Provence was the next stop. Everything went wrong on Wednesday morning. First fuck up: I woke up too late. This caused us to arrive at the Dorsey museum too late and into a huge line. We didn’t bother waiting. Back at the hotel, we packed up and headed to the train station, only to find out we misread the timetable and missed the train by one hour. £300 and 1 hour later we were hopping on the fucking train. Quite a comfortable ride actually, things got back on track from there. Ira, Mum’s friend, picked us up from the station at Provence and took us to the cosiest place ever. Surrounded by pristine green fields, the 4 bedroom house is the sanctuary we needed at this stage. Jumping in that pool was the closest thing to surfing I’d done in ages, so I was happy. Ira is awesome by the way, she has a story about everything! Fair enough after seventy something intense years of life.
Provence is a lot Frencher than Paris. No one knows a word in English there. With the great structure we had staying at Ira’s, all we had to worry about was where to eat. As in any country town, the food is off chops, being France, it’s as good as it gets.
With our host’s everlasting positive attitude and remarkable looseness, we all joined her vibe and had a great time. The first day was a quick tour in the city, the second was a tour around the neighbour towns checking out some fields of stuff.
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