Mercury rising

It must be an incredible experience to spend a year in Provence. In a land like this the seasons are very defined and impact greatly on the way the locals live.

It is hard to believe that just six weeks ago we stood on the steps of our special Provencal villa to capture a family photo. I remember it vividly. Getting all four children to look, smile and be still in unison with Jamie getting the timer on the camera to work was nothing short of a miracle. In between shots we jiggled and jumped to stay warm. I was wearing nearly every top I owned at once and thick tights under my trousers - not to mention a scarf that I pulled up around my head in between takes.

Fast forward six short weeks. Today we hit a record high for our car - 36 degrees in the shade. The weather forecast promises highs of 34 for our town until Friday (when it will do a big drop down to a very mild 31). And we are not even officially in summer yet - it starts in about ten days.

This morning with the whole day ahead of us we contemplated taking the children to the zoo. They are now budding historians and have acquired a heathy appreciation of architecture, garden design and market shopping, enthusiastically taking each day as it comes. Perhaps something very child-orientated was well overdue. But then we fatigued. We hadn’t even finished breakfast (outside - as it was cooler than the kitchen). The zoo involved far too much exertion. And it was too far away from our swimming pool.

Yesterday we visited Villeneuve-Les-Avignon. Across the river from Avignon (once connected by the infamous bridge) the ‘new town’ as it literally translates into english grew once the Popes had settled in on the other side. Most interestingly for the little-historians was the very masculine and overbearing fort standing dominantly at the top of the rise. The King of France at the time - 14th Century - had built the fort and chateau on the edge of the French border as a reminder to the Papacy across the river that he was there and watching. We also visited an Abbey complete with stunning gardens and monastary (I do love a good cloister - this one had three lots). It was all very beautiful, breathtaking even. And I will never forget how stunning that fort with its white stone looked against the vivid blue sky.

But there was one problem. The stone’s thermal properties. One lady had quite literally fallen asleep in the abbey’s garden. I didn’t blame her, we all could have joined her. The cobblestones radiate from below, the walls emit constant heatwaves and any possible resemblance of a breeze is stopped due to the mere fact that these buildings were all designed to keep anything out with their high walls and narrow alleyways. It is like being in a constant sauna.

As one tiny consolation it seems we are not the only ones to feel the heat. The locals too have kicked in to a new gear (if a much lower one). Everywhere we go we see shutters on houses closed shut, which has seemed very curious to me. Today we decided to give it a go. Completely at odds with what a New Zealander would attempt to do when the sun comes out we shut it all down. Kept windows closed and light out. I was pleasantly surprised to find it worked. Goodbye sunshine for us.

Out to lunch the locals also look hot and bothered. I still do not know how they manage to eat such substantial lunches in the heat. And drink their aperitif followed by at least one glass of wine. Today we did pizza and accompanied it with a half litre caraf of Rose. I can barely manage to function afterwards let alone pay the bill. A stiff coffee and dunking in the pool is certainly required to get me back on track, and even then I never return to peak performance. And these people can hold it together to return to work. Productivity levels must take a serious dip after lunchtimes. I am not sure why the government was blaming the 40 hour week for productivity challenges here. They should turn their attention to the vin.

It seems the remainder of our time here will need to involve being in close proximity to water. Pools, rivers, lakes, seaside. Even standing at the open fridge door could be an option.

While we happily indulge in our little pool (the last swim usually happens some time after 9pm - such a luxury) we have become experts at seeking out other alternative swimming spots.

Family favourite so far has been the public pool at Nyons, but only for entertainment value. It could not have been any more French.  We arrived ready for an afternoon of swimming in its idyllic setting with palm trees, multiple pools, women (of all shapes and sizes) in their bikinis and men (of whose shapes and sizes were all very evident) in their budgie smugglers. I have always been fascinated by this European obsession with body revealing swimwear.

Who would have thought it was regulated. After changing and walking through the water troughs guarding the entrance to the pool area (because we wouldn’t want dirty feet anywhere near the water) we went in search of a good palm tree only to be stopped by the lifeguards. They explained to us in French that board shorts could not be worn in the pool. But, I tried to reason, I purchased George’s togs in Paris - they were labelled as maillot de bain (togs), it’s a Parisian label. No, no, no she said they are not proper swimming togs, one cannot wear them in a French pool. Then she had the audacity to say ‘oh la la la la la’ in an exasperated tone ‘you only speak English’ (still in French of course). Oh no, I told her, je comprende - I completely understood what she was telling me, I just didn’t understand why the rule exists. And then that favourite French answer to all questions - parce que (because. Explanation finished).

George was allowed to borrow a pair for the day. Some little tighties to really show off his substantial muscles. But Jamie, he had to go to the shop and purchase his own pair of budgie smugglers. Much to all of our disappointment they only had boxer-type ones. He’s looking forward to sporting them at Karori Pool on Sundays on our return.

Then they turned their attention to me. Friends affectionately refer to my swimming togs as the burqa. I like to pretend that I wear my elbow length top and knee length shorts (they are actually sold as togs) for sun protection reasons but the reality is I would rather protect others from the unsightly reality of my bits and bobs. Black is supposed to be slimming after all….

The chief lifeguard rang up to his ‘director’ on the walkie-talkie (this was serious business requiring higher authority) who then appeared at the window of his palatial office to look me up and down and give his verdict. I was allowed to swim. But I was not to return in the same attire. I would not be allowed back next time. Shame as my enthusiasm for the place had hit rock bottom. There is nothing like standing in your togs and doing a 360 degrees for a man to judge you in the swimsuit category.

So we were finally given the all-clear. And we did indeed swim. But I confess I stayed in the corners, lurking inconspicuously and uncomfortably. And I did receive a lot of unpleasant looks from the locals, who clearly thought I was wearing a burqa, all jokes aside. It was an interesting insight in to French culture, and not a particularly happy one.

Jamie seems to have taken a liking to his new togs. I haven’t seen the board shorts appear since. Just goes to show that sometimes happy things do come from unpleasant experiences. And despite the children demanding I go out and buy myself a bikini so that I can swim in another French pool I think I’ll push past the temptation. Although that could make for some very special holiday snaps.