a change in landscape

After many trips to Aix to see special people and enjoy the town,  it was welcome to view and be involved in the surrounding landscape at close quarters. Previously on the trips from Languedoc to this part of Provence,  I’ve  just had the tantalising glimpse of Mte Saint-Victoire whilst whizzing down the last part of  La Provençale – elegant name for a motorway. The muggy afternoon prompted the short trip to Le Tholonet, below the mountain which figures in Cézanne’s work. The white limestone of the summit contrasts with the red clay on the lower level.

       

Le Tholonet sits within the area of Réserve Naturelle. Rangers block off certain parts of the twiggy wooded areas at this time of the year as forest fires can ignite without warning. Fastigiate cypress punctuate against the rounded forms of the pines  – the look of Provence – vineyards and fields of wildflowers also form part of the landscape.

L’Arc et La Cause are the two rivers which wend their way through the Haute Vallée de l’Arc. Streams cascade down and bubble over the rock formations on their way to feed into the rivers creating a cool atmosphere. Also a wet and slippery playground . . . .

. . .  hardly a soul here. Plenty of space for all on a week day afternoon.

Holm and turkey oaks form the scrubby layer under the pines. Gorse, broom and rosemary figure too but at this time of year it’s predominately a green landscape with just the herb layer of grasses and thyme browning off.

Back in Languedoc, the agricultural feel dominates. There is heavy tall woodland here too – all holm oak – denser and rougher than in Provence. Some olive groves contribute to the look of the landscape but to a lesser degree. The olive has given way to the vine. The vehicles – tractors and white vans –  are more noticeable in the vineyards now denoting final tweaking in the last few weeks before the vendange.

Clematis flammula and oaty grasses greet me again on the verges of the tracks around the village. Love it.

I’m amazed the earth hereabouts

lets me breathe its atmosphere,

that the voices I hear

permit me to listen.

When a word soars: such a flight

through these distances,

you’d need the voce of a nightingale

to take its measure.  Jo Shapcott  Born Off

very close to home

Well, this post is entirely selfish – and a start on some visual notes that I need to record well ahead of the end of this sojourn – and yes, somewhat melancholic. But, also revelling in great enjoyment of the events that happen within this landscape. The events are mostly horticultural. There’s plenty of time, thank goodness, to absorb the changes in this close environment. This tree grows into the first floor of the house. the roots willl probably undermine the foundations – it’s hugely important – full of birds in early summer and increases the movement of  air in to the 1st + 2nd floor rooms. I can catch hold of the branches from all the windows and balconies and love to do so.  It is a Celtis. Graceful, non flowering, tough, reliable – is that enough to warrant selection for potential schemes? Yes, it is!

The strong thrusting growth of bupleurum- covering hill sides now, with the mustardy limey green umbels – small flat plates – floating on unassuming and waxy foliage and stems. Especially great visually bouncing off the silver foliage of olive trees. A good stand of olives here planted correctly on a grid. Well shaped canopies – set against the holm oak woodland backcloth. And with fruiting blackberries – mmm !

Clematis flammula is now covered in seed heads – what a great contribution it makes the ground layer here – early in leaf in April and then smothered in white flowers from June to August. Now, puffy in texture with a cobweb is caught within the seiderdown layer.  Mixtures of grasses – oaty and wheaty – line the lanes.

As the light drops, wildflowers and grasses on the uncultivated land, invite the gentle caress . . . .

. . . unlike the cactus. This sits below a bridge, almost hidden,  in uncultivated ground. Quite incongruous . . . .

. .  more understandable is the village pump, still recognisable as an engineered feature, under the very old silver lime. Maybe there were more of these trees – how lovely if this was so . . . enjoying  the big skies and expanses of light . . .

. . . this village, along with most in Languedoc, is set within an imprint of 2, or maybe, 4 crosses. I find I notice them now, and indeed, look for them entering other small habitations.

The morning glory – gorgeous, voluptuous and exotic – to be admired at opening time and allowed to sleep at closing time.

“Nature” is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse— the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity. Emily Dickinson  Nature Is.

les dunes de la plage

At Portiragnes, wide dunes run along behind the beach landscape. They’re impressive. A seemingly native environment that appears sustainable and well managed from the onlookers point of contact. Eryngium maritimum (sea holly) is in full flower  – stunning steely flower heads  – thrusts itself into the full frontal now. Glorious show stealing and why not!

Looking east, a euphorbia – maybe Euphorbia paralias . . .

 . . that sits well now in July with Crithmum maritimum . . . .

 . . . where the dunes run back into sheltered lagoons, sweetly scent Clematis flammula rampages around, in a decorous fashion – the plant is in full flower across Languedoc now . . .

 . . and a contrast to the spiny, architectural form of Echinophora spinosa . . .

 

. . . .  just coming into flower.

And  Pancratium maritimum – a stupendous eruption through the sand.

Finally. maybe a leymus or marram grass or maybe something else? 

Am I flower, am I grass blade?

Am I almost, but not quite,  a word?

A new island made of hush,

off the map? One thing’s sure:

I’m late for my own creation –

on the eighth day – your afterthought.

You made me and now you must watch

God eat me up bit by bit.   Jo Shapcott  The Second Lie