LA CARTE POSTAL DE FRANCE: 

Forcalquier’s nickname is la Cité des Quatre Reines. The four queens were the daughters of Raimond Bérenger V, Count of Provence, and Béatrice of Savoy, raised at the small château at Saint-Maime in the early thirteenth century. Each made a royal marriage. Marguerite became Queen of France, Éléonore Queen of England, Sancie Queen of the Romans, and Béatrice Queen of Sicily. For more on their lives, the place to start is Nancy Goldstone’s Four Queens: The Provençal Sisters Who Ruled Europe (Viking, 2007). Drawing on letters between the sisters and on the chronicles of Matthew Paris and Jean de Joinville, Goldstone tells their four stories in parallel — Marguerite on Crusade with Louis IX, Éléonore’s political ambitions and the civil war they helped provoke in England, Sancie’s neglected marriage to the richest man in England who bought himself the German crown, and Béatrice’s fight to claim the throne of Sicily.  

Just by one of those happy accidents, as I sat in Willma on my pitch in Forqualquier, up pops on Substack an article by ‘A Love Affair with France’ (a nom de plume of Judy MacMahon). Weird, eh? Why this hill town, rather than Aix-en-Provence, should earn this soubriquet is somewhat unclear, apart from familial links. The English links go deep: Éléonore’s brother Peter was given the Savoy Palace on the Strand, named after family connections; which was later burnt down in the Peasant’s Revolt. It’s where the Savoy Theatre now sits. Anyway, on with the story …

The journey down was nothing if not stunning, partly autoroute down past the Vercors range, all snow topped like peaked icing on a Christmas cake. my imagination was caught by the thought of a winter view, and how people lived in that climate. I was reminded of a former lover who was a Savoyarde; and realising how little I had understood of her life. She would, of course, now be an old lady in her 70’s, like all my youthful dalliances; and hopefully a grandma in her own right. No regrets – I am privileged to have shared my life with who I did; and, I think, would have enjoyed this jaunt. But I’m often caught off guard, looking at the generations inhabiting campsites, and trying to imagine the conditions of life. And reminded of which end of the telescope a man in his 70’s looks through.

After Grenoble, the road becomes a two lane highway, following the ‘Route Napoleon’ through alpine passes, until it picks up the A41 near Sisteron, with signs for Nice and Aix. Several times I caught sight of wheeling raptors, probably vultures, riding the thermals coming off the warm tarmac. And, as I know from my trip to Millau last year, where there are vultures there are hang-gliders and parapentists. The weather was still cold until I got past Sisteron, where the gauge started to rise towards 20deg; the houses were showing pantiles and shallower rooves, and the foliage showed pines and broom, rather than the deciduous trees, oaks and chestnuts, where I’d been. And a glorious blue Provençal sky above.

Usual anxieties prevailed, about pitch availability, though I had contingencies. But the holiday weekend had passed – there was a huge snake of traffic coming back up from the coast, as I made my way south. In the event, plenty of space available, and I was welcomed at Camping Ciela, as it is now known – its fourth incarnation I’m aware of. On Google Maps, it is marked as Camping Indigo, a chain that eventually merged with Huttopia. Quite strange to see the same quirky typography in places, such as the toilet block, and some of the same decor. Ciela seems to be the new kid on the block, when it comes to campsite management, and I think from my chat with the receptionist this is their first year. There is a bar/restaurant, so I had a beer and a cheese toast with chips and salad. I also discovered there’s a market in town the next day.

Not just a market, but one of the largest in Provence! Selling pretty much everything, but especially craft things, bags of lavender, olives, sausages and cheese, fresh veg and fruit (though the avocados were from Peru). there were even two stalls selling double beds; lots selling lightweight summer dresses and children’s clothes. I saw three roast chicken vans, very tempting, though I have to be careful with quantities, as most shopping seems to be in family sizes. I got some falafels with a piquant sauce for lunch, along with a loaf of brown bread and a fougasse.

I went to a Casino Market nearby and had a food stock up. I’d had a yearning for ready made meals that come vacuum packed. And, I’m ashamed to say, the cheese on the shelf looked easier to buy than from the vendors on their stalls. I stopped in at the tourist information office for a town map, and a chat with an assistant. I described my handicap and asked about whether there were any inclines, to which she suggested I take the climb up to the castle. Failures to communicate are not uncommon. Though I did stop to buy a small pot of lavender honey, camping size: the stallholder thanked me in English. I responded with a twinkle, in French, “How did you know I was English?” “Maybe the accent?” Communication successful.