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.
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