Source of life

You can do without many of life’s pleasures: Coffee, magazine mornings, retail therapy sessions, handbags (I should know, I’m currently living proof) but there is one necessary item for survival: Water.

Today our theme was water.

Water in springtime Provence already plays a pivotal role. Each day we dare’t leave the house without a few litres - half chilled, half frozen - in an attempt to survive the almost unbearable temperatures. In six small cups it can turn the day around from complete and utter disaster to refreshed adventurers ready to face the world.

The Pont du Gard is one of Provence’s biggest tourist drawcords. Built an incomprehensible 2000 years ago it is just another example of Roman engineering. We continue to be amazed.

What is most fascinating about the Pont du Gard is that it was not built to carry people. The transportation of water was its purpose. It was built as part of a 50km aqueduct taking water from a spring in Uzes (Peta Mathias’ summer-time home) to the growing Roman city of Nimes.

There was some grizzling as we headed off in the morning (desperate to leave the house before the cleaner came for her weekly whip around - she speaks no english and it can be quite awkward). Why were we going to drive an hour fifteen to see a bridge? Thanks GPS - if Molly hadn’t learnt to read the estimated time of arrival on its screen we could have continued with our years’ old practice of ever so slightly twisting the truth when answering the question: How long will it take to get there?

Within half an hour of arriving at ‘the bridge’ Molly had declared more than once (as is her custom, just in case we haven’t heard the first few times) “we could stay here all day”. An hour fifteen seemed a worthwhile commitment.

This was one slick operation and certainly the best tourist destination we have been to in terms of the information provided and the other supporting acts.

We set off down the wide path, passing olive trees which looked as though they had been there since the beginning of time. Around a bend the Pont du Gard revealed herself in all her splendour. She absolutely is a thing of beauty.

We were trying in earnest to pretend we were seeing her in Roman times (tricky considering the ever present American and British accents buzzing in our ears and accompanying flags on poles in blindingly highlighter colours so as the ever present American and British people would not lose their tour guides). But wait…what are those people doing on the very top of the bridge - to which there is no access? Suddenly a pulley begins to lift three large container loads to the top and closer inspection reveals a myriad of cords, speakers and other paraphernalia that is certainly not of 100AD all clinging to the bridge. Playing Roman is becoming more and more difficult.

It turns out we are visiting the Pont du Gard the night before its annual fireworks display begins. We seem to have a talent for such timing.

When we visited the Theatre Antique in Arles they were erecting a stage of epic proportions and we were towered by the lighting crew. Setting up for a concert.  The Vaison La Romaine equivalent was also the sight of a stage building exercise. Opera was planned. I had one clear memory from visiting the Palais des Papes in Avignon 25 years ago and that was walking in to the stark and vast courtyard at the centre and being struck by overbearing sunshine from which its heat was accentuated by the surrounding stone. This time we were greeted with a huge scaffolded structure and above our heads the entire courtyard was covered in a makeshift theatre - stage and tiered seating - ready for the Avignon Festival. Inside the palace itself an exhibition of modern African sculptures was scattered throughout many of the rooms, with some installations completely dominating spaces. The theme, from what I could make out, was recycling. There we were in 12th and 13th century simplicity (these were not ornate times of course) and having to look past robots and sculptures made from the contents of our fortnightly recycling collection.

I see what is happening here.

In an attempt to connect old and new and ensure relevancy throughout the ages these new ways of using old spaces are conceived. I’m just not that kind of girl. I want to pretend I’m approaching the Pont du Gard on foot in my toga with an urn upon my shoulder in search of the daily water supply.  Or that I am dressed in the middle-age's equivalent of haute couture heading to the enormous dining hall to banquet under the gaze of the pope of the day (can you believe he sat in a box up high alone and watched his guests dine - man of the people).

Back to the Pont. We crossed it successfully, thanks to the very modern road bridge that had been attached to it in 1571. We managed to take many, many photos - just like the travelling circus we have become with children in matching clothes, a camera, video camera and 2 i-Phones. And then for the best bit - the river itself. We were down at the riverbank in a flash ready to revive ourselves in the searing sun. This is where we truly stick out as New Zealanders. Before we knew it both Hettie and Matilda had removed dresses and were ready in their underwear to jump in. Not appropriate. Once more modestly clad (it took some convincing to put those dresses back on) we all had a fabulous time wading in. Look one way down the river and you could have been in central Hawke’s Bay or Canterbury. Turn around and there she was - the 2000 year-old majestic monument. I really do hope the children remember it. I remember going there when I was fifteen - but my most vivid memory of that visit was that I drank a coke (this would have been a highly exciting turn of events as I came from a family strictly allowing only water or milk, for which my teeth are very grateful). I suspect the children will remember the pink blow-up flamingo. Not part of everyone’s Pont du Gard experience, but the German family beside us had lugged one down to the river. It was almost as offensive as the firework carryings-on.

Molly was quite right that we could stay all day. We arrived at 10am. We spent much time riverside - George was collecting small fish in his hands and the dragonflies were keeping us all entertained. Proves you can take the children out of New Zealand but you can’t take New Zealand out of the children.

At 3pm after much fun was had in the children’s area (hard to tell in the photos but there was the most incredible water channel structure where you could direct your own aqueduct, take note Te Papa) we departed, still without lunch. We were forced to open the boot of the van and eat our picnic lunch in its shade.

And here we do not leave our water story (although stay with me, the end is close). On leaving Pont du Gard our GPS showed the temperature to be 33.5 degrees. We drove towards home with the air conditioning on full in the blazing sun. Steadily the sky darkened and as we neared Avignon the heavens opened, as only they seem to do in Provence. It was almost impossible to drive. The locals felts this way too, many of them taking on the great French habit of just stopping in the middle of the road if you need to - for checking maps, answering phones, fixing your lippie, unhappiness about driving conditions - and just switching on your hazard lights. But we powered on. That’s what Kiwis do. In New Zealand, roads that flooded would be blocked off and Civil Defence would be having a hey day. But we powered on. We were thankful to finally make it home. In the two hours it took to reach our destination the temperature had dropped from 33.5 to 17 degrees.

Water theme done for the day. Kids it’s too cold to swim. Hot chocolates all round.