Sitting in the midst of my favourite painting

My favourite painting isn't one you'll probably know. It is, however, by an artist you know well. A lesser known Van Gogh, painted in Arles (also where he painted some of his better known pieces such as The Yellow House, Bedroom in Arles, Self-Portrait, The Night Cafe, Starry Night Over Rhone, Still Life: Vase With Twelve Sunflowers, Cafe Terrace at Night, and Van Gogh's Chair . . . Incidentally, Arles is also where Vincent Van Gogh cut off his ear.

My favourite is called The Poet's Garden (or sometimes Public Park with Weeping Willow). It was painted in 1888, and is a massive oil panting on canvas (you can see it at the Chicago Institute of Art).  The poet's garden series were painted and used to decorate Gauguin's bedroom when he came to visit Van Gogh in Arles. Also, the scene itself reminds me a little of how I feel in my parents' garden at home in New Zealand. The colours are bright and lively, and I just want to lie in that grass with a book and breathe in the scents of all of those leaves and flowers.

Van Gogh wrote about this painting in a letter to his brother, on September 16th 1888.


He wrote:
"There is a square size 30 canvas, a corner of a garden with a weeping tree, grass, round clipped cedar shrubs and an oleander bush. The same corner of the garden, that is, which you have already had a study of in the last parcel. But this one is bigger, there is a citron sky over everything, and also the colours have the richness and intensity of autumn. And besides it is in even heavier paint than the other one, plain and thick. That is picture number one this week."

I decided, in a fit of romanticism, that I wanted to spend my birthday in this painting, take a picnic, and just experience it. So, I headed on the train for Arles. I had differing information as to which park this actually depicted. One source said that it is directly outside of where the Yellow House used to be, in Place Lamartine, the other that it was the main public park in the center of Arles. Place Lamartine has pretty much been destroyed. There's a decrepit Monoprix (France's Walmart), a bank, and a token fountain with a heavily trafficked roundabout. So, whether or not it is actually the main public park (the woman at the tourist office said it was, but I didn't really believe her because she didn't actually know the painting I was asking about), this is the one I ended up at.

The park seemed to have a shrine dedicated to Van Gogh, which seemed promising (however much of the town revolves around either Van Gogh or the beautiful Roman ruins that still exist in Arles).

It was missing the lush grass of my dreams . . .

And there was far too much concrete . . .

And the flowers almost seemed to be forced, like they were attempting to put Van Gogh's bright colours into the world, when really, Van Gogh brought those bright colours out of everyday vegetation. . . 

But when I lay down on the grass, and looked up . . . there was my garden. The darks and the lights, and the beautiful lush green leaves. It was exactly the time of the year that Van Gogh was painting here, too.

Whether or not it was actually his garden, I may never know. But it is nice to know that if I find a patch of grass, and some beautiful trees, I can lie down and imagine my way into my favourite painting anywhere and at anytime.

From the Atlantic to the Mediterranean

I got there. Many months later, with a couple of farming interludes and time in Turkey, I finally finished cycling from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea.

I started in springtime,  the sunflowers not yet opened, and ended with them crispy, ready to be harvested for oils. That was actually quite depressing, really. No-one ever shows you pictures of dead and burnt sunflowers. They're supposed to be happy, heads aloft waiting for bees to land on them.

From Toulouse to Agde, I was back along the Canal du Midi. Much less travelled by cyclists and hikers than you'd think, except close to big cities, the canal is a beautiful, quiet, and very tranquil experience. The closer I got to the coast, the more impressive the structures, massive lock structures, bridges, tunnels, systems to pull water into the canal, many built during the 17th century.

I had a three-day break in Carcassonne, because I managed to stumble my way into their yearly fete. There was dancing in the streets to be had, and I was going to be part of it. Unfortunately, I took no photos of that--too busy dancing.

At some points along the way there are small cafes, usually at the ecluses (locks) . . . there is one near Castelnaudary that has a tarte au citron to die for. Two euros, it was a bright point in my day.

But I like my campground meals just as much. Look at this hearty breakfast!

Arriving at the ocean, I beat a massive storm by about 10 minutes. So half of my tent set-up was done in pouring, soaking rain. However, two Englishmen ran over with their hammers (the ground was awfully hard for my foot-method of putting my tent pegs into the ground. Tent set up, I was beckoned under the awnings of the tents of these two men and their families. From central England, these two friends are actually neighbours back at home. Given a glass of red wine and a chair, I sat talking with the families, as I saw hail stones as big as a one-cent piece pelt my tent. So, instead of spending the evening by myself and getting an early night (I had grand hopes of getting up early to meet the sunrise) I ended up doing word finds with Isablle (5) answering questions of Jake (9) and chatting with the rest of the family. There had been talk of Trivial Pursuits, but alas, no luck for me this time.

In the morning, I turned off my alarm, and slept through until 7:30 . . . late enough to miss the dawn, but the beach was still beautiful when I made it down there around 8am. Feet in the water, I had made it.

Despite clouds remaining still slightly ominous, I had to put the end parenthesis on my journey across the country . . . having jumped into the Atlantic Sea when I first arrived in Biarritz, it was time to jump in in the Mediterranean. The water was absolutely lovely, surprisingly warm and I splashed around like a kid before biking back to tear down my tent and get back on the road--this time to Montpellier, to see if I would like to live there for the next period of time I have to spend in France. And that remains to be seen, but it's an adventure nonetheless!

(Before and after shots from jumping into the sea).

La Réserve

Next to the farm was a reserve, and also the home of the wild boars which ravaged my carrots. <fist shake>

I spent almost three weeks on the farm before I made my way over there (partially due to being unsure as to how to enter said reserve . . . apparently the boars knew more than I). Once we made it over there, there were even nutria spotted. It made me so nostalgic for Eugene, Oregon.

One evening we decided to make a picnic of it, and took homemade bread, a spread made of aubergines, garlic and tomatoes, beet and carrot salad; rice pudding and red peach preserves, and wine. The night was complete with a bright purple sleeping bag to sit on, a computer playlist with Salsa music. Thanks to Paul for setting up this photo; it captures the mood so perfectly, and cracks me up each time I look at it.

The picnic was highly successful, and included a much needed nap after all that cooking . . . 

The salsa was slightly self-conscious, and only lasted long enough to produce incriminating photographs. It was a fun idea, though. Perhaps next time some louder music would help? The tinny mac just didn't give the right atmosphere :)

We stayed long enough to see the sunset in, and not long enough to become scared of the wild boars . . . then headed back to the farm and the safety of the cabane.

Bienvenue à la ferme... pour la deuxième fois

 My second wwoofing experience, now back in France, I went to live and work on a small fruit and vegetable farm. Situated 25 kilometers south of Toulouse, Renée and Nigel's farm is a small organic (obviously) farm that supports a CSA with 25 boxes of produce, weekly. During the summer months they have between 1-3 wwoofers at any given time, and they (we wwoofers) live off in a cabin to the side of the main house. Today's post will be a quick tour of the location, just to set the scene.

Here's la cabane. . . a strawbale building, with a comfortable rustic feel. Somewhat uncompleted, it still managed to be a lovely home for a month.

Off to the side of the cabane was a lovely veranda with grapevines, where many a night of food, laughter, drinks, charades and shenanigans were to be had. You can just see the table peeking through the grapevines below.

We were also lucky enough to have a partially constructed ecologically friendly swimming pool. Not yet a fully functioning plant-filtered swimming pool, Nigel had to empty and re-fill it every few weeks in order to not get overrun with algae. Check out the working cinderblock/plank diving board! There were a few encounters with creatures--frogs, tadpoles, these incredible tiny spinning creatures, and a possible nighttime encounter with a mouse, but lovely after a hot day's work on the farm (minus the possible mouse). Luckily no encounters were had with the wild boars that got into the rows of carrots and leeks, invading from the nearby reserve.

The farm grew spinach, lettuce, carrots, leeks, white and red onions, broccoli, cabbage, Chinese cabbage, green and yellow courgettes (zucchini), white, purple and globe aubergines (eggplant), squash/pumpkins of many kinds (we never did try cooking those pomme d'or), potatoes, turnips, beetroot, grape vines (mostly not yet bearing fruit), a whole variety of heirloom tomatoes and cherry tomatoes (favourite being Mexican Honey cherries, and least being the noires), green peppers and hot peppers, apples, peaches, plums of several varieties, rhubarb, fennel, basil, and various other things. Did I forget any obvious ones, fellow wwoofers?

For our part on the farm, we cleared new ground, formed new beds, composted, sowed seeds, planted plants, weeded rows, picked produce, boxed/bagged and weighed items for the CSA, cleaned greenhouses, sorted farming supplies, etc. One evening we got to go to where the folk from the CSA pick up their produce. It was a really nice addition, in that each person came to select their produce, so you physically got to see people enjoying the fruit of your labour. Not only that, but each week two people were designated to bring wine and snacks, so people hung around chatting, drinking, and eating. This made it a much more human experience than that of the CSA I participated in the States, where I never saw another person, and just picked up my box of produce from the loading bay at National Geographic.

Farming things I learned:
* Sometimes you have to be very careful, other times, not so much
* Efficiency is key . . . I can't make everything perfect and beautiful
* Some seeds have clay covers for protection, and they look like sprinkles for cakes, but probably don't taste like them
* All those straight lines I drew in graphics class and all that measuring I do for illustrations is very important and helpful for having a good "eye" when creating new beds for plantings and when actually planting plants
* Some lightweight tools are amazing, and I will never have a large garden without them (what is the French word, sarcleur?)
* I don't like weeding fennel, but most other things are fine.
* It's all about the compost.

In the house we helped to prepare foods, wash dishes, set tables, cook, and generally help out. It was pretty fabulous (although mildly terrifying) as Renée is a retired chef, and suddenly I found myself reduced to something like a 16-year old with no culinary knowledge whatsoever, and perfectly able to fail in all sorts of menial tasks. For some reason, the pressure also caused me to drop just about anything I was holding when in Renée's presence . . . suffice to say I was a mess. Despite this, I learned some fabulous new recipes, and am interested to expand into all sorts of new ground once I stop cooking on a camp gas stove and actually have something to work with.

And last, but not least whatsoever, we emptied and cleaned dry toilets. My least favourite job on the farm--as I can bet a few of my friends would guess. Fortunately for you, I took no pictures of that particular task. But, task completed, I realized that I can actually accomplish that, despite squeamishness . . . which leads me to believe that I can actually do anything if I put my mind to it.