Avignon, France, Wednesday September 10th

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Our emails had not borne fruit so Keith rang the travel doctor, only to find that he was away for a few days. We set off for Avignon with the arrangement that Myrtille would ring us if we had to come home early enough for us to visit the doctor to get a prescription. She was working at home on her final paper for university.

The bus was just about to leave the stop as we arrived so we waved and it stopped again. Did we experience a bit of annoyance at having to deal with foreigners, even though we were speaking French and knew where we wanted to go, or had our conversation of the day before left me more sensitive to picking up nuances?

Once we were inside the walls of the city at the Place Pie, excitement took over. One end of the square is dominated by Les Halles, an enclosed food market which has a front wall covered in growing plants. Apparently the plants are watered by a flow that travels down the wall and then is pumped back to the top. The effect is green and lush and jungly.Inside it looked as if every stall was specially designed and laid out for photographing for a glossy gourmet food magazine. I took loads of photos because the colours, shapes and textures looked so inviting.

We were looking for some toy shops and book shops because we wanted a game of draughts for our sponsor child’s brother, who Aidan and family sponsor, and a French book each for Frey and Yonah. Walking up the pedestrian streets showed us that this is an affluent area, or at least that there is a market for luxury and indulgence type goods. The first book shop also had toys and, after about three quarters of an hour reading and enjoying ourselves there, we found a games shop that was equally a trap.

Myrtille had given us a good map and some suggestions for a walking tour, so we followed a combination of her advice, the map guide and our noses.

A chapel was all that was left of the Knights Templar, who were established here in the twelfth century, and whose buildings were inherited by the Knights of St Jean, who morphed into the Knights of Rhodes and later the Knights of Malta – here was a story surely, and yet we had no time to pause and ponder. The path led us past museums, churches, the library and the Art School of Avignon, where slogans in various languages were in bold letters all over the once dignified building. High up on the gable the words ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ were plastered. Others were ‘I know what you want’, ‘Nothing can be hidden forever’, and ‘It’s back’. Intriguing, its meaning or purpose frustratingly inaccessible to us.

Avignon is a living bustling city, as well as a tourist destination, so the people watching was particularly rich.All roads led to the Place de L’horloge (Clock Square) which is jam packed with restaurant tables. I committed the cardinal tourist sin of having lunch and then leaving my backpack beside my chair on the ground as we set off. It was only when I wanted to change my camera batteries to take a photo of a gold-coated busking statue hiding behind a tree and chomping into a big hamburger, that I noticed the loss. No need for any actual pick pocketing skills in anyone wanting to rob me, all that would have been needed was an observant eye and a casual stroll past. Amazingly the bag was still there when we went to retrieve it after about ten minutes.

Really we could only have the briefest of tastes of Avignon in one day, but it seemed to be a city for relaxing and enjoying and to have shops that would have been very interesting to investigate. The Provençal style was paramount; with bright blues, rich reds and golden yellows combining on country style tableware and fabrics. I bought some material to make a replacement camera bag in red, with olives and wheat on it. The cotton, zips and chord required a different shop, which was a treasure trove of craft items. My impression from the shops and restaurants was that care is taken with details and that everything reflects, and is a celebration of, the light and harvests of Provence.

This was a day of looking in from the outside, with the grand town hall and theatre as well as the enormous palace of the Popes only being admired as facades.The Popes were resident in Avignon before the Vatican became the Papal Residence. The palace was big and very impressive, on the rise above the city. Castle-like and impregnable, it is surmounted by a golden virgin and has a large stone statue of Jesus on the cross amongst other statues in front.

Even higher than the Papal Palace is the Rocher des Doms, a limestone outcrop above the Rhône River that offered excellent views and natural protection against invaders. The Papal Palace was built on its flanks in the 14^th Century and superseded the Roman Castrum, the Count’s chateau and the bishop’s palace. The higher rocky outcrop itself was grazed in the Middle Ages and had a few windmills on it in case of sieges. The 17^th century cult of exercise in the fresh air saw it become a place for walks and views but it was not until unemployment provided labour in the 1830s that a garden was designed and built. It is a very pretty garden with ramps, walks, ponds and statues and its plan maintained the plots traditionally designated and worked as the Pope’s vineyards. Water was pumped up there as early as the 1840s and, after reservoirs were built and in the 1960s, the garden was enlarged and covered with terraces. In the centre, the ancient and wild rock rises still.

Our trip over the Rhône, just to experience the fifteen minute free tourist boat, took longer in the ‘waiting to sail’ stage than in the voyage itself. The gold-epaulleted captain and his river hostess who demonstrated the life jackets, took themselves and their job seriously, which was just as well since there was a formidable current just waiting to sweep us away. It was relaxing strolling up the riverside to the road bridge, where markers showed that the river can rise to a very high level in flood times. We did not dance on the old bridge since it is closed off unless you pay, and we felt that viewing it would suffice for now.

Time was ticking away so we made our way back through the streets, which felt familiar now, to catch the bus back to Le Pontet. We were a little early so we walked around some blocks and discovered a more run down area where people were getting on with lives that probably did not include designer toys and watches. I like to see old buildings restored, but often it prices the residents, particularly those renting, out of their areas, as has happened in parts of the Melbourne.

The bus trip back was fascinating because of the other travellers who were two teenage girls, their three children and the boyfriend of one. Really it is a great handicap to carry on a romance in the presence of demanding two and three year olds who you have to yell and swat at every five minutes, and who take no notice of anything. Soon we were at the terminus in an area with no landmarks we recognised. We asked the driver which way to go for Le Pontet and he waved vaguely in one direction so we set off that way. Luckily we soon saw a sign to the Jules Verne School so we were just about right, with only the tricky last bit of side streets to navigate.

Myrtille was glad we were home on time because we would have to see the doctor and he was closing early that day. We climbed the stairs to his waiting room and sat down. A man with a motor bike helmet moved it for us, and took that as the opportunity to start a conversation. There were five other people there and soon we were chatting away as people did in the waiting room when the doctors used to come to my home town of Inverleigh. A woman diagnosed the first man’s heart burn and recommended some treatment, the thirteen year old boy complimented me on my French, everyone wanted to know about Australia and to tell about their travels, and to find out why we were there. Myrtille said that it was a very unusual occurrence; one that would rarely, if ever, happen in France, where people are much more guarded in their waiting room behaviour and usually make little if any eye contact. She was amazed. The presence of the friendly motor cyclist and our obvious difference, yet ability to speak French, had changed the ground rules.

The doctor didn’t ask any questions about allergies or check to see if we were getting multiple malaria prescriptions all over France – we were his last patients and he wanted to go home. We weren’t fussed since we just wanted enough tablets to cover our new travel plans.

We took the prescription to the pharmacy and we also bought a thermometer, some syringes and two types of needles- one for muscles and one for veins. Fully equipped, we were nearly ready to visit Tanzania.

Dinner was a real treat. Clara had made crêpe mixture and it was cooked at the table on a hot plate that had six crêpes going at once. There were cheeses, jams, syrups and lemons for toppings. Absolutely delicious.

After tea we looked at some photos of the whole family on their travels, when they have swapped houses with people in various countries to have relatively cheap holidays. The early photos showed the stepping stone sizes of the four children and the later ones showed that the once tall eldest, Myrtille, is now the smallest. Myrtille helped us with our phone call to Jean and Renée in Paris, who we would be staying with the next day.

Who could resist the temptation to go into Le Flush for a snack?