Legionnaire in La Treille

When I studied A level French in my late teens, one of the books on
the curriculum was 'Le chateau de ma mere' by Marcel Pagnol. We had a
marvellous teacher at sixth form college (unlike the extremely
unpleasant one I'd had at school) who would read to us from the book
which we would then translate as we went along. The combination of his
enthusiasm and the writing of Pagnol left a lasting impression on me,
which for many years manifested itself only in finding and reading more
Pagnol books. But his descriptions of the countryside just east of
Marseilles where his major stories are based and where La Treille,
which featured in my A level book, is to be found, finally proved
tempting enough for me to visit this part of the world to see it for
myself. (A note for film fans: 'Jean de Florette' and 'Manon des
Sources', hit French films in the 1980's were both from Pagnol's books
and were set in this same area.)

I had decided to stay in Aix en Provence, known for some reason as the
'Paris of the south'. It is fairly up market and the locals do seem
quite fashion conscious, but that's about it as far as comparisons go.
It's quite a small town really, which used to be the 'capital' of the
Provence region and apparently is very popular with retired criminals
who have still got enough of their ill-gotten gains to buy a posh house
there. It has some lovely, quaint back streets, and a very old
cathedral, all of which are worth seeing, but the jewel for me lies on
the south side of the town where C?zanne's house and studio can be
found. You can go into the studio which is, they claim, just as he left
it before he died. It does look as though it might be, except that the
fruit and flowers scattered about probably would have deteriorated
somewhat by now, but I forgave them this minor deception. A couple of
miles from the studio, along the country roads, is the famous Mont
Sainte Victoire which C?zanne painted so many times.

I had arrived in Aix on a Saturday, and had spent Sunday getting to
know its streets, caf?'s, bars etc. For my first expedition I had
decided to visit La Treille on Monday, keen to get out there and
explore. My plan was to go to the nearest town to La Treille, called
Aubagne (which also happened to be Pagnol's birthplace), which I could
do by rail and then get a local bus. The first part was easy enough,
Aix to Marseille, change trains, Marseille to Aubagne. As soon as I
walked out of Aubagne station, however, I could see that things might
not be as easy from then on.

Aubagne is a very sleepy town and arriving in it is like stepping back
in time about 30 years, or at least that's how it seemed on that hot
September morning. I didn't have a street map, so I just wandered about
looking for anywhere that might provide some information, at the same
time trying not to forget where the station was. I knew that there was
a small museum dedicated to Pagnol in the town and had decided that
that would be my best bet. Inevitably I went the wrong way at first,
but eventually found it at one end of the town's main street. It was
shut. The first lesson to learn about exploring mainland Europe is that
for some reason, museums, galleries, historic sites etc. are all closed
on Mondays. Not just in France, but also, as I've so far discovered, in
Germany, Spain, and Italy and probably a number of other countries too.
Whether this has something to do with the EU I've no idea, but it's
very annoying, especially when you've forgotten about it.

By now it was about 11.30 am, and I was a bit puzzled about what to do
next. There definitely had been no sign of a bus stop and the locals
all seemed to be avoiding me - I could only see a few in the distance
at the far end of the dusty street. Then I noticed a big board with a
map on it. I went up to study it and discovered that its purpose was to
highlight the main walking trails in the area, including a rather
arduous looking one to La Treille which appeared to deliberately
deviate about ten miles before getting there. The map showed no roads,
only the tracks across the hills, and I could see that my aim of
getting to the village and back in what remained of the day was looking
pretty futile. I started, reluctantly, to make other plans; at least I
could go and have a look at the countryside on the outskirts of the
town, and I had an alternative ace up my sleeve. The headquarters of
the French Foreign Legion was also just a mile or so away in the same
direction, that had to be worth a look.

Just as I had settled on this plan, two people, a man and a woman,
seemed to materialise right next to me, out of nowhere, and started to
look at the map. I was a bit startled by this for a moment, then
curious. I mustered up my best French and asked, "Vous allez voir la
campagne de Pagnol?" (Are you going to see the Pagnol countryside?),
and they immediately did that very irritating thing that foreigners do
when they realise you're English; they replied in English. "Yes, We're
driving up there in about an hour, after lunch." I thought I'd get my
own back. "You're not French either, are you?" I replied, and must have
looked pleased with my efforts at detecting that they indeed weren't
French, not that I had a clue where they were from. "No, we're Danish.
Are you a fan of Pagnol?" "Yes", I replied, "I was hoping to go and see
La Treille". The man looked at the woman for a moment and then said,
"We'd be happy to give you a lift if you'd like to come with us."

I couldn't believe my luck. Having come all this way and because I'd
not planned properly, my dream of seeing Pagnol's village had vanished
only a moment ago; now it had been rescued by the unlikely intervention
of a middle-aged Danish couple who were fans of Pagnol and happened to
be in Aubagne on the same day at the same time at the same notice
board! If that wasn't the hand of fate it was an incredible
coincidence. I replied with deep gratitude, "That would be fantastic,
what time are you going?" The man looked at his watch. "Shall we say
one o clock, meet us here." Even better, I could have a wander around
first. "Thank you so much, I'll see you then. It'll give me time to
find the Foreign Legion." I turned and set off along the road which led
out of the town.

In retrospect, I should probably have phrased this parting remark a
little differently, but I walked off oblivious to the impact that it
had made on my new Danish friends. I found the Legion HQ easily enough
and was absolutely astonished to discover that it had a gift shop. It
was shut, of course. Even the Legion daren't flaunt the Monday closing
laws. I peered through the windows wondering what sort of souvenirs
could be bought here. There were the famous caps of course, with the
square of material dangling down the back, imitation guns and swords
and lots of photos and paintings. If only I'd come on Tuesday.
Conscious of the time, I made my way back to the town and awaited my
lift.

When they turned up I could tell that they had been arguing about
something. The woman looked very white faced and fed up and the man was
obviously putting on a cheery veneer. I gave them the opportunity to
back out of their offer. "Are you sure about the lift, I don't want to
spoil your plans." The man didn't give the woman the opportunity to say
anything. "Of course we're sure, the car's just over here." We started
to walk. "My name is Anders, and this is my wife Meta." I shook hands
with him and announced my own name, then held out my hand to Meta. She
looked very sheepish and very briefly and gingerly shook it. When we
got to the car, she insisted that I should sit in the front and looked
relieved when I didn't argue. Anders gave me a map and we set off for
La Treille.

It took us about half an hour to find the village which we achieved
with the aid of some passers-by as the map didn't seem to bear much
relation to whatever road we were on. The village is near the top of a
hill, quite a big hill, and therefore almost totally on a slope. We
parked on a slope, got out of the car and began to walk up a slope as
we'd stopped just short of what looked like the cemetery. It was indeed
the cemetery, where Pagnol is buried, along with his wife and other
members of the family, though some of the locals apparently aren't that
happy about it. They felt that he had portrayed them in his books as
'country bumpkins' which I suppose is partly true, but done with great
affection, not malice. Fortunately the cemetery is not on a slope,
being on a levelled out ridge on the hillside which looks over Pagnol's
beloved countryside stretching away towards the Mediterranean.

We spent a while here, looking more at the view than anything, and I
felt that the tension between Anders and Meta had eased slightly until
I went to get my camera from the bag slung over my shoulder. Meta
actually looked frightened and retreated towards the cemetery gate.
When I brought the camera out, Anders looked at her rather
contemptuously and began talking to me about one of Pagnol's books
while I snapped away, wondering whether Meta had some terrible fear of
being photographed.

We then had a good look around the village and finally came upon the
little road that led away into the hills, the route that Pagnol as a
boy would have taken with his family on their way to their rented house
for their idyllic summer holidays. Anders and I started to walk up the
road, but Meta stopped and said she was going back to the village to
buy a drink. She watched us as we walked slowly up the road in the
afternoon heat and looked as though she wanted to leave as soon as
possible. Anders seemed cheery enough though, and as we rounded the
bend out of the village the most magnificent view of a valley opened up
before us with more hills rising away in the distance. It was clear to
see why Pagnol loved this area so much and wrote about it with such
passion. The colours of the trees and wild flowers against the
limestone rocks were stunning, how wonderful it must have been for a
ten year old to have this as a playground back in the early 1900's. Now
modern roads dissect it of course, and much of the woodlands have been
destroyed by fires, but as our view testified, you can still see in
places what it used to be like.

I'm not sure how long we stood there, just admiring the scene, chatting
and photographing, but eventually we turned back. I decided to brooch
the subject of a return lift. "If you're going back to Aubagne, would
it be okay to hitch another ride back? I've got to catch the train back
to Aix." Anders looked at me for a moment, then a slight grin crossed
his face. "No need to go back to Aubagne then, we're staying in Aix,
we'll take you back all the way!" I pretended to protest very slightly,
in my English way, then gratefully accepted - it was very hot by now,
not an afternoon for walking any distance. As we rounded the bend into
the village Meta was sitting on a wall clutching a bottle of something.
She stood up immediately looking very relieved. Anders spoke. "It's a
pity you didn't come with us, the view was superb." She looked
half-daggers at him. "I was too hot," she replied simply, then added,
"it's time we were getting back." Anders broke the good news, "Yes,
John is coming with us, he's staying in Aix as well." Full daggers were
now employed. I still hadn't worked out why she was so wound up, but I
needed the lift, so I decided I could live with whatever was going on
between them for the hour's journey back to Aix.

We pulled up just over an hour later at the entrance to a caravan park
on the south side of the town . I'd noticed in the rear view mirror
that Meta had been watching me quite a lot again during the journey and
she'd hardly said a word the whole way. I'd been thanking them for
their kindness and pointing out that I'd never have made it to La
Treille if I hadn't met them, and how much I'd enjoyed the trip, then
chatted some more with Anders about Pagnol's books. I said goodbye and
opened the car door, but before I could get out Anders spoke again.
"You're not really joining the Foreign Legion, are you, you don't seem
the type to me?" The penny started to drop. It's well known that the
Legion is populated by all sorts of dubious characters which I now
began to realise was the reason for Meta's behaviour. They must have
had quite an argument back in Aubagne about whether to give me a lift.
I replied, still rather taken aback by the question. "Join it, no, I
just wanted to see it. The gift shop was closed though." Anders' mouth
dropped open. "Gift shop? They have a gift shop?" He then started to
roar with laughter. I said goodbye again, Anders raised his hand and
Meta nodded, obviously relieved that her ordeal with a desperado was
over. I walked off, the sound of Danish mirth now ringing from both
ends of the car as I headed for the town centre, my day as a blissfully
unaware Legionnaire now at an end.