To market, to market
By day four of our nine week stint in Provence we have quickly realised that our time here will largely revolve around two things: Markets and food.
Neither endeavours will help our bank balances or our waist lines, but such is life. We came here to experience a different lifestyle and to live like locals. Markets and food it is.
Of course both activities involve the coming together of people. I can quite easily wrap my head around the focus on mealtimes and food here. I know it’s early days but already I think that the complete shut-down of all commerce and activity for two hours during the middle of the day to break bread (and drink wine it seems, already I cannot imagine lunchtime without a glass of the house white or rose) is infinitely sensible. How dare any one even contemplate buying a pair of shoes or posting a letter when there are four courses to be slowly and carefully digested. Some things truly are sacred. The rest is just noise and can certainly wait. I suspect it will be a shock to revert to a 24/7 culture on our return. Already I have visions of wandering down to the front gate at home and stringing across a rope with a little sign informing passers by that the studio and household are closed from midday - 2pm. The French really are on to something.
What completely astounds me though is the prolific nature of the local markets around us. Each day across Provence there are at least eight markets to choose from.
Monday morning. Time to look lively and venture out and about (Jamie has recovered from the trauma of driving here from Marseille and is ready to get behind the wheel again). We discover the next local village has a market. Bedoin it’s called - home to 3000 locals (some of you cycling fanatics may recognise the name as it features on some years in the Tour de France). I imagine there may be a few fruit and vege vendors, probably some clothes and handbag stalls - no the latter did not tempt me. Perhaps even some charcuterie on offer. What more could possibly happen in a small village in Provence on a Monday morning - every Monday morning.
How wrong I was. What are all those people doing in a market on Monday morning? We got there at about 11am, completely incapable of actually getting up and leaving the house any earlier these days. The place was throbbing with locals. And I’m not just referring to those in their golden years.
Admittedly there was quite a bit of lycra. It seems cycling around Provence has become the latest craze for the over sixties man. The new golf. While Jamie was ready to get behind the wheel, I certainly was not ready to be his right-hand woman. The predominantly one-lane goat track between Malaucene and Bedoin at the edge of a steep cliff was made more petrifying by the never-ending trail of cyclists on the road. So I anticipated some of them would be seeking refuge at the local market but they were certainly in a minority.
And to support the many and varied needs of the local customers: Around 100 stalls. With hot little euros in their hands it was hard to get Molly and George moving through the place, and poor Matilda did get told off quite sternly in French for very carefully picking up a packaged soap set to look at. Please not Matilda, I wanted to say to the grumpy old woman. She got lost at Disneyland and then she was the only child in our family to be pulled out for closer inspection and swiping at Paris Orly airport. This child is currently off limits. George did succumb to a ‘fidget spinner’ for six euros (a shame as about fifty paces down the road he could have purchased one much cheaper - lesson number one about market day commerce) but on the whole we were very disciplined. Never spend all your pennies at the first place kids. There are going to be a lot more markets to come…
I am determined to solve my burning question about attendance at these markets. Do these people have jobs? Are they at markets for goods or fellowship?
When I was growing up in Waikanae there was a small contingency of aged men and women who religiously attended local funerals (professional mourners). Regardless of whether they actually knew the individual it met a need for them, gave them a place to be and a nice cup of tea afterwards. I am suspicious these markets are full of the same people, travelling the region to find people to connect with.
Maybe that’s not a bad thing. Perhaps it is the secret to local longevity (could it be the olive oil consumption has little to do with their good health). This appears a simple, humble and happy existence.
We may have already found the rhythm of the region. Shame we found those 8 Euro floral headbands that broke before we’d even left the market they were so poorly made.
