With nothing more than scribbled directions, I somehow found the ‘large blue gate’ of the old presbytère. Concealed behind ivy-clad stone walls, this former priest house was to be my home for the next month. In a tiny hamlet untouched by time, I would experience the authentic culture of rural France. Now more leaden in colour, the ‘blue’ threshold appeared foreboding with its sun-blistered paint cloaked in cobwebs and unkempt foliage. Nevertheless, curiosity and fatigue outweighed my fear, urging me to find out what was on the other side. In the midst of the presbytère garden, rising from a sea of wild grasses and prickly brambles, was a fabulous fig tree. Its outstretched bows were veiled in vibrant green leaves, a multitude of hands shielding its modesty. This mythical tree of life, wisdom and enlightenment was heavily-laden with my favourite fruit: plump purple figs oozing amber nectar. I had found my very own Garden of Eden in the heart of Provence! Subsequent days passed in a figgy haze, as though I were entranced by this sumptuous fruit on which I feasted at every opportunity. Alas, this enthusiasm inevitably reached a satiated peak, leading me to preserve and freeze this plentiful crop rather than see it go to waste. But as this equally had its limits, I decided to share my bounty with my fellow neighbours – a sociable gesture that would also allow me to explore the little hamlet. Built to withstand the ravages of nature, this small group of stone houses all faced the south, limiting their exposure to the fearsome mistral; while narrow windows and wooden shutters kept their interiors cool in summer and warm in winter. Practicality aside, these measures created an austere ambiance reminiscent of a ghost town, especially as these dwellings stood in the shadows of an eerie-looking turreted chateau. Ostensibly inhabited by an aristocratic count, its former glory was crumbling like its aging facade. Not one to be defeated, I plucked up the courage to knock on the first door I came to, basket in hand brimming with friendly figs. However, it required a lot more than figs to fuse a bond with these local residents, who were sceptical about my intentions. Some peered behind gaping shutters, blatantly ignoring my knocking, while others angrily complained about their own glut of this fertile fruit. Rejected and disheartened, I was about to abandon my neighbourly efforts when I came across an elderly gardener diligently cutting the church lawn with an antiquated mower. As he paused for breath I took the opportunity to introduce myself and offer him the shunned supply of figs. With a humble smile of gratitude, he accepted my gift and swiftly returned to his onerous task. In-keeping with the rest of its parish, the church was hidden behind closed shutters, its front door firmly bolted. Though I may not have been welcome at that particular moment, a faded notice informed me that the monthly mass was scheduled for the following day – hence the lawn being mown. This spiritual occasion would perhaps be a more opportune time to meet the friendlier folk of this small community. Come Sunday morning, I was somewhat hesitant, having been spurned the previous day, yet I was encouraged by the hope of finding more conviviality in God’s presence. When I entered the cold dark interior of His holy house, the small congregation remained totally oblivious to my presence as I quietly sought a vacant pew. Smartly attired in their Sunday best, these worshippers kept their eyes firmly fixed forward; be it in heavenly prayer or to avoid social contact, I had clearly been over optimistic. Resigned to the fact that friendship was not to be found in this hallowed place, I focussed my attention on the mass itself, endeavouring to follow the French liturgy while occasionally glancing at the service sheet for that Sunday. My distracted thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice reading the first lesson; it was the dutiful lawn-keeper, the only person to have shown any kindness the previous day. On concluding the reading, he respectfully bowed at the altar before making his way back to his pew. I couldn’t help but notice the difference in his appearance; his rather old-fashioned yet classically-cut suit gave him a distinguished air. Despite my discreet scrutiny, I inadvertently caught his eye; but, in contrast to his fellow parishioners, he gave me a nod and knowing smile. As I bashfully turned my gaze back to the order of service, it fell upon the name of the reader – none other than Monsieur le Comte of le grand chateau!
