Picnics on the top of the world, a golden Jesus just out of sight. While Dylan ran a guy, practicing soccer ball tricks, kept misjudging and the ball would roll my way. He’d apologise and say longer French sentences to me with every miss. I nodded and smiled, pretending I knew what he was saying. Why do we do that? I guess there was a point where it would have been embarrassing to admit I’d let him chatter away without understanding a word.

We stumbled upon the alternative quarter (as we always do, drawn by some invisible hipster compass), and found ourselves surrounded by shops selling Indian clothes, all sequins and silk, veggie burgers and vintage. We watched a dread headed man going through a dumpster and wondered, “Hipster or Homeless?”. In the main square similar, drop crocheted individuals busked. One on guitar with talent, one rolling a ball on her arms and back without. The carousel span and we bid Provence goodbye.

At the top of one of many hills we found a rather uninspiring looking campground with the rather appealing name of arc en ciel. Do we, currently homeless, grab this opportunity or do we risk the unknown as the day gets old?

We took the uncertain road beyond and I’m glad we did. Ochre coloured buildings and rolling lavender fields lay on the otherside of the hill, the Provence I had been seeking. Of course everyone else was too, and I was able to crop tourists out of my memories much more efficiently than Dylan. I marvelled at the ocean of purple ahead whilst he raged at the disrespect of tourists climbing the fence and running about someone’s livelihood. These marvels aside, our decision lead us finally to the best campground we had ever stayed in. A pool, a campsite by the river and a lovely owner who gave us a bowl of free plums from his tree to eat while inside Frenchmen roared as they watched the world cup semi finals. After such a long day this hodgepodge of tents and campers, packed with Germans and their lapdogs was an Eden.

The next day we made our way towards Avignon, our exit point from Provence and for me the end of our journey. The Alpes would be a moment of reflection whilst Dylan ran and then we would be working on Le Tour and it would all be over. Until then my eyes feasted on a country that was only echoes back home.

We departed Cheval-blanc with a gift of a lavender posy stuck into my handlebars, the relaxing aroma drifting up with every bump.

It is a credit to our relationship that Dylan humoured my ride up hill and down dale through the towns of Provence (8 in total that day). And more so that I ignored his foul mood that slowly dissipated with the clouds. But let me tell you they were thick and dark that morning! The grey Sunday leaving roads practically deserted save us and the occasional cat that, spooked, scuttled across our path. The towns carved into the mountain appeared ruinous with their desertion, we supposed inhabitants were holed up in churches. There was something spectacular about their apparent isolation, it must have been a real labour of love to build them perched up their in the clouds. They were part of the landscape as no steel and glass edifice could ever be.