Pierre has left for Paris, so it is just Arnie and me, Françoise and her friend Marie-Pierre, and les chats (cats) here until the weekend. People come and go, of course, including the couple who got married over this past weekend.

Another leisurely breakfast, a bag full of laundry to be done, imaging and work on the computer, and after a lovely, light lunch of some tepid ratatouille on lettuce with the omnipresent olive oil, we take off to explore some new-to-us villages that Françoise has recommended.

It will be a good afternoon. We putter around back small roads. I can’t find one of the turns, as it was not well marked, even with our atlas, but here in this region, there are so many roads, there is almost another way or two to get there. I look for one of the little roads edged in green, showing it is scenic, and we approach the first village that way.

The views are lovely. We travel through one of the many gorges that are in this area. making many stops. They are interesting and good to enjoy, but they are not photo material. We continue and find some possibilities, plugging them into Gertrude when we see ones we like. There are several overlooks where one can park a couple of cars, and we find some broad views of the farmland below and the mountains beyond.

Eventually, we come to the first little village. It is little known to tourists and is perfect for us.

We spend a lot of time there, meandering the windy streets and lanes.

Even with the cloudy day, there is lovely light bouncing off the walls. Flowers are set against a backdrop of blue shutters. A cat lazes on a window sill.

A woman even comes out and tells Arnie in French that her house is for sale. He doesn’t understand much French, but through the universal language of Europeans — waving hands and arms — gets the message and thanks her. We are making photographs, not buying houses, although her house is quite charming!

We learn later from Françoise that it is a village often used for filming, because it is so unspoiled.

A young boy drags his backpack, laden with books. I tell him that it looks quite heavy. “Oui,” he replies, then in an effort to appear big and strong, he lugs it up onto his back.

We spend a couple of hours there enjoying ourselves and making lots of photographs. I tell Arnie that we should probably move along if we are to see anything else. Otherwise, like him, I would be quite content to spend the rest of the day here.

Gertrude tells us to head up a hill, and the atlas confirms the choice. Arnie is not so sure. Having grown up driving in Chicago, he is a bit leery of one-and-a-half lane roads where there is little place to pass. Me? I have done this my whole life, so I feel adventuresome.

We come to a switch-back that the car cannot navigate in one pass. Arnie makes some appropriate noise, and I encourage him to simply back and fill and aim uphill. He gives me a look that is not encouraging, but we laugh and continue on our way. No sooner has he negotiated the turn, than another car comes up behind us, does a well-practiced back and fill, and putt-putts up the road behind us.

The landscape is lovely, but when the road turns to dirt, Arnie is sure we will not be found for weeks, since the other car is no longer in sight.

“Courage,” I say, and sure enough, the road soon turns back to macadam.

Eventually, it gets wider and we come to another small village.

“Stop, STOP,” I cry. “There’s a Deux chevaux!”

Don’t ask me why, but I have always loved these strange-looking and ever-so-French, pocket-sized cars with their elevated rears. Perhaps it stems from my time in Europe back in the early 60s when I saw so many with long baguettes sticking out the top or a window.

At any rate, Arnie can’t resist either, and we find a place to put our car and take out our cameras.

It is all the better, because it is painted French Blue. What more could one want?

I keep smelling an amazing fragrance. I think it might be Jasmine, but it doesn’t quite smell right for that. I stand next to a Broom bush and am very aware of the aroma. Sure enough, that is the source. As I bend down to take in the smell, I see how bright the shrub looks against the oncoming, stormy sky.

We stop at several other places along the way, duly making sure Gertrude has them in her database.

It is time to head back, and the best way, according to the atlas, is to go through a charming town in which Arnie and I stayed on our last trip to Provence.

We make it there without any problem.

“That looks like a great place to stop for a glass of wine,” Arnie says.

Indeed, there is a narrow, hillside terrace overlooking the valley. We keep it in mind for when we return.

“Go right here,” I say to Arnie.

We can’t; it’s one way coming towards us. Hmmm. The route name is right. It looks right in the atlas. We are stumped, so we head back up the hill. No road there.

The road becomes familiar. We have been here before. We feel that we are on a merry-go-round, unable to get off. We are trying to avoid a city below that is setting up for a circus. The traffic is more than we want to meet. We should be able to find that road.

It is not to be, and I am feeling very incompetent. It should not be that hard.

We head back to le Mas des Capelans and tell Françoise how it took us well over a half hour to find our way out, something that should have taken ten minutes or less. She laughs. It happened to Pierre and her in the exact same place. We feel better.

Tonight, Françoise has made an appetizer of the famous local Cavaillon melon with paper-thin jambon and black olives, always beautifully presented. In a small square glass on the plate is some Muscat, what one would normally think of as a dessert wine, but it goes perfectly with this dish. We are in heaven!

For the main course, there is poullet (chicken) prepared with garlic, onions, peppers, and tomatoes with some fettucini on the side, perfectly cooked, with her signature drizzle of olive oil. Marie-Pierre helps her serve.

We finish off our bottle of red wine, and for dessert, she brings out marinated fruit. Delectable! She joins us at the table, and we enjoy hours of good conversation over a tulip glass of Muscat.

Arnie’s eye’s are drooping, since he was the one doing the driving today, and he heads up the outside stone steps to our roof-top room.

Françoise and I linger and talk some more as women do for more time, laughing and giggling and sharing experiences. It is good for me to practice my French.

Tomorrow, we shall see what comes of her inquiries today into permission to photograph some local growers and artisans.

It has been another excellent day!

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