Monday was Bastille Day in France. Well, strictly speaking, Monday was the Fête National in France, because that’s what the French call it officially. (Unofficially, it’s simply le quatorze Juillet.) But for me it was Bastille Day, because for the first time in a number of years, I celebrated the day in the UK rather than in France itself and, as I watched on TV the thrilling rain-soaked finish of Stage 10 of the Tour de France, I realised how much I was missing la vie Française.

It’s not the weather, which is currently better in the UK than in the south of France. Nor is it the stereotype of the food and wine – however much one embraces one’s local wines in France, it’s good to be able to drink from regions beyond the Rhône valley and the Duché d’Uzès. And nor is it the fact that Jill is still in France – she will be here next week.

It is … je ne sais quoi. And I really don’t.

I could put together a Peter Mayle-style concoction of anecdotes which would give you some small insight into what makes France in general and the south in particular so agréable à vivre but none of them would explain it to my satisfaction or yours. Mayle’s books, like those of his hundreds of imitators, are based on the sense of difference, on being an outsider looking in with a different set of values.

What is charming or amusing or quirky to an Englishman abroad is none of these things to the French. For them, this is their way of life. And I rather think that I have become French in this respect. Like them, I take it – whatever it is – for granted.

In our second or third summer in Uzès, I walked into our favourite bar à vin on market day and took a seat not in the sun, but in the shade. “Ah Max” said Bruno, the waiter, “you are no longer a tourist”.

Perhaps that was the turning point, the moment when I realised that the sun would probably be shining tomorrow and tomorrow; that Uzès had existed for hundreds of years in pretty much the same way; that the market may be bigger than it was in Racine’s day, but is fundamentally unchanged. He would recognise the produce on display and probably also the faces of the producteurs. He would know the groups gathering in particular cafés to râler against taxes and Parisiens, eking out a single café verre d’eau for an hour or so. And he would feel at home with the flâneurs strolling and lounging in the Place with no fixed purpose or objective.

What he wouldn’t recognise, of course, is people like me, and what Sylvette in the Bar du Marché calls la petite colonie Anglaise. Because despite Bruno’s compliment, and despite our determination to embrace the culture, we remain outsiders.

The French created la vie Française. And only they can live it to the full and properly appreciate it. I am just grateful that it exists and that, du temps en temps, I can share a little of it.

Today from the everysmith vault: With the release of the remastered recordings from Dead’s Spring 1990 tour, I’ve been listening to my own Aud tapes of those great shows. I don’t need the official set. Thanks, but no thanks, I’m very happy with what I’ve got.

The storm arrived in St Quentin la Poterie in the top of the seventh and settled over rue de la Révolution for the remainder of the game, producing thunderclaps which drowned out the commentary of Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy on NESN and sheet lightning of such frequency that reading lamps were unnecessary. Meanwhile, the Lares and Penates of baseball continued to look with disfavour on the hubris of last season, as they allowed the Sox to make up a 6-1 deficit only to dash our hopes again in the 12th.

Of course I didn’t actually witness this final débacle at Fenway.

Mindful of the recent experience of friends further to the west, whose wi-fi router had been blown by a distressingly accurate lightning strike, I had turned off router, TV and computer. Out of touch with the world beyond St Quentin, and marooned in our small village home which is, as it has for nearly a quarter of a century, resisting the force of the rains and other elements, we are free to focus on those things which really matter.

Food and wine, reading and writing, music and conversation.

We are indulging ourselves in each.

We have eaten rather well recently, notably at La Table d’Uzès where the ridiculously young and ridiculously talented Chef Oscar Garcia is cooking up a Michelin-starred storm and from the simpler but no less delicious menu at Café Fleurs in Isle-sur-la-Sorgues.

We are drinking a variety of excellent local wines as friends introduce us to the lesser-known growers of the Rhône valley, some of which are worthy of mention in the same sentence as our favourite La Gramière and all of which are extremely quaffable.

We are reading and re-reading voraciously, notably The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver, a writer who is apparently famous but of whom I have unaccountably never heard before. She’s good. So too, it goes without saying, is Bill Bryson - and I am taking up the recommendation of a new friend (a Blue Jays fan!) who advised me to read One Summer as a matter of urgency.

We are working hard at our respective disciplines: I writing at my laptop, Jill painting at her easel.

And as ever, we are chattering away with each other and with friends, about books and sports, politics and anything that happens to come to mind as we order a second pichet of local rouge and sit back to listen to a ragtag band of busking musicians.

But there will be no al fresco dining, drinking and debating today. It is still raining and there is no wind to blow away this meteorological freak of nature. Even Rob Lowe and his family have had to be rescued by the sapeurs pompiers from their flooded mansion sécondaire in Grasse. 

But in St Quentin la Poterie, we are made of sterner stuff. I wonder if the Cuisine du Boucher is opening for lunch ...

Today from the everysmith vaults: It's been a singer-songwriter kind of morning with Jill listening to Jeff Buckley upstairs and Carol and I chilling to Sweet Baby James Taylor at the Fillmore East in 1971 and to the much-missed John Martyn.

Last year, in Leamington, I was one of a number of independent licensees and musicians planning a blues festival. It never came to pass, of course, Leamington being Leamington (or rather Warwick District Council being Warwick District Council), but it should have done. And had it happened, the headline acts would have been complemented by smaller, more intimate sessions in a dozen bars around the town.

The working title was the Leamington 12 Bar Blues Festival. 

On Saturday evening, in Uzès, I saw and heard how it might have been.

On Saturday, France celebrated la fête de la musique. Its motto is homophonic: On faites de la musique à la fête de la musique. (Note to over-excited UKIP voters: the penultimate consonant is different.) 

This year, it tombe Samedi and so the town and the bars were even more busy than normal. And Jill and I, in the company of a few thousand others, assiduously worked our way around the various venues. 

This is not as easy as it sounds, because each band has its adherents and each bar its regulars. Seats were at a premium. A table only by reservation. Nevertheless, it is of course de rigeur to take at least one glass in each venue which, in previous years, has resulted in a gueule de bois the following morning. But this year, I have become a true Frenchman. On these occasions, I favour the panaché over the vin rouge. Harder on the bladder but easier on the head.

With one or two exceptions, notably the jazz fiddle of Florence Fourcat, the quality is not wonderful. But what impresses is the sheer diversity of the musical offerings.

There was almost every genre of jazz. There was old-fashioned rock n roll and new-fangled techno hip-hop. There was bluegrass and blues. There was hard rock and dreadful soft rock. The Eagles were bad enough. Eagles imitators are to be avoided at all costs.

But it was all played, and listened to, in a spirit of joie de vivre and enjoyment.

Which is how things are done down here. Rather than create a barrier of red tape, the local council embrace, enjoy and promote the event.

When the marching-band-cum-samba-band which processed noisily and happily from one venue to another, charged at the double the diners in one restaurant, they were accompanied and encouraged by the local police muncipale. And the diners - families, young couples and elderly citoyens - welcomed them all with smiles and laughter and applause.

Which is pretty much how we felt throughout the evening. We had a great time. Merci, Uzès.

Today from the everysmith vault: Asked by a New York twitterer to name my favourite Grateful Dead show, I am working my way through the entire oeuvre in order to provide him with a considered judgement. After 24 hours, I am a week behind schedule!

“I love being a writer. It’s the paperwork I can’t stand.” Michael Frayn, I think.

I have joined the hundreds of other would-be writers who think that a few months in the south of France is the solution to writer’s block. Away from the distractions of the real world, that long-imagined novel will come to fruition. The Provencal lifestyle will provide the perfect environment in which to sit back and think through intricacies of plot and nuances of character. The 100,000 words (the length of the average novel, apparently)  will fly off the keyboard and arrive on the publisher’s desk to an enthusiastic welcome. Your summer in the south will be rewarded by both critical acclaim and best-seller status.

Yeh, right.

The truth is, writing in the south of France is as difficult as writing anywhere. Perhaps more so.

The range of displacement activities is vast. There are friends to catch up on. There are markets to visit. There are sights to see. There is lunch.

Kingsley Amis famously forced himself to write 500 words each morning and would not take a glass until he had done so. For him, this served as a useful discipline, and also an incentive. For me, it is an example.

It is coming up to midday and I have written a couple of hundred words of the novel, and come to a full stop. Literally. It’s not fully-fledged writer’s block, but my protagonist won’t do what the plot requires him to do.

I am loathe to give up on either. But something will have to give. But not right now.

Instead, I am now embarking on this blog. It’s a quicker way to the quota. And it keeps me writing which, without client-imposed deadlines, is something of an issue. In the south, they have several words for mañana, but none of them communicate the same sense of urgency.

I see that from Word that I have now written more than 300 words. Add that to the 200 of the novel earlier, and the quota is complete.

Plus it’s midday. Mañana.

Today from the everysmith vault: Hot Tuna from 1988, with guests Paul Kantner and – briefly – Grace Slick. Paul introduces Grace as “my ex-wife, the mother of my child and the devil incarnate” before they sing together on Wooden Ships. You can find the show on Wolfgang's Vault. JimiK, I commend it to you.

It is perhaps appropriate that the first blog from France this year should be concerned with food and restaurants. True, I was going to devote a few hundred words to the parallels between the Front National in France and UKIP in the UK, the two countries to and from which I have been travelling over the last week or so. But today I have heard about a new law which is to be introduced in France on Bastille Day (14th July) this year and, at this moment in time, it strikes me as being of some significance beyond France. It certainly is to me when I wear my restaurateur’s hat rather than my Red Sox cap.

The French care about their restaurants and understand the importance of the restaurant business. Even with the austerity-driven increase in TVA (VAT to us), restaurant meals are taxed only at the intermediate rate – 10% rather than 19.6%. Fast food chains such as MacDonald’s places are usually exiled to the outskirts - as happens in Uzès, where this unpalatable franchise sits uneasily in a space between the M. Bricolage DIY outlet and a builders’ merchants called Gedimat a few kilometres out of town. The Stradas and Prezzos and Carluccio’s are nowhere to be seen here, nor in Italy come to that.

This new law is concerned primarily with the quality of the food, distinguishing restaurants according to whether they re-heat, assemble, or cook the meals on offer.  It is designed to recognise those restaurants which actually cook the food they serve, rather than buying pre-cooked meals and warming them up.

It will allow only those restaurants which cook home-made dishes to display the state-sponsored Fait Maison logo alongside their menus. And three-star Michelin chef Alain Ducasse (he currently holds 21 Michelin stars!) believes that only about 25% will qualify, although nearly 60% of French hotels, restaurants and cafés will claim they are entitled to it, despite the fact that they are buying in pre-prepared meals for a couple of euros and selling them for ten times that.

Although the gastronomic heritage of France makes this fact particularly heinous, the situation is actually worse across the channel in the UK, where the ubiquity of Brakes and 3663 delivery vehicles outside our restaurants and gastro-pubs is distressing to those who care about food and those that cook it for us. What is particularly distressing is that a similar level of subterfuge is present in the UK market.  It is not uncommon, for example, for Brakes drivers to be asked to park ‘round the corner’ when making deliveries.

So how, if you care, can you tell exactly what you are getting?

There is one way which is applicable both in the UK and in France. It is the Les Routiers sign, granted only to those operations in both countries which offer un bon rapport qualité-prix,  la cuisine fait maison and la bonne humeur.

Of course, not every restaurant which offers these qualities is a member of this famous and old-established organisation. But Wilde’s is.

And if Wilde’s was to open a branch in France, as has been suggested by Nathalie Schyler of Chateau Kirwan, I believe it would be one of the first to receive the Fait Maison state logo. After all, as those who have eaten in Wilde’s or merely read the Declaration of Independence will know, Wilde’s serves inconvenience food.

Which is what should be on the menu wherever people meet for good food, good wine and good company.

Bon app!

Today from the everysmith vault: I’ve been listening to some real blues – precious recordings of people like Bukka White, Mose Allison, and Mance Lipscomb as well as the Mississippis Fred McDowell and John Hurt. Sometimes the blues is better in its raw state rather than – well, warmed through.

Sunday morning in St Quentin la Poterie. The hygienically pungent smell of disinfectant hovers in the streets. The tabac is busy with purchasers of extra cartons of cigarettes. Carrefour is the scene of manic buying, with the owners of Café de France and Le Cuisine du Boucher at the front of the two check-outs, loading up dozens of baguettes, salads and 5 litre bottles of Coke. In the Bar du Marché, opinion seems divided as to whether a simple café is sufficient to kick-start the day or whether to begin as one intends to continue with a beer or pastis.

Nous sommes en fête.

The fête votive started on Thursday evening and will continue unabated until the early hours of Tuesday morning. The bulls are run each evening. There are gigs every lunchtime, every evening and every night, often several competing against each other for an audience and decibel rating. 

The restaurants, even 30 Degrees Sud, put on a special menu du fête, which means that, last evening, we celebrated Nicole’s 50th birthday with moules frites rather than foie gras, and on Friday evening we snook out of the village to eat at Le Comptoir du 7 in Uzès with Michelle and James, finishing off with a final pichet in Le Bistrot du Duché as we waited for the late arrival of Cody.

But most of the time, unlike some, we are more than happy to stay in the village and soak it all up - literally so on occasion.

The fête is the commune-goes-mad. And it’s brilliant, especially if one can – as we can – dip in and out: a drink here, a gig there, a bull run here and a grand bal there. 

But of course, we are pretty much always en fête, or at least on holiday. We have no work commitments. We can, as we did earlier this week, just take off on a whim and head for Aix-en-Provence to visit the second half of Le Grand Atelier du Midi exhibition at the Musée Granet.

It was … better? perhaps not, but certainly more interesting, than the Marseille show. For a start, there are more Matisses and Cézannes, and fewer fillers from the second division. The quality of the work is more consistent and although it was a great deal busier than the Palais Longchamps in Marseille, it was a more enjoyable and more rewarding experience.

But it wasn’t the highlight of the week or even of the day. That was reserved for our visit to Cézanne’s studio, which he built just north of the cathedral in what was then an undeveloped landscape. Today, one walks up the hill past blocks of apartments and retirement homes to find the gate to this splendidly unrestored studio, with its huge north-facing window, and the collection of artifacts owned and painted by Cézanne.

To see the ingredients of his famous still life paintings, to see his suit, his stove, his pots and pans, his chair and table, was quite wondrous, and almost made me forget that our chosen restaurant had run out of the chef’s special rognons de veau by the time we sat down to eat. (Don't worry, the tartare was gorgeous.)

An excellent day, then. Followed the next morning by the arrival of chums from the UK, and the fête. Followed by Nicole's birthday. Followed by more of the fête.

On our return to the UK, which is imminent, it is the memory of these days, this light, these occasions, these happenings, which will help us through the winter.


Today from the everysmith vault: Paul Kanter, David Freiberg, Kathy Richardson aka Jefferson Starship playing in The Assembly, Leamington Spa back in 2009. Nearly four years ago now. A great gig - and this tape confirms that it was as good as I thought at the time.

It has been suggested recently that I am, in these blogs, thinking of myself as a critic. I am not.

I am, on occasion, critical - of a wine, a book, a painting, a piece of music, a restaurant, a ball player. But that is not the same thing at all. The role of the critic is to be, not negative, but positive: to evaluate, to provide deep context, to establish relationships, to elucidate and enhance. In this sense, I suppose that from time to time I write within a critical tradition, but that is not my intention.

This is a blog, not an academic treatise. I allow myself half an hour and plus-or-minus 500 words for each post. The prompts are my reading and listening, my eating and drinking, my obsessions, my social activities. But as some of my excellent correspondents have pointed out, there is a theme developing from these disparate activities, of which – to be honest – I was not consciously aware.

This theme, it would appear, is the appreciation of all activities as a totality, as part of ‘life’ – a word which Leavis substituted for tradition and continuity. 

My subjects, whether they be a new Dylan album, a fine claret, an exhibition or a baseball game, are part of life and contribute to the fundamental ‘vitality’ which is ‘crucial’ to developing an individual ‘meaning of life’, the making of valid choices not through evasion but single-minded commitment.

If I had to categorise what a friend flatteringly characterised as ‘these essays’, I would use the word explorations, which is itself an important Leavis word, and as he said in another context, ‘all important words are dangerous’.

In this case, the danger comes from imposing an importance on my observations which they are incapable of bearing. And often, I confess, they are gut reactions rather than considered judgements.

In the tutored tastings at the Foire aux Vins, for example, I hated the sweetness of the whites, the oakiness of the reds. The maligned wine critics of my previous blog could doubtless explain and maybe even justify. For me, it is simply not to my taste.

Does this mean, therefore, that when you read this blog, you are merely the recipients of some undigested prejudices?

I promise you, you are not. Because more often than not, I start only with a topic. Over the course of the 500 words, I develop my approach and attitude and finally a judgement, a valuation. 

So in the average blog what you are reading is the record of a process of internal debate and argument, backed by Wordsworthian spots of time, structured in the form of  Judt’s Memory Chalet, supported by quotes from better writers, and concluding with … well, a sort of conclusion.

Bit like this one, really.

Today from the everysmith vault: Yesterday, of course, was the wonderful music of the test match commentary. Today, it’s the New Riders of the Purple Sage from July 1971. A 10 minute version of Dirty Business, with Jerry on pedal steel, is the highlight.

It’s the 38ème Foire aux Vins d’Uzès this weekend, and as part of the opening celebrations, there will be tutored tastings of the 45 wines which have won medals in the Concours des Vins this year.

I will be there. Not least because the names of the winners have already been announced, and I agree with virtually none of them.

So I want to know what the judges know that I don’t. I want to know why the wines which I search out for drinking with family and friends and which I regard as both typical of their category and superior in their category have failed to win even a bronze.

(Wine has been produced here since the Middle Ages, but it got VdP status only as recently as 1995, when it split from the Cévennes. Since then, it has been fighting for the next level of recognition. Last month, AOC (appellation d’origine contrôlée) Uzès was finally signed off in Paris and we should see it on the labels of our local wines next year.)

But what interests me is how these things are judged. How can I, a wine drinker of many years’ standing (and sometimes not standing), with both an enthusiastic amateur and – through Wilde’s - professional interest in wine, be so wrong?

Easily, according to a recent article in The Observer and subsequent discussion in Decanter.

It turns out that even the trained palates of full-time critics with MW after their name are frequently neither correct, nor consistent.

In blind tastings, eminent professional tasters have given “radically different scores” to the same wine from the same bottle within the space of a few minutes.

Of course, wine criticism is the same as other criticism. It is the relationship between the taster and the wine, at a particular time, in a particular space, in a particular context. And that can seldom be replicated precisely, if at all.

We also know that external factors can create a significant effect. A French academic found that labels mattered. A Grand Cru label produced positive reviews; a vin de table label negative reviews. Of course, it was the same wine. Academics in Edinburgh found that playing Jimi Hendrix whilst drinking Cabernet Sauvignon boosted scores by 60%. And so on and so forth: there are many different stories of wine critics getting it wrong.

A typical wine contains 27 organic acids, 23 varieties of alcohol, more than 80 esters and aldehydes, 16 different sugars, and dozens of vitamins and mineral compounds.

That’s not only beyond me. It’s beyond anyone. However sophisticated their palate.

So there is very little science involved in these judgements. What there is, is vast experience of long-term tasting, and a vocabulary which expresses and justifies these judgements.

Tasting wine is subjective. Wine critics are as subjective as the rest of us. But it’s always a good idea to find one with whose judgements and palates one broadly agrees (HRH Jancis and Fiona Beckett to name but two) and use them to do the hard research and prepare short lists.

The problem is, neither have turned their attention to AOC Uzès. At least not yet.

But when they do, I’ll bet they agree with me rather than the local judges of the Concours des Vins.


Today from the everysmith vault: Jimi Hendrix, Night Birds Flying: "You pass me that bottle, and I'll sing y'all a real song." Goes down really well with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

Marseille is tout feu, tout flamme about its independence, internationalism and sense of identity; its architecture, art and artisans; its radical past and its cultural present, its freedom-loving life and life-style.

After our first visit this week, so are we.

Marseille is the oldest city in France. It’s the second city of France. And it’s the home of pastis and bouillabaisse. It elected the first socialist maire in France in 1890. It was a refuge for Jews and a centre of resistance against the Nazis in the war. 

Oh, and it is also, in 2013, the European capital of culture.

It is, in fact, a méli-mélo of stereotypes. So Jill and I thought we’d check it out, using as our excuse and opportunity, the exhibition at the Musée des Beaux Arts, part of the Grand Atelier du Midi show, which focuses on works of artists from Van Gogh to Bonnard.

We took the TGV from Avignon, paused briefly in Aix-en-Provence, and arrived in Marseille in plenty of time for our pre-booked slot at the gallery. So much time, in fact, that we had checked in to our hotel, drank a half bottle of chilled rosé, eaten a small plate of charcuterie and courgettes, walked to the Palais Longchamps and enjoyed (most of) the paintings, even before our allocated time was scheduled to begin.

For the record, loved the Van Goghs, the Renoirs (always associated him exclusively with Paris), the Duffys, the Picasso, the Matisses, the Bacon, and some of the Bonnards;  loathed the Manguins, the Marquets and the Massons;  quite enjoyed the Paul Signac.

So by half three in the afternoon, we were free to explore Marseille. And we made a startling discovery: le vrai Grand Atelier du Midi is not the gallery and its contents, but the city of Marseille itself.

Like everyone, we headed first to the Vieux Port by jumping on a tram which took us silently and smoothly down the boulevard to the sea, where we were greeted by l’Ombrière, Norman Foster’s wonderfully simple, stylish and sleek sun shade. 

It’s both use and ornament (as my grandmother used to say): a shady events pavilion, a beautiful structure, and a place for reflection - literally and figuratively. 

Two views are better than one. 

But there was another view which was already haunting us and it is ubiquitous wherever one walks. It is Notre dame de la Garde, which looks down on the city, and is regarded as a guardian and protector of the city. It's known by the Marseillaise as la bonne mère for this reason.

We took the advice of the guide-book and, rather than attempt the walk, squeezed ourselves aboard a tourist train, which took us along the Corniche (longest in the world apparently), gave us half an hour to admire the neo-Byzantine basilica and crypt, and delivered us back to the plethora of restaurants and bars which line the Vieux Port.

But we weren't quite ready for a drink yet. We wanted to plan the next day, ensuring that we could make the most of our visit.

So we walked through Le Panier, the oldest part, where The French Connection was filmed, where the Jews hid, where the communists and resistance were based, and where the Nazis - together with a huge contingent of French police from Paris - evacuated 30,000 people, sent 2000 of them to concentration camps and dynamited 1500 houses. All in a single day in January 1943.

We returned the following morning, walking through the tiny streets which remain, finding the poignant tributes to those who had died or disappeared, mourning the way in which this area is becoming embourgeoisified. There is even a brand new InterContinental Hotel here now. But enough remains to remind us of the feisty, Bohemian, freedom-loving community which had to be destroyed by the Nazis and the Vichy government.

At the far side of Le Panier is the Fort St Jean. This, and the Fort St Nicolas, were built by French kings not so much to protect the city as to dominate it and ensure that its people knew their place.

Today, the Fort St Jean is linked by an elegant walkway across the sea to a wonderful new structure, designed and built as part of the Capital of Culture celebrations.

This is the Museum of Civilisations in Europe and the Mediterranean, or MuCEM, and it is beautiful. It links the land with the sea and it links France with North Africa. It captures the essence of Marseille: its trading, its Phoenician origins, its role as an entry point and a conduit for other cultures.

It is a beautifully designed atelier of Marseille's history, heritage, myth and contemporary life.

But the grand atelier is not MuCEM. Nor is it the Musée at Palais Longchamps. 

It is Marseille itself: the city and its people.

* You wouldn't expect me to write about a city without a reference to food. So:
Where to eat: La Part des Anges, a bar à vin on rue Sainte, with 300 different wines and no wine list. Tell the waiters what you like and what you are going to eat, and they will bring you a glass of something wondrous - or maybe two or three or more. Brilliant place. Love it. 
Where not to eat: Pretty much anywhere in the tourist bit of the Vieux Port, but especially not at La Cuisine au Beurre.

Today's listening: Coupo Santo, the national anthem of Provence, which we heard sung at the end of a communal dinner in an adjoining village on Friday evening. A beautiful song, rendered tout feu, tout flamme, by many of those present.

Hier, vers dix heures, nous roulions vers Vers.

Vers is, of course, the commune in which stands the Pont du Gard, and from the quarries of which come the stone (pierre de Vers) from which the aqueduct is built. These days, it has added Pont du Gard as a suffix to its name, in case anyone forgets its intimate relationship with the third most popular tourist destination in France.

But the Pont du Gard was not the reason for our Sunday morning excursion. This weekend past, Vers celebrated its fifth annual Cours et Jardins des Arts event.

The name says it all. The residents of this lovely village throw open their courtyards and gardens to exhibit a moveable feast of artworks, most of which is made by residents of the village or near neighbours.

There were 25 locations according to the map, and Jill and I worked our way through them all in numerical order. Yeh, I know, slightly OCD - but the trail was clearly marked with whitewashed arrows on the narrow streets and the beauty of this kind of event is that one never knows when one is going to encounter, in a small garden round the back of the olive tree, a work which makes you pause and give thought.

This happened to us a couple of times over the course of the morning, although the major highlights were those which we could have predicted at the start: Unity Cantwell’s work, about which I have written before; and the paintings and sculptures of M. and Mme. Berberian.

I guess Michel and Christelle Berberian are the golden couple of the artistic scene in Vers. His paintings are well-known, much admired and collected. You can see them and buy them from Saatchi. And you can see them on the walls of friends’ homes. But it was her sculptures which took my eye.

Her work – or at least the work she showed over the weekend – is on a small scale, but it is nevertheless solid and substantial. Heavy.

In most cases, the display did not allow one to circumnavigate a piece: one was forced to view it in a particular way and from a specific angle.

Did we therefore see exactly what the artist wanted us to see? Is the interaction between artwork and viewer, our point of view, being controlled in this way?

I don’t know. But I do know I like the work a great deal. And I propose to return to the Berberian’s gallery when we have time to look more closely at these exquisite but strong and sturdy figures.

What we won’t be able to see on our subsequent visit, of course, is the setting. One of the attractions of art displayed in courtyards and gardens is the access we are given to people’s homes.

We are as nosy as anyone. So we loved our glimpses of other people’s lives: the powerful abstract on the wall of a sitting room we passed through on the way to the rear courtyard, or the beautiful Provençal kitchen we enjoyed whilst pretending to admire a dreadful daub of a St Victoire style landscape.

Thanks to all those who exhibited and provided the exhibition space. 

We will be heading vers Vers again soon. But only after we’ve been to the Grand Atelier du Midi in Marseille …

Today from the everysmith vault: Dexter Gordon, One Flight Up. Long Tall Dexter was one of the best, and most under-rated, tenor sax players of all time. I like to think that my step-grandson, Dexter George Voce, has an affinity with this all star.