Drawing Lessons

by Patricia Sands

  They were taking Juliette’s car, and to everyone’s surprise, Bertram insisted on driving.

  “I’ve spent my life navigating the hedgerow-lined lanes of the English countryside!” he said, looking very pleased with himself. “Nothing I’ve seen here so far compares to that!”

  Marti, Lisa, John, Joan, and Maurice were headed to the west side of the Camargue in search of special seafood.

  “I know some secret spots that you would never find otherwise,” Maurice assured them. “And I never pass up an opportunity to go there. We’ll head to Le Grau-du-Roi and then Sète and then simply play it by ear. If my friend Bruno is around, you may get to eat the most delicious fresh fish of your life. He doesn’t have a phone, so we will have to take our chances. Allons-y, mes amis!”

  “Eh bien!” Juliette laughed. “We have the nature lovers in one group and the foodies in the other! What tales you will have to share tonight when you get back! Bon voyage!”

  With a hearty “Au revoir!” the foodies set off.

  Before they left, Cecilia and Arianna quietly expressed some concern to Barbara about whether Bertram would drink too much during their expedition.

  “Absolutely not!” Barbara said rather indignantly. “I have no fear of that. I believe he is an honorable man—and I’ve formed an opinion about his drinking, which I will share with you at another time. Besides, we have three other competent drivers here, if need be!”

  A short while after the group left Arles, the scenery changed abruptly. The road cut through agricultural flatlands where rice paddies, small vineyards, fruit orchards, and fields of wheat and rapeseed were farmed.

  “There’s no obvious way through this area if you get off the main road,” said Cecilia, reading from her guidebook. “A maze of marshes, canals, and back roads that go who knows where.”

  “Thank goodness for Jacques’s directions,” Barbara said.

  Bertram commented on the landscape as he chauffeured them, expressing how it “metamorphosed from the bucolic, rich countryside of Provence that we love to this flat, marshy environment that demands a whole different mind-set.”

  Roadside stands displayed local salt and riz de Camargue, a nutty red rice grown in neighboring paddies. They had passed a few signs for horseback riding when suddenly Bertram slowed down and turned into a parking area next to a wooden viewing platform. “By Jove! There you go, mesdames, the feral horses of the Camargue.”

  He had spotted a small herd of the white horses standing among tall reeds, their heads and shoulders just visible. The group noticed there were some that appeared younger, dark in color, and Cecilia told them she had read that’s how they are born. “They gradually become white after three of four years.”

  Bright, alert eyes stared back at them from the broad, handsome faces.

  “Shhh!” Bertram reminded them. “Let’s not startle them.” Everyone excitedly whispered about their beauty and took photos. Then they urged Bertram to get going.

  “I can’t wait to get close to some of those horses,” Cecilia squealed, back in the car and barely concealing her excitement.

  “Are we all game for a horseback ride?” Bertram asked.

  With some initial reservations from Barbara and Arianna, they all finally agreed. Bertram told them how he had grown up riding and how much he was looking forward to this experience.

  “These Camargue horses are a breed unto themselves, you know. They’re seldom stabled and roam as freely through their surroundings as the limitations of modern changes allow. Their solid bodies and hooves are uniquely suited to the unusual conditions here, and their history goes back forever. Bones of their ancestors from the Paleolithic period, seventeen thousand years ago, have been found here.”

  Cecilia looked up more information about the horses and shared it as they drove.

  Just over an hour from Arles, as instructed by Jacques, they turned onto a long dirt lane. There were more trees now, and great stretches of marshes disappeared into a large body of water.

  “That’s the biggest saltwater lagoon in the Camargue, the Étang de Vaccarès,” Cecilia read. “I’m excited to see the masses of pink flamingos that are around here!”

  They all concurred. Cecilia texted Jacques to let him know they were almost at the manade, the ranch where he lived and worked.

  After one more left turn, the sandy driveway led them to a large ranch house. A wooden sign had the name, “Manade de Saint-Dominique,” burnt into it, and a broad set of bull horns sat atop it. A large iron sculpture stood beside the sign.

  “I’ve noticed the symbol of that sculpture a few times now. I’m sure we will discover what it means,” Arianna observed. It bore a resemblance to an anchor, with three prongs at the top followed by a heart on a center support that ended in a curve.

  “Oh, look,” Barbara pointed out, “there’s a smaller one on the chimney of the house and another on the wall of that tractor barn. Let’s remember to ask about it.”

  A little farther along, in a wide field bordered by towering reeds, they could see in the distance a small stucco structure with an unusual-looking roof and a rider on horseback approaching them from it.

  The image startled Arianna. She had seen these dwellings in van Gogh’s painting Trois cabanes blanches aux Saintes-Maries. It was like seeing the portrayal of this unfamiliar landscape come to life. She felt a long-forgotten twinge of excitement at what adventures might be ahead of them today.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Bienvenue,” Jacques called as his horse stopped next to the car, and he quickly dismounted.

  He was again dressed in the traditional attire of a gardian, wearing black moleskin pants, a red paisley shirt, a black vest, and round-toed leather boots. In greeting, he put his fingers to a wide-brimmed hat just like the one he had worn to the mas. “Welcome! I’m so pleased you were able to come.”

  He had ridden bareback on a sturdy white Camargue horse, like those they had admired by the side of the road. With a low whistle and a flick of his hand, he showed he had clearly trained his steed well. The horse turned and galloped off.

  “And now let me take you into my world,” Jacques said. “Come and meet the madame of this manade.” The visitors expressed excitement at being there and eagerly agreed to Jacques’s suggestion.

  He led the way into the ranch house, after a light rap on the massive wooden door, adorned by a majestic set of bull’s horns. They would later learn this represented good luck.

  The house’s exterior of simple white stucco and red-tile roof did not prepare them for what was inside. They immediately felt transported as they entered a bright, spacious living area that seemed more like a Texas ranch than a home in France.

  Aged, unpainted wooden posts and beams supported the ceilings, crammed bookcases of the same wood covered one wall, and a gallery-like display of photography and posters of bulls, horses, and gardians filled the others. Leather chairs and couches, with a mix of side tables crafted of iron, invited one to sit and absorb the ambiance. Whitewashed walls and wood plank floors added to the rustic country charm. Sunlight poured in through a series of windows that looked out over the porch at the front of the house.

  A petite woman, her silvery-gray hair tied back in a long braid, greeted Jacques with an affectionate bise. She murmured a few words to him before he turned to the visitors and said, “It’s my pleasure to introduce you to Madame LeClerc, who is eager to invite you to enjoy her family’s manade. She asked me to apologize to you for not speaking English better. That’s her opinion, though; I believe she does very well.”

  Her warm smile caused them to feel welcome instantly. Madame LeClerc spoke English haltingly with a charming accent. She gave a brief history of their ranch going back to the late 1700s, her pride evident.

  She led them along the gallery pointing out family and important events—first in paintings and sketches, and then in photography. She indicated several pictures of her husband, explaining that he was currently out working the lan
d, accompanied by their daughter.

  “We are proud that our daughter had a passion to become a gardian—or gardianne, if you prefer. We normally don’t bother with the latter in these days. Oui, Jacques?”

  He nodded in agreement. “We are all one, madame.”

  Their close friendship was obvious. Arianna found it interesting that Jacques never called her anything but “madame” and always with such respect.

  “In time, she and her husband will take over our farm and business. She was among the first few women to come into this male-dominated world,” she stated proudly, looking to Jacques again for confirmation.

  He smiled broadly as she continued. “And how lucky we are that she had the best gardian in the Camargue as her instructor and mentor.” She put her hand on Jacques’s arm, and he grinned and replied it had been his pleasure.

  The collection of photographs, from the cracked and aged sepia prints to colorful recent posters, told a bold and yet intimate story about the property and the lives that had been such a part of that narrative.

  Indicating one faded photo, Madame LeClerc said, “This man was our star . . . a gardian extraordinaire whose son followed in his footsteps. We just lost this fine gentleman two years ago at the age of ninety-nine, and we will never forget him. In fact, he is buried on our property. But I will let his son tell you more. Oui, Jacques?”

  Jacques’s face flushed with pride and emotion. “I’ll be happy to tell them all about my father. I will do it as I take them around this Camargue he loved with all of his heart and soul.”

  Madame LeClerc’s eyes glistened with devotion. “There are few times in one’s life when a man as special as your father comes along. He will always remain such a part of our family, our history.”

  The others felt touched by the moment, unsure quite what to say.

  Then Jacques broke the spell and said, “Would you like to talk about what we do here before I whisk our guests off?”

  She laughed, her eyes crinkling with delight now. “Oui! You know I love to do that.”

  She walked over to a grouping of animal photos and first pointed to a few posters featuring massive black bulls. “As you may know, our bulls are semiwild and live in the marshes of the Camargue as they have for centuries. First and foremost, we raise them to perform in the bullring. Secondly, for their meat. I’ll let Jacques explain bullfighting to you later, since that is an important part of our culture.”

  As she moved on to a collection of photos of horses, her voice filled with affection. “We love our Camargue horses. They are playful, smart, and strong. It can be very hot here but that doesn’t bother them.”

  “They are fun-loving creatures whether at work or at play,” Jacques confirmed. “Also, they have no fear of flies and mosquitoes. Those insects can be fierce here.”

  “I was reading out loud in the car how dreadful the mosquitoes are,” Cecilia said. “Juliette sent us off with repellant she described as ‘super-duper jungle-strength extra strong,’ and she instructed us to slather it on! Is it really that bad?”

  Jacques and Madame LeClerc looked chagrinned. “Malheureusement, oui. Although some days the wind makes a difference. The mistral this week will have helped.”

  A stunning photo of several horses thundering through water, surf spraying, with their long white manes flowing, drew Bertram’s attention.

  Their host laughed, her face beaming with pleasure. “They love to splash through the sea and gallop across the beaches and dunes. That’s why some call them ‘horses of the sea.’”

  “They’re carefully monitored these days because of development in the region. Most importantly, we want them to be safe. Yet still they are allowed to run wild, within boundaries,” Jacques added. “It’s very special, and photographers come from around the world to capture shots like this.”

  “And they love to show off!” Madame LeClerc expressed, her affection for them undeniable.

  Everyone commented and exclaimed as they examined the posters and asked questions. There was much to discover about the way of life in the Camargue.

  Bertram pointed to the same iron symbol they had noticed outside. There were many of them scattered in among the photos. “Might I ask what this represents, madame?”

  “C’est la croix de Camargue—it’s the Camargue Cross. It is the emblem of the town of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, not far from here.”

  “Oh yes, I read about that town!” Cecilia exclaimed. “It has quite an unusual history.”

  Madame nodded. “Oui! There is a medieval legend that says the three Marys—Mary of Cleopas, Mary Magdalene, and Mary Salome, all friends of the mother of Jesus—landed near there in a boat after Christ’s crucifixion. They were fleeing from persecution after finding the empty tomb. Bones were discovered in the fifteenth century that were proclaimed by the Church to be relics. Pilgrimages became popular. The bones are still treasured in the crypt of the church. Who is to say, really? There are always other interpretations.”

  “So this cross represents their story?” Bertram pressed, wanting more information.

  Jacques interjected, “Partly. But really it’s more modern than the legend. The Marquis Folco de Baroncelli commissioned the design in 1924 by the artist Hermann-Paul. I’ll tell you more about the marquis later. In 1930, a large iron Camargue Cross was forged by a local man and installed near Saintes-Maries. Since then, you find smaller ones everywhere. It’s a popular souvenir.”

  “Yes, it is. But it is very meaningful to those of us who live here. It represents culture but also the three most important Christian virtues, as well as the three Marys,” Madame LeClerc added as she pointed to each part of the sculpture. “The cross represents faith, the heart stands for love or charity, depending on who you ask, and the anchor symbolizes hope. There is also the Holy Trinity at the top.”

  Jacques pointed to the three-pronged fork at the top. “These are also supposed to represent trident spears, traditionally used by fishermen. So that brings in the fishing customs of the area. But also, this is the long tool used by the manadiers—a type of gardian—who work with the bulls. They use it like a shepherd’s crook to help keep the bulls together in the herd.”

  Bertram was clearly engrossed in these stories. “I say! That’s a wealth of symbolism there. Will we pass by a shop to perhaps purchase one of these?”

  Jacques assured him that would not be a problem. Arianna chuckled to herself. I hadn’t thought of Bertie as the souvenir type.

  Next, Madame LeClerc directed their attention to the photos of individuals as well as groups of men on horseback. “As you know from Jacques, our powerful black beasts are tended by our gardians—you might call them cowboys—who ride our semiwild horses. Some people like to say the gardians are semiwild also.”

  She chuckled and reached over to pat Jacques on the back. He frowned at her in mock dismay and then winked back.

  “That was une petite blague—a little joke! We take great pride in our gardians. Most of them have a family history with us, and we value their loyalty as well as their tremendous talent as equestrians. Gardians and horses form bonds with each other. The gardians respect the horses for their stamina and agility, as you will see. Most importantly, these men . . . and now some women . . . understand that the horses have an innate ability to communicate with the bulls. C’est magnifique.”

  She paused and looked at Jacques once more, her eyes glistening, her affection and respect obvious. “You know those words describe our gardians too.”

  “Madame, it is always an honor to do the work we do. And to work on this manade makes it even more special.”

  Madame LeClerc cleared her throat, and her voice cracked with emotion as she addressed her visitors once more. “I hope you fall in love with the Camargue and come again. Now I will stop my tourist talk!”

  She put her hands together and bowed gracefully. All four guests offered words of thanks at the same time.

  Bertram bowed low and said, “Madame LeClerc, you have
been most gracious and congenial. Merci beaucoup.”

  “Oui, merci, madame. We have a busy day planned,” Jacques said. “Perhaps we can see you again later today.”

  “Pourquoi pas? If it fits with your schedule, why don’t we dine together here?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Once outside, Jacques indicated they should climb into his Range Rover. “I’m going to take you on some back trails where you would not like to take your vehicle. We’re going to the conservation area to see the birds first. You’re here at a good time of year! There will be babies.”

  They soon turned off the main road into a parking lot. There were few cars, and Jacques explained that the conservation area did not open to the public until noon. “We’re being offered special access.”

  A strapping young man who looked about thirty years old came out of the entrance office. Arianna noticed that he and Jacques exchanged three bises. Juliette had explained this was common between very close friends. For others, it would be just two.

  Jacques introduced him. “This is Henri. He is the chief guide here and has graciously offered to give us a tour, answer any questions, and lead you to the very best opportunities for photos. Then feel free to wander and take as many photos as you wish.”

  “Bienvenue au parc ornithologique—or bird park, to simplify things.” Henri opened his arms wide as he gestured across the shallow expanses of water. Varying heights of reeds, grasses, and other native plants, as well as sporadic groves of trees, created pockets of vegetation among the bays and inlets before them.

  “These wetlands and marshes are part of a large UNESCO-designated biosphere reserve. They provide a major staging point for hundreds of thousands of migrating birds, including our famous pink flamingos.”

  “A twitcher’s paradise, I daresay!” Bertram commented.

  “A what?” Cecilia asked.