Avignon
For our last excursion in Provence, we debate between a morning in the city or a day by the sea.
The vote was split.
So we found ourselves in the city among castles.
We packed a picnic lunch with the remains of our kitchen ingredients. Zachary whipping together a tomato salad with olive oil and cheese; half of a baguette; an apple or two; waters— never enough water.
Our first stop was Palais des Papes.
We enjoyed our lunch in the shade outside of the palace. Then, with knocking knees and white knuckles, walked the length of the remains of Avignon Bridge.
However, I much prefer our Fort of Saint-André detour afterwards. It was less crowded and the absence of racy art and augmented reality guided tours made it pleasant. By way of the citadels, we were left breathless with views of the city.
With always a promise of frozen sweet cream dangling on the horizon; we would reward the little tourists handsomely for allowing us to meander the streets and markets of Avignon. The dark chocolate certainly spot their little outfits but the smiles were worthwhile.
Le Petite Henri, in L'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, provided our farewell meal.
The last evening was nearly as magical as the first; had it not have been for a fallout with the baby and I on the way. After reconciling we were all able to appreciate the beauty of the evening. There was ample space for indoor dining but the staff refused to seat any guests inside as not to waste such magnificent weather.
A large trickling fountain in the center of the courtyard overgrown with bright green mosses provided adequate privacy to the dining tables on the patio. Large terracotta pots brimmed with hydrangeas and we were enveloped in greenery. During the day the same intersection in town would be noisy and teeming with foot traffic. Yet, as we dined, the energy of the day settled into a calm and elegant experience. Between the canopy of open umbrella shades the stars were just beginning to make an appearance.
The tiny brass table lamps had grown brighter by the time our drinks arrived. Our palates were pricked with a morsel of cold eggs and spinach tart amuse-bouche. We clink our glasses of water, Muscot and Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
In an effort to claim bragging rights when returning home, the boys were beginning to make a sport of ordering the most bizarre dishes they could. Proud of their choice of a seafood bonanza they quite enjoyed the octopus, cuttlefish and —what our son calls— “squid bodies” in a squid ink aioli.
Zachary and I split herb-infused lamb chops displayed to us in a Dutch oven at the end of its smoking period. When the lid lifted to reveal the juicy and sizzling contents, a thick potent cloud of burnt thyme waft over the table. With every mouthful, Zachary promised to make such attempts to duplicate the recipe at home.
The sleepy euphoria of digesting a good meal led us back to our country cottage for the last time. Tomorrow we would go to bed in Italy.