hidden in old buildings, full of fabulous jewellery and sculpture, with little vintage tea rooms where I drink the famous anise flavoured chilled water (not the alcohol) which cools me down as the days are starting to heat. That night, exhausted, I find an Italian restaurant and have the best Scallop risotto outside of Italy, exquisitely flavoured with chervil. I try my broken French with the waiter and he answers in perfect English. I compliment him and he says: It should be good, I'm Irish! He's been living here for five years so listening to his perfect French, I just assumed. Never assume. Ps. The first photo is Cezanne's studio.

Nimes, France. Tales of a year abroad.

I'm headed to the fabled south of France with the hope of doing tours to small villages and the fabled flamingoes in the Camargue. None of which eventuates. The season has yet to begin. No tours, no buses and I'm not ready to tackle driving alone in France. I accept my fate and I'm off to #Nimes. Le Marquis de la Baume hotel is a lovely old medieval residence, it’s slightly Spanish looking with an open section internally and wonderful stone external staircases. The room is huge and I panic thinking I’ve booked the grand suite and won’t be able to pay for it, but no, it’s cheap. And armed once again with a map, I wind through the little streets and start to relax, this is more me. A bit more warm and inviting. Even on the train trip, the scenery changed dramatically, green trees instead of the leafless varieties, rocky outcrops, the southern land coming into view. I find a cafe from 1850, Cortois, salon du the, it’s stunning inside, mirrors, beautiful coloured glass surrounds and the best quiche I’ve ever had. And then I ask the waitress where the arena is and she points down a street, I’m suspicious but I follow her direction and there it is, in the middle of the city just like the colosseum in Rome. It’s huge and well preserved, evidently it’s the oldest most used arena in the world. After Roman times it was lived in by the wealthy and after that homes were built in the compound and again lived in for centuries. I wander around it’s circumference and then find another street leading off to the Maison Carree, a temple from 1st century, beautifully preserved and again, used by dignitaries, as a house after Christianity came into being. Now it shows a film of the beginnings of Nemus, the latin name for Nimes; an interesting history. Caesar asked for five hundred men to help him fight in northern Gaul and a man from Nimes went as leader and returned victorious twenty five years later with a chest of gold as payment for his valour, to build a glorious city.

I look for a restaurant close and whilst I’m standing in front of one, a determined waiter interrupts to tell me how great his restaurant is; tired from walking, I accept. The decor is atrocious! Big pink glowing balls under tables, black glass bowls on the edge of the tables, a piano, cheap lights strung across the roof. The food is shocking and only three of us are seated, two Americans who spend the meal talking on their phones. I escape quickly and head back home, looking up to see a full moon hovering over the Cathedral, ghost white against a pale pink dusk.

The next morning, I set out to find the gardens, Les Jardins de la Fontaine, full of ruins and meandering pathways. I find the famous #Calissons, little almond and fruit diamond shaped pastries and I buy one in it's own beautiful little tin. I find Les Halles, the markets and finally I have a fantastic meal of rabbit in a mustard sauce with a pile of fresh tiny vegetables, a hunk of wholemeal bread, a wonderful fruity wine. I wander the aisles admiring the artful arrangements of the vegetables; the deeply coloured tomatoes that look like ceramic ones with a glossy glaze, the different kinds of asparagus, beautiful little pies with inscriptions on top. That night I have another bad meal of duck that is so bloody that I can't eat it, I send it back knowing that the chef will be shaking his head over my uncouth tourist tastes and it comes out so tough that I can't even cut it. I think they microwaved it. I give up, drain my wine and leave.

Depression ascends again, I wander home trying to work out why, when I have so much to be joyful about. Maybe it was the surgery that suddenly brought to light that I am ageing, that life can change in the flutter of a butterflies wing, fragile and dependent upon the human breath. I had no concept of age until that surgery and now it is upon me, I can feel it breathing down my neck. Hurry, experience, have as much as you can before it's too late. But apart of me is too tired, too lacklustre to start new projects, to embroider new threads, except for this escape which I suppose is a form of renewal.

I'm truffle hunting, trying to find the scent of that person who had no fear and now has constant anxiety, whose breathing is cautious and sometimes held too long. Such a weird place to find myself. I write about this in the open courtyard, the moon slowly showing itself over me.

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Bordeaux, Toulouse.

I've arrived in #Bordeaux. The outskirts, as I come into the centre are, as always grey and almost derelict. The hotel is modern and close to the old centre. I wander out and find an arcade that is art nouveau/deco and I'm in my element. I am back in the thirties, drinking wine, waiting for my usual goats cheese and honey salad. Of course, then I probably wouldn't have been allowed out alone. I get a text from the daughter saying she's made a friend in Perugia. I get excited and then she sends a photo - a pigeon! I remember the anxiety of a a mother with an only child, always on the lookout for other children to play with her. And then she sends another text saying she's found a real human, an Australian girl the same age and I relax. I continue to explore. I was here with my husband, probably 30 years ago. We had gone to #Paris to visit the architect friend whom I recently met up with and the husband decided he wanted to go on the new fast trains. We picked Bordeaux. I remember because at some point the train stopped and the husband got out to have a chat with someone on the platform, just to stretch his legs, he said. I was sitting wondering what I would have to do if he missed getting back in, as he often became engrossed in conversations and forgot about time. I was ready to grab both bags and jump off. It was the days without mobiles. I wondered how we managed to stay so calm. I also remember that that was the time I thought about making sure I always travelled with a small flask of something strong! He did get back on in time and we continued on to Bordeaux. In those days, you walked until you found a sign saying room for rent. We found one, up a spiral staircase, a huge room with a plastic shower to the side that leaked water everywhere. I remember also sitting in a beautiful square and having raclette cheese that was heated in a special machine, and then there was a hot plate where you grilled meats and a bowl of potatoes was served that you could dip in the cheese. It is one of those memories you hang onto forever, a year after our marriage, the light of summer draped over the tables with the cheese contraptions, the wine, the balmy July evening.

The Gilet Jeunes this afternoon are out , demonstrating peacefully, singing songs. The police are out in force barricading most of the main streets but I slip through a side one and by evening I've found the heart of Bordeaux, cobblestoned tiny streets, cafes and restaurants spilling out onto the sidewalks. I choose a 19.90 euro special. A salad nicoise with plump black olives, tiny green beans, baby yellow potatoes and tuna; duck breast slices with an apple sauce, homemade chips and a creme brulee flavoured with lavendar. I'm the only female alone again but the city is vibrant, the streets crowded, the light slowing gently to darkness, the whole street glowing. I had looked to find where the husband and I had eaten thirty years ago, but couldn't see anything similar.

I breakfast early as I'm on the move again to #Toulouse. I breakfast at a lovely old art nouveau cafe,a cafe noissette, croissant and the free chocolate that the French generously give you. A group of Australians sit next to me, rowdy and loud. None of them even try to speak French. I pretend I'm French, order with my best accent and escape.

It's Sunday and I keep forgetting what it's like arriving in towns on the holy day. Toulouse is deserted. My hotel is obscured by roadworks but inside it's tastefully decorated. I go in search of food and end up walking in the wrong direction. I end up at an Italian restaurant in desperation, am seated next to a rotund man who is eating a large mound of steak tartare, raw and bloody, he is drinking a beer and sweating and keeps looking over at me. I'm too hungry to move on, so I order eggplant parmigiana and eat quickly so I can escape his observation and the unsettling redness of the raw steak.

Toulouse is called the Pink city, la vieille rose, but today the dull skies tone it to an overall greyness. The next day I find a cafe within the arcaded square. The city is transformed to aliveness. The arcade ceilings are covered with aeronautical happenings that Toulouse is famous for. I have plans to go to the markets and galleries but Monday is rest day for both. Rather than the description of the pink city, I call it the Violet city. Everywhere there are violet shops, lemonade, beer, liquors, syrup, perfume, soaps, hand creams. Old fashioned lolly shops, full of antique violet tins, violet flavoured lollies, slabs of violet nougat studded with almonds, candied violets and the famous violet shortbread. I have a thing for violets, for their shy hideaway existence beneath other plants, peeking out from their big heart shaped leaves, perfuming the air subtly with their fragrance.

I discover that one Museum is open, the Musee des Augustins, a gothic style convent built in 1309 and opened as a museum in 1793, making it one of the oldest in France. I go because I've heard it has a large number of works by it's famous artist, Toulouse-Lautrec, but that section is closed for renovations. It's still beautiful wandering it's halls and there's an Instragrammers spot of choice where sections of Romanesque capitals are displayed on multi coloured columns of rust, orange, turquoise, red and azure with modernists lamps lighting them. I wait for a break in the human traffic so I can photograph the empty space. Lunch is good, a wonderful thyme flavoured Quiche Lorraine in a cute little cafe near the river that I have made sure I've found before I leave. It's brown and fast flowing and wasn't really worth the walk. And so another city has been circumnavigated briefly. Tomorrow another.