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    Bitter Oranges and Sweet Blossom
    Bitter Oranges and Sweet Blossom
    Bitter Oranges and Sweet Blossom
    Ebook182 pages2 hours

    Bitter Oranges and Sweet Blossom

    By Joyce Yull

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    About this ebook

    When the opportunity arises to leave damp and dreary 1980s England, they would be foolish not to take it. So they do. Loaded up, complete with the family cat, the Yull family head off on an adventure to the South of France.

    Their love affair with the "Midi" was first ignited almost ten years before, and when the chance to "live the dream" presents itself, they do not hesitate.

    The dream, at times, turned into a nightmare, with snakes, cyclones and mudslides to contend with, but good food and excellent company with old friends and new, soon help the family settle into their new life in the sun.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPegasus Elliot Mackenzie Publishers Ltd
    Release dateDec 19, 2012
    ISBN9781780690926
    Bitter Oranges and Sweet Blossom
    Author

    Joyce Yull

    Joyce Yull was born in North London in 1946. She has worked as a medical secretary, later qualifying as a practitioner in Nutrition and Indian Head Massage. Her three year sabbatical in France with her husband and daughter, more than twenty five years ago, inspired her to become a travel writer, and she has since written articles for various magazines including Woman’s Weekly.

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      Book preview

      Bitter Oranges and Sweet Blossom - Joyce Yull

      Introduction

      During the early 1980s my family and I embarked on an adventure. Fed up with the grey English climate, we left home in search of a better life in the South of France. Did we find it? Yes and no. We discovered that the grass is not always greener on the other side of the hill – in fact it was far greener back home in soggy old England – but what we did discover was a joie de vivre that had been lacking in our old lives.

      Our love affair with the South of France began nearly forty years ago, courtesy of our friend Nellie, whose mother in law lived in Pont du Loup, near Grasse. We longed to visit this beautiful country after hearing of their holidays there, even the journey sounded exciting, travelling on the legendary Blue Train. We finally made it in 1972, not via the Blue Train, but nevertheless the view from our carriage window of that radiant sunrise as we chugged through Provence, was unsurpassable. We stayed in the charming resort of Cagnes Sur Mer, recommended by Nellie’s brother, the Belgian champion jockey Lou Follett, who raced there every winter at the sea-front Hippodrome. Our first holiday there may have been on a limited budget, but from our studio balcony, which overlooked the race course, we could see the sparkling turquoise Mediterranean in one direction, and the distant hazy blue hills in the other. Little did we know that nine years later, we would be up in those hills, not quite living the dream, but something closely resembling it.

      In the three years we lived in France we witnessed some of the best, and a few of the worst aspects of French living: a somewhat bitter sweet experience, like the orange trees grown in the region for the perfumeries. The sweet pungent blossom forms on the tree while the old bitter fruits still hang on the branches.

      But we never lost sight of the fact that we were privileged to be living in one of the most beautiful regions of the world, with a cuisine to die for and a near perfect climate.

      This book is a collection of anecdotes from an eventful chapter in our lives; sometimes exasperating, often amusing, but totally unforgettable. Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty. They know who they are!)

      "Where the lemon blooms,

      Where amid dark leaves

      The golden orange glows."

      Immortal Village, by Donald Culross Peattie (1929)

      CHAPTER 1

      L’ARRIVEE

      There is a saying that if you sit outside the café Victoire in Vence, sooner or later everyone you know will pass by. How I wished that were true as I sat there reading my paper one warm spring morning.

      The year was 1982 and the headlines screamed of war with Argentina. England suddenly seemed so far away, and I longed to see loved ones from home.

      Lost in my melancholy gloom, I put the paper down and idly watched the world go by as I sipped my café crème.

      The caffeine and the sunshine lifted my spirits a little. Who could be sad for long in such a perfect setting? I was seated opposite the sun dappled Place du Grand Jardin, a large square in the centre of Vence, a busy hill town behind Nice. The Plane trees were still bare, and faces were turned towards the spring sunshine, soaking up its warmth, making the brightly coloured parasols and café awnings around the square rather redundant.

      Picking up my shopping I made my way back into the old town for a last look around the market.

      The ochre tinted cathedral and Mairie (town hall) in the Place Clemenceau of the old town provided the perfect back¬drop for the colourful stalls stacked with fruit, vegetables and flowers. Eye-catching rails of vibrant cottons drew me in for a closer inspection, but it was nearing mid-day, and soon the stallholders would be packing away their goods. The hustle and bustle of the market place would soon be replaced by the sound of clinking cutlery in the restaurants of the age-old Place. Delicious smells pervaded the air as I strolled back to my car in the warm mid-day sun.

      My shopping was getting heavy – fresh salad and vegetables from the market, quiche from the delicatessen, and fresh bread for our lunch.

      The nostalgia I had felt earlier in the day had lessened with the smug thought that back in my chilly homeland, lunch would probably be eaten indoors, whereas here in this glorious sunshine we would be having lunch al fresco.

      Here we were, living in the beautiful South of France. We had taken the plunge: Got a New Life, found A Place In The Sun, and for the foreseeable future, there was No Going Back…

      Six months earlier, my husband Geoff, seven-year-old daughter Kerry and I had packed up our belongings, and complete with family cat had headed straight down the Autoroute du Soleil in search of a better life. We were in desperate need of some colour and warmth in our lives after the gloomy strike-bound ’70s. Our advert in the Situations Wanted section of the Nice Matin, the Riviera’s daily paper, had resulted in an interesting reply. A couple were required to live-in as caretakers of a large property near Vence, a medieval hill town eight miles behind Nice.

      We met Madam L, the English owner of the property, in London, and agreed to take over from the current Guardiens in September. We then made a brief visit to the property in July (portentously the day of Charles and Diana’s wedding) to check it out.

      The drive from Vence to the villa was breathtaking. Pine-clad hillsides surrounded a lush green valley, nestling in the foothills of the Alpes Maritime. The dazzling light, which Cezanne so aptly described as "light become spiritualised, picked out pretty pink provencal villas dotted below the perched village of St. Jeannet. The back-drop to this impressionistic scene was Les Baous", a trio of majestic rocks which shelter and protect the village below. And we would be living there.

      We met the English family we would be taking over from, and spent a delightful few hours exploring the grounds, while our daughter Kerry sampled the pool. It was love at first sight, and we could hardly wait to start. We were unable to see inside the main residence as it was occupied by Germans (not a stubborn platoon of WW2 German soldiers of course, just a nice family on holiday).

      We returned home to start packing up, certain now that we were doing the right thing, and two months later we set off on our exciting new venture. We drove down with friends, Smithy and his girlfriend Janet, towing a small motorboat which was packed to the hilt. Bonnie the cat was on the parcel shelf in a carrier at first, but once we had left the French port she spent most of the journey sitting between

      Kerry and I on the back seat. I had nightmare visions of a demented moggy jumping out of the car at the first opportunity – and hot-footing it back home. But I had no need to worry. It soon became clear that she was going nowhere without us. I had also imagined untold red tape and delays at the French port whilst cat and vaccination papers were checked, but in those pre pets’ passport days, they could not have cared less. The two French immigration officials waved us indifferently on from inside their nice warm hut.

      We arrived at the villa late evening, feeling wrung out and exhausted. The warm velvety night rang with the sound of frogs echoing round the valley as I led my cat out of the hot hatchback. Tugging on the lead, she sniffed the night air cautiously, ears twitching to the unfamiliar noises, then seemingly satisfied, proceeded to dig a hole and christen the garden.

      Meanwhile where was the front door key? A key hunt is not to be recommended after an 800 mile drive, and eventually we gave up the search and went looking for a telephone box instead to ask Mr P, the manager of the property, where he had left the key. We spoke to his answerphone and went back to the villa to kick our heels.

      Eventually Smithy kicked the door in frustration and lo and behold it opened – all it had needed was a firm push, it wasn’t locked after all.

      Relieved to get inside at last, we unloaded some of the luggage and took a quick recce.

      La Colline turned out to be a rather charmless two-storey villa, which had clearly seen better days. It had been divided into two apartments, the larger upper floor, which was to be our accommodation for the first week, consisted of a very basically furnished open-plan kitchen/dining area, a bathroom and three spacious, high ceilinged bedrooms.

      With the penchant these days for renovation projects and makeovers, today’s property investors would probably drool over the cracked original Provencal tiles and ancient plumbing. They would no doubt enthusiastically declare the place to have potential. To us, it just seemed sadly neglected. We wondered what the paying guests thought of it.

      That first night at La Colline, we hurriedly made up the beds, and were all soon fast asleep, oblivious to the frogs serenading us outside.

      The next morning I awoke to see sunlight creeping under the doors and slanting through the shutters. Outside, sunshine had bathed everything in a glorious light; inside, however, it showed up all the dust and dirt. There was nothing for it but to roll up our sleeves and give the place a good scrub.

      Before tackling the cleaning, however, we decided to take a tour of the grounds. First we came to the garden section at the rear of the villa where an oblong pool sparkled invitingly. Adjoining this was a large patio area with a barbecue. Resisting the urge to jump into the

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