“Oh, sorry, that’s our British term for bird-watcher or birder,” he explained.
He took a professional-looking pair of binoculars from his backpack and slipped the strap around his neck. Next he slung his camera strap over his shoulder. Arianna noticed he had put a new lens on it, the most massive she had ever seen.
She felt somewhat less than prepared as Barbara and Cecilia also took cameras out of their bags.
I guess I’ll just keep using my phone . . .
Henri’s enthusiastic voice brought her attention back to him.
“Mais oui! Bird-watchers and visitors come here from around the world. Our star attractions are the pink flamingos that live here throughout the year. In mating season, we may have forty thousand of our pink-feathered beauties nesting here. Let’s go see them.”
Arianna had never given much thought to flamingos or, really, birds of any sort, except for the cardinals, chickadees, and blue jays that visited the feeders in her mother’s backyard. So she had been surprised at how stirred she was by the artistry of the photos and drawings Jacques had shared during his presentation at the mas.
Seeing the flamingos now, just a few feet away, almost close enough to touch, she found herself drawn to their seemingly fragile beauty. Graceful slender necks curved up to black-tipped pink beaks. Searching for algae or shrimp, the birds stepped slowly through the lagoon, dipping their heads underwater from time to time. Many were resting on one spindly sticklike pink leg at a time.
There was just a hint of pink in the delicate cream coloring of their feathers. A bright-pink slash could be seen on the wings, where they folded against their bodies.
Everyone gasped with surprise when one bird lifted its wing and a vibrant red-and-black contrast suddenly flashed, hidden underneath.
Barbara exclaimed they must be quite spectacular in flight and Henri assured her it was a sight to behold. “We have a beautiful poster of a large number in flight that I will show you back at the office.”
“I expected their coloring to be more pink,” Arianna commented.
Henri explained that the depth of color in their feathers changed according to their diet. “It comes partially from the carotene in the shellfish they eat. Some of these birds are still quite young and won’t become more pink until they are three years old.”
Their deep honking and squawking sounds seemed at odds with their elegant appearance and movements. A constant conversation filled the air.
“That’s what I call chuntering,” said Bertram to no one in particular.
“Another British term?” Cecilia asked.
Bertram chuckled. “Maybe. It means to mutter or grumble incessantly. And that’s what this sounds like to me.” Then he screwed his face up as if annoyed, and then offered a surprisingly accurate imitation that made them all laugh.
After Henri finished giving his tour, the four artists each found their own quiet spot, tucked under the shade of a tree or protected by a tall clump of reeds. From time to time, someone would wander elsewhere. Drawing in their sketch pads or project books, photographing from many angles, and simply observing, they found that two hours passed in a flash.
Meanwhile, Jacques moved around, taking photographs and jotting in a small notepad he carried in his back pocket. He took the time to sit with each of them, examine their ideas, and talk about style, content, and anything else they wanted to ask him. Arianna found herself observing him as much as she was the flamingos.
He appeared to be at one with his surroundings, calm and peaceful in his approach to everything. He dispelled any feelings of awkwardness she had about her art. She felt comfortable to be speaking so openly about her struggle with drawing.
“So, Arianna. Is this the kind of subject matter you’re accustomed to?” he asked as he crouched next to where she sat on a large stone near the water.
“No, it certainly is not,” she replied. “I’m completely mesmerized by these birds. Seeing so many—and so close—is quite remarkable.” He grinned as she continued. “Your drawings you showed us at the mas inspired me to turn to pencil here. I’m getting a lot of enjoyment from working on these, but it is work. I’m not having an easy time of it.”
Arianna noticed how deeply his eyes connected with hers, and she shifted, feeling suddenly shy. She had been aware of his eyes as she observed him talking to others, but when he turned his gaze on her, it felt more intimate than she could comfortably handle.
“I’ve always liked the quote that refers to drawing being the honesty of the art. That philosophy speaks to me. You can’t cheat with it. I tend to see life in black and white anyway. So the clarity in drawing is real to me. If I remember correctly, you prefer oils.”
“Yes, I do. But this change is good for me, and I want to improve. Particularly with these birds. I’m working on that heron as well.” She pointed to a majestic blue bird perched at the water’s edge.
“Bonne idée—a handsome bird. May I show you something?”
She handed him her pencil and watched as he added a few simple lines that brought her drawing to another level.
“Thank you for that,” she said. “What a difference, with such a minor change. I will remember that.”
“You’re doing very well. Don’t doubt yourself. I like how you’ve added some asymmetrical elements here. It’s a good effect.”
As he moved along, Arianna felt a tingle of pride at his comment. She felt like she was having a schoolgirl moment, feeling flustered holding the pencil he had just used.
When Jacques suggested it would soon be time to go, they took a few minutes to leave their work at a satisfactory stopping point. Then they said their good-byes to Henri and wished him well. To his evident delight, they all expressed a desire to return one day.
The enthusiastic chatter did not stop as they settled back into the Range Rover. They all agreed that it had been an extraordinary experience.
“Who is hungry?” Jacques asked. Everyone admitted they were ready for a light lunch. “Great! I’m going to swing around to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Does everyone like seafood?”
There were enthusiastic nods all around. He told them about his friend Yves. “His family has been fishing this area for five generations. They have the best petite friture—fried small fish—I’ve ever tasted, and croyez-moi, trust me, I’ve tasted many!”
On the quiet, two-lane road, they could see what looked like an enormous church towering over the town in the distance.
“That is the local church, Notre-Dame-de-la-Mer. It’s revered here and famous for pilgrimages. It began as a fortress between the ninth and twelfth centuries. In fact, it still has a freshwater well inside that was dug for times when refuge was necessary from attackers, including pirates.”
He continued to answer a barrage of questions about the history of the area as they drew closer to town.
“And I would like to add this thought,” he said. “You had some time just now in the Parc ornithologique to simply draw. For the rest of the day, I would ask you just to take photographs and make observations. No more drawing. There’s much for you to discover and, more importantly, to feel. D’accord?”
“D’accord!” they all chorused back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It did not take long to reach the small seaside community. The countryside appeared more open and wild here, and they passed several manades along with way. Jacques explained that this was the only main road. “There are also a few side roads, many walking and bike trails, and a system of small canals crisscrossing the region. When traffic is heavy for a festival, it’s a cauchemar—nightmare!”
Glimpses of horses and bulls along the roadside drew exclamations of delight, but Jacques assured them they were in for much better sights.
“After lunch we will return to Manade Saint-Dominique. Madame LeClerc texted to say there are horses grazing near the ranch house. Sometimes we don’t see them for days, so you brought good luck with you. You did say you wanted to ride, oui?”
As they entered the small town, they noticed several impressive sculptures of bulls.
“It’s the bulls that are the rock stars here,” Jacques explained, as he recounted a few local stories. “They all have names and statues are often erected to the best of them when they die. There are few villages here without them.”
The women all stressed how much they liked this philosophy of bloodless contests. Bertram had a different attitude about traditional bullfighting and quietly made a comment about appreciating the deeply rooted cultural traditions that accompanied it.
“It’s an ongoing debate that has become much louder with the advancement of animal rights,” Jacques agreed.
Fascinated, they urged Jacques to continue his commentary.
“Each village has its own bull festival in the summer and they’re something to see. The organized events include bull runs through the street and tons of other activities. But the main attractions are the contests in the arenas. Some of the bulls who aren’t champions there become tasty meals thanks to a life of grazing on the rich, marshy pastures here.”
“C’est la vie,” Bertram murmured.
“But as Madame LeClerc mentioned, bulls are truly the heart of the Camargue. They are raised for victory in the bullring, not to be the main course at dinner.”
“And are these competitions truly bloodless?” Barbara asked.
“These are. Some called corrida or mise à mort are the fight to the death. But I’m not talking about them now. A course camarguaise takes place every week all summer long. Some towns have one every day. The goal is for the animal to become the winner of the ‘course.’ The bulls are surprisingly light and fast. And intelligent. Trumpets blare. The bull runs around the arena with a ribbon or other decoration attached between his horns.”
He stopped the Range Rover beside the arena, which was right on the beach. “Come and see some photos here at the bullring. It’s easier to understand that way. But, all in all, it’s a rather crazy part of our culture. And much loved!”
They piled out and gathered around an exhibit of black-and-white photographs. Jacques continued his explanation. “You see, these men dressed in white are the raseteurs. They use a claw-shaped metal tool, a crochet, to try to grab a knotted ribbon called the cocarde tied between the bull’s horns and then two little ficelles, strings attached to the base of the horns. They get two points for the cocarde and four for the ficelles. There are bonus points if the bull slams the barrier. The points accumulate all season. Being crowned the season champion is a great honor.”
He pointed to another young man in the ring. “This is a tourneur, and he tries to distract the bull. At the same time, the raseteur runs at the bull, hoping the bull will charge him. Make sense so far?”
“Better him than me,” muttered Bertram.
“If the two men cross paths, it might confuse the bull. That’s the best time for the raseteur to try to grab a ribbon or string with his hook. More often than not, the raseteur then tries to leap over the fence and grabs onto the arena wall or railing. He doesn’t want to get trampled. Sometimes the bull tries to jump over too.”
“Sounds like a wild time! I would love to see that!” Barbara said.
They began to chuckle at some photos showing the men taking flying leaps into the stands, a bull hard on their heels. “Remember what you’ve heard today. These bulls are the celebrities and no harm must come to them. If something happens to the bull accidentally, the contest may be stopped. If the guys who go in the ring get a little hurt, c’est la vie!”
“It looks rather chaotic!” Bertram observed.
Jacques nodded. “Absolument chaotique! There’s an announcer talking quickly, usually in a very loud voice. Also, there’s sometimes shrieking the entire time by enthusiastic others near the microphone. The audience cheers. The band plays the overture of Carmen—or sometimes there’s just a scratchy record played over the speakers. It’s quite a spectacle!
“The most fun for the gardian,” Jacques continued, “is a bandido, when we bring the bulls to the arena, or abrivado, when we return them to the meadows. A street is cordoned off, and everyone lines it to cheer as the gardians drive the bulls from one end to the other.”
He explained it all happened at a frenzied pace, with possibly ten riders galloping in close formation around the bulls.
Bertram was pointing out various photos to go with Jacques’s commentary.
“There’s a lot of noise and dust! We keep the bulls in the middle, but sometimes one manages to get out. Honnêtement, sometimes we let that happen to make it even more exciting! Then we bring the bull back into the group, and the announcer yells, ‘Le taureau est enfermé.’ This means the bull has been captured and once again there is great cheering and whistling.”
He paused for a moment, looking around with a crooked grin, before he ended on a serious note. “Everyone is warned to stay behind the barriers. Accidents sometimes happen, sadly.”
The thought of bullfights had always made Arianna feel disgusted and even angry. But these local contests sounded like a lot of fun. She smiled at the thought that the bulls were revered for being the winners. Jacques’s storytelling skills were keeping them amused with his tales of colorful local traditions.
Looking around, Cecilia commented, “You can feel that lively atmosphere on the streets here. The shops and bars are all so festively decorated!”
“It’s very much a gypsy town, filled with their rich folklore and music,” Jacques replied. “You’re just a bit early for the main event of the year here, the Gitan Pilgrimage. Thousands of gypsies gather, mainly from France and Spain. Fields, roads and laneways are jammed with caravans. Most are modern, but even today there are some horse-drawn. The highlight is when gardians on horseback accompany the chosen gypsies who carry the statuette of Black Sara into the sea. Night and day, tantalizing cooking smells waft through the air. Music, some fantastic flamenco, and dancing fill the streets! It’s quite the party! Did you know the Gipsy Kings got their start playing here as teenagers?”
They described to Jacques how they had been painting to the sounds of the Gipsy Kings, and that Juliette had told them all about their local history.
“I’m a convert!” Bertram announced, looking quite pleased with himself. Then he twitched his shoulders rather clumsily and sang, “Bambolooli, bambolooli . . .”
“That would be ‘Bamboleo,’ Bertie!” Arianna corrected him with a grin as they all laughed.
He repeated it several times, aided by Jacques, who continued the song for a few more lines in perfect Spanish.
“By George, I’ll master that yet!” Bertram promised.
Soon they were perched on stools at a boardwalk stand on a long, sandy beach that seemed to stretch out to the horizon.
A short, burly man in a T-shirt, jeans, and bright-yellow rubber boots rushed over from the dock. He had been busy gathering and sorting piles of fishing nets while laughing and exchanging comments with men on nearby boats. They appeared to be cleaning up after an early-morning return from the sea.
He and Jacques greeted each other with the customary bises and much back slapping. Yves received his guests warmly. “Bonjour et bienvenue! Nothing chichi here! Just the best friture you’ve ever tasted—did mon ami Jacques tell you?—and fresh from the sea this morning,” he assured them, as he walked around the counter into the open kitchen.
Conversation moved easily from French to English between the men, and they made a great effort to keep everyone engaged.
After scrubbing his hands, Yves fired up a gas fryer, and he tossed a mixture of small whitefish, baby octopus, and calamari in flour, seasonings, and a light batter. Once he filled the fryer and lowered it into the oil, Yves took greens that were in the fridge and dropped them into a large olivewood bowl. He tossed in some chopped onion, cucumber, and tomato, then scooped out some herbs from a container. “My secr
et recipe,” he said with a conspiratorial wink, as he rubbed the herbs between his fingers and into the greens. Next he squeezed the juice from half a lemon and finished with a flourish, adding olive oil.
He turned and lifted the fryer onto a drainage rack, then returned to the wooden bowl and tossed the salad with great panache.
“Et voilà!”
Jacques grinned. “As I predicted! And now for some Camargue wine to go along with it.”
Everyone agreed lunch was as delicious as promised.
After lunch, they had a quick drive around, with Jacques giving nonstop commentary.
Cecilia sat next to him, recording as they went. She had asked for his permission to do a podcast about this visit. “To have the voice of a true gardian describing the Camargue will be very special,” she told him, her words filled with adulation.
He nodded with a slightly embarrassed expression.
Arianna liked the way his subtle sense of humor shone through his observations. She could feel his connection to the region and the way of life and realized she envied that. She felt connected to nothing these days except her family. Her horizons were being expanded in so many ways on this trip.
It’s up to me to do something about that . . . and slowly that urge is growing. I’ve got to plan more travel. That’s a given!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Soon they headed back to the manade.
“Alors! Now you will experience the passion of our region: our horses and bulls.”
Jacques parked the car by the ranch house and passed around a bottle of mosquito repellant, adding, “It’s strong, so don’t get it in your eyes. Hopefully, though, we won’t really need it today and I know you put some on earlier. This is simply backup.”
He then asked, “Are you ready to ride a horse?”
Bertram offered a crisp salute. “Absolutely! I’m looking forward to this.” During conversation in the car, Jacques had inquired as to each one’s riding experience. Cecilia had said she had taken riding lessons as a child and was sure she would be fine. Arianna and Barbara had looked at each other. “I will if you will,” Barbara had said, her expression a mixture of amusement and concern.
Drawing Lessons Page 19