Of oxcart tracks and other steep places... Cinquieme Part

We recently felt we'd reached our James Watt limit of Village Perche'.  Seen one?  Seen them all. And, yes, we still hate that idiot James Watt.  But that's not the point of this tale.

We were coming down to the end of our Winter Stay along the cote d'Azur.  In the interest of keeping the Prius' battery charged, we decided to get one more visit in before heading north to certain re-confinement dans la region Parisienne. 

There was a magazine in the apartment where we are staying has a nice little article on the village perche' that surround Nice.  We looked at one called Peillon to visit.  It's just 20 minutes from the apartment.  Further up the Alps is a sister village perche' called Peille.

Consulting the maps and considering the terrain, we saw that both are rather steeply situated.  After visiting Sainte Agnes we were a little leery of goat paths narrower than two goat rumps in width.

Using Google maps street level I took a virtual drive up to Peillon and wow! that's one narrow and steep road.  The road to Peille, on the other hand, looked to be bit, if only a little, more "do able."  So Peille it would be.

We passed Peillon on our way out of town and were very glad we'd not tried to climb that road.  That's one seriously "perched" village!  The way it juts out into the valley high up  on granite crags is very impressive, even from the road below.

Perhaps we'd made the right decision?  We squeezed past at a roaring 2km/hr an on-coming dump truck that was decending the goat herd path.  It was a little dicey.  But nothing was damaged.  Nothing was scrapped.  We are slowly getting used to this kind of thing.

It turns out Peille is one of the nicest village perche' we've thus far visited.  It feels lived in.  It's empty of Bobo Super Chic art galleries and Michelin Starred Restaurants are either hiding or are simply not there.  It was like a breath of Fresh Alpine Aire.

The Principality of Monaco still has influence there.  Parks and paths and memorials to the Prince and Princesses were surprisingly numerous.

Being the geeks we are, Judith and I were more impressed by the fact that the early langue d'Oc is still spoken there.  A man who learned the langue d'Oc from his mother now, in turn, teaches the language to schoolchildren.  

What makes this a geeky subject is that the langue d'Oc is a very close descendant of plebeian, working class Romans.  Of course Italian, French, and Spanish are descendant languages of Latin.  Perhaps the langue d'Oc hews closer to the original Roman language?  It could be interesting to find out the answer to that. 

Wouldn't you know it?  The very next day it was announced that all of France would require attestations to travel farther than 10 kilometers.  Sure, if you tested negative to CV19 you could climb on an airplane and fly to any country around the world that would accept you.  But travel more than 10km regardless of test results?  No can do.  C'est interdit.  Zut!

The question was, do we head north to uncertain restrictions and changing circumstances or stay in Nice for another month.  The new restrictions were to last at least three weeks.

For the second year in a row and for the very same reason (ie: we're in the middle of a pandemic) we decided to extend our stay in Nice.

 

 

[see here for more images from Peille]

The Essential...

Having lived in France for over nine years, one begins to pick up and the subtleties of life and power and politics.

Being "locked down" has recently meant that all "non essential" businesses are closed.  All "grands surfaces" (the big stores) are limited to selling food.  All other areas are either cordoned off or outright closed.  All restaurants remain closed, though take-out food is allowed. 

"Essential businesses" are clearly listed.  But the list has, oh, how shall we say, "evolved" over the past year.  It's easy to imagine the arm wrestling going on over who gets to make money and who gets to remain on the public dole.  

One of the things that has helped France get through the pandemic without too many public demonstrations of discontent is the size of the public dole.  Money, it appears, can calm the beast.

Life and living, business and take-out food can only happen between 06h00 and 19h00 weekdays.  On the weekends we need an "attestation" (basically "our papers" that show we have a valid state-approved reason to be out of the apartment) where the curfew starts on Friday at 19h00 and ends on Monday 06h00.

It was a joy to see on the morning news something delicate and light.  France's Prime Minister, Jean Castex, received a gift in the mail.  It was a small gift.  Nothing much, actually. But it was something that might help him reconsider his list of "essential" business.   

When he opened his little bubble-wrap envelope he found a pretty pair of women's underwear.

Have we mentioned recently how much we enjoy living in France?

Stories from the Third Confinement...

 

 

Here's a little story...

I woke up a little funky from the Astra-Zenica vaccine the morning after I'd taken the shot.  Nothing bad.  Just feeling like I wanted to lay low and do basically nothing.

... except... the starter battery in our new used Prius decided it was End of Life...  it expired... no electrons left to share...  and once I got the ball rolling to get her a new battery...

After having been told that the tow-truck driver would haul the car to the dealer for repair I had her jump-started.  And to the dealership?  Ah.  No.  M.Remorquer decided I could drive the wounded beast to the dealership myself.  Without turning her off I ran upstairs, grabbed my things, told Jude what was up, and dashed out the door.

I spent the afternoon at the dealership service bay.  

 

Got a scare when the indicators said there was something wrong with the hybrid system and that the power battery pack would need replacing. In the end, it turned out all she needed was a new starter battery and the hybrid electronics reset to a known good state, just as I thought to begin with. 

 

There was a ton of traffic coming home. Then Jude told me it's Easter Week and everyone and their dog is out and about.

I was pretty wiped out.

 

 

Here's another little story...

We've seen this again this winter here in Nice.  Our apartment is close enough to the port that we can watch the ships and boats as they come and go.

While most of the comings and goings  have been pleasure craft and cement ships, there have been at least two large ships that have pulled into port.  These ships unloaded and loaded no-so-small pleasure craft.  It's been like watching an automobile transporter, but on a much larger scale.

This gave rise to our common comment that "the rich do whatever they want."  Even, and particularly during the time of this Covid-19 pandemic.

It should come as no surprise that word officially leaked that *gasp!* the rich were acting like there was no pandemic.  The maitre d' even said so at the door.  500euro a plate got you access to the back room of various high end restaurants up in Paris.

 

In France all restaurants are closed.  Unless you're rich, that is.  If you're Well Heeled, you can do anything you want.

It appears that two of the rich bastards who organized dinners at the Palais Vivienne have been arrested.  Is there justice?  Not enough of it, really.

One last story...

European countries have restricted travel within and across boarders.  

 

However, there has been a loophole.  If you test negative for CV19 you can climb onto a plane to go anywhere that will accept that aircraft. 

The Hot Spot for Young Party Crowd has been Madrid.  Restaurants and bars are open.  They are doing outstanding business as a result.

There have been interviews with Spaniards who are pissed.  Really pissed.  Why?  Because these partying types tested negative and they could fly to another country.  Yet the locals are not allowed to go more than 10km, even if they test negative to CV19.

The topic came up just yesterday on the French news during an interview with a minister to the EU.  The man had no clear, satisfactory response as to how to resolve this glaring inequality.

If you have money, you can do what you want.  You can buy an airplane ticket and fly away to Madrid.  You can move your boat anywhere around the world.  You can escape local restrictions by simply being who you are at your economic level.

For the rest of us, we have to toe the line.

Of oxcart tracks and other steep places... Quatrieme Part

Studying the map and visiting a few websites revealed a potentially interesting little place just west of Vence and north of Saint Paul de Vence.  All extended incoherent babbling harangues aside, les Tourrettes sur Loup would be our next adventure destination.

 

We packed our lunch and hit the road around 11h00.  The route was becoming somewhat familiar.  We'd already visited les hauts de Cagnes and Saint Paul de Vence and the path to les Tourrettes re-covered some of this territory.

Vence is another village perche' that comes recommended, but on entering that village along our way all we could see were modern residences and to experience our first honest to gawd traffic jam.  And here we thought we were in the middle of nowhere.  Ugh.

It was market day and some of the vendors were closing down their stalls and moving on.  But we didn't know this until we'd finally beetled our way up to the intersection where we would meet our goat path to les Tourrettes.

 

We have the impression that a lot of people live in the hills up behind Cagnes sur Mer. Even in the dead of winter and in the middle of a rather strong pandemic there are people in motion.  Houses and swimming pools dot the area in surprising density.  If one were trying to get away from the Great Unwashed, this wouldn't be the place to do it.

Still, our visit to les Tourrettes was very pleasant and there were few people in the village perche' itself.  This seemed a consistent theme.  People might be out and about in their vehicles going hither and thither, but all of our visits to these hilltop towns have been quiet and nearly devoid of other human life.

 

We bought what turned out to be a wonderful  loaf of bread from a les Tourrettes boulangerie and hit the road back to Nice.  With the 18h00 curfew there tends to be a bit of traffic starting around 16h00.

There'd been no one around when we turned onto the goat path toward Vence, so we were surprised to hear a *honk* and to see in the rearview mirrors a late-middle-age woman giving an exasperated gesture (throwing her hands up in the air).  

She was Clearly Annoyed.  We were blocking her rapid progress.  The speed was clearly marked as limited to 50km/hr.  We were doing, um, yes, 50km/hr. Not good enough, I guess.

Fortunately for all concerned there was a short straight just around the next corner.  We could hear the big VW 4x4 V8 spool up as she blasted by and disappeared around the next (somewhat sharp) bend.

Wherein we learn that the locals know their roads better than the French authorities who are responsible for public health and safety as well as signage.

It is certain this will not be the last time we Clearly Annoy the locals.  

 

[more photos here]

Of oxcart tracks and other steep places... Troisieme Part

Finally getting the hang of this driving around the French Riviera thing, we struck out for the pretty little border town called Menton.  We'd heard that things might be a little dead there, what with Covid sprouting out all over this part of France, and such.

Tappity tap tap tap into the GPS goes an address and the English accented bint starts telling us where to go.  So go we obediently did.

 

Taking the Upper Corniche to avoid the really twisty narrow roads that snake their way along the coast.  There were still  plenty of things to see inland.  Take pine trees, for instance.  Hadn't seen pine trees like these in forever.  Scrawny little things.  Hunched against dry granite hills.

Off the A8/Upper Corniche and down the valley into Menton, with the Lamborghini repair shop just off the street on the right.  Two or three cars were parked on the sidewalks, no doubt waiting attention from either owners picking them up or awaiting repairs inside the garage.  Pretty little things, those cars, though a bit out of our budget range.

Left turn onto a narrow narrow snakey shaped track and up onto the heights of Menton we go.  In the narrowest parts we have, again, inches of room to spare on each side of the rear view mirrors.  Someday we'll get used to this.

The view from the Old Chateau was reputed to be something special, so that was our destination.  

We'd been in Menton around the lower portions of the town last year.  It's where we might have caught Covid.  The regional train, actually, there and back had been filled with coughing/hacking/wheezing folk and, well, little did we know how dangerously we were all living at the time.

The road around that part of town was good for one car going either direction, but not two.  Passing and being passed could've been an interesting exercise had it not been for the lack of too many people being out and about.

After a spot opened up we parked the Prius and took the easy walk into the cemetery of Menton at the Old Chateau.  The monuments are typical Italianate nearly Roccoco structures.  The colors, when there are some, are garish.  The wrought iron is nearly always twisted into pretty shapes.  The view is fabulous from up there at the top of the hill.  Things (and people) were, indeed, more than a little dead up there in the brace sea fresh air.

It made us wonder how it is that the dead got the best views in town and the living had to huddle against the hill and in many cases see practically nothing.

[More photos can be seen here]

Of oxcart tracks and other steep places... Dieuxieme Part

When last we left our Heros, they had successfully slithered, wriggled, and shimmied their way down the hauts de Cagnes, their new (to them) Prius unscathed, and shocked at how narrow old medieval streets were back in the day, and well today for that matter.

Since we'd failed to meet our simple normally easy to grant wish of finding a place to park, and knowing we weren't going to walk up the hill to les hauts de Cagnes, we chose a different destination for our next adventure.

We flung the arrow high into the air and *thud* it came down on a pretty little hill town called Saint Paul de Vence.  Gilda Radner and Gene Wilder were married there.  Yes.  This is true.  I'm pretty sure other important things took place there over the years, but I can't recall exactly what at the moment.

So off we went on a well chosen Friday.  It was the day before the Hoards of Paris invaded the cote d'Azur for the winter school holiday.  We anticipated a Covid-19 style wild week ahead.  Masks seem to be optional down here and red marks the region on maps of where people are dying the fastest.  We hoped to avoid such unpleasantness by going before the mob (Parisians, not Mafia, though some might argue the distinction) could arrive.

The little hill town does, indeed, have good and proper places to park rather near the entrance to the village.  I can't tell you how happy we were for this.  Climbing up and down and walking long distances just to see something isn't on the menu for these two old folk.  Been there.  Done that.  Yes, we, too, were young once.  I think.

Shock of shocks, wandering the old town and no one was home.  Sure, a small group of old guys were playing petanque in a park just outside the old village.  And there were perhaps 5, maybe 6 inhabitants who scurried from one door to another like cats trying to avoid being petted.  But tourists?  Non-existant.  Such things are bliss and paradise made of.

As you might imagine, the place was quaint.  It was clear it was well monied, too.  There were a lot of hipster gallery spaces and really nice looking restaurants.  All closed until une nouvelle ordre (due to CV19).

After seeing what there was to see and enjoying the peace and quiet, we started our way back to our nicely parked car.  Down a very narrow stone path from one narrow medieval street to another took us by a small "incident" that was unfolding in real time.

An old guy (older than I, that's certain) had gotten his VW 4X4 stuck.

He'd been trying to get up a narrow goat path sized medieval street when he felt he could go no further.  So what to do but to back up.  Right?  Except the poor driver was flustered.  

His wife was out of the car trying to direct him back down the hill.  He had less room on each side of his car than we had in les hauts de Cagnes in our Prius.  It was well and truly stuck.

To make matters worse, just a few minutes of effort later, his rear left tire was 1/2 off a granite drop-off.  The poor guy.  For all we know he's still trying to back his 4x4 down the street.

Two things.  First, we're not alone.  Second, I'm glad that wasn't us.

Have I mentioned how tight spaces can be here in Yerp?

 

 

More photos from our adventure around the village can be found here.

The swallows arrived today...

Here we are on the 12th of February around 1pm in the afternoon and a large gathering of swallows has made landfall here at the Nice port.

There were a couple of swallows that look like they had wintered over.  That seemed a bit unusual.  But what do I know about birds and France?  Practically nothing.

It's really quite fun seeing all these birds in the sky.