It started as a joke. A couple of friends and I are on a silly WhatsApp group where we good-naturedly mock each other. Arles, it turns out is somewhat of an artists hub. Or that some deceased male artist once painted something there. No, Arles is a town that is still alive and creative. We were led to Maison Volver , a habitable hotel by Booking.
On a return visit, we would definitely splurge and stay at the newly opened Hotel Ar latan, a swirl of patterns and colour. We had the presence of mind to reserve a table for later and spent the whole evening being smug while we sipped our Bordeaux and watched French locals being turned away for lack of tables. Le Galoubet is meaty and saucy. The breast of pork with crackling and melting fat is served with a tablespoon of cabbage for a g chunk of meat.
Their homemade barbeque sauce is almost black in hue, with star anise humming through it. France is for lovers and lovers of dessert. Should I ever remain toothless, poached pears will see me through. Running late to breakfast and finding my two friends there, showered, shiny and sated from breakfast.
I sheepishly confess that I have a difficult relationship with time in that, I am forever chasing it while it slips through my fingers. I get behind the wheel of our rental and we head to Avignon, a minute drive and home to the papacy for almost 70 years. We have the first and only good coffee of our trip at Tulipe Cafe. Where we are served by a young man who is a doppelganger for a young James Spader, complete with the sweeping fringe that he flicks with a ducking movement of his neck.
The South of France is known for its distinctive patterns. And every town has a few Souleiado stores, with well-made cotton clothes. I reluctantly leave it. Lunch is in the courtyard at Violette Restaurant.
