Gypsy Camargue

We head deep into the heart of the area of France called the Camargue. The Camargue is low flat land between Arles, the capital, and the Mediterranean. It is a land of low-lying yellow rice fields, edged on each side with tall pampas grass or a mix of trees, planted as windbreaks. 

White horses gallop into picture postcard shallow blue lagoons, flicking their tails, which become indistinguishable from the tufted pampas heads. Cowboys, called gardians, herders for centuries in the Camargue, gallop after them; while along each Promenade de Cheval queues of more well-behaved white horses are put to gentle work, carrying beginning riders, one queue after another, a riding school economy that drives the Camargue. 

The fields are heavy with bellowing black bulls. We figure these are being bred for use in the arenas we have been visiting. We also notice that bull meat is appearing on menu items everywhere, and on some of the billboards: saucisson de taureau, they say. So, the bulls are multi-purpose. I just don’t think I could eat one. 

White cattle egrets sit companionably on the backs of the black bulls, keeping a sharp eye out for their friends, the pink flamingos, busily grooming and preening their long pink legs, bills and and pretty pink-tinged wings, in the nearby shallow lagoons. Everywhere is a painter’s pot: colours of white, black, pink, yellow, green and blue. 

And, of course, to go with this vibrancy, the Camargue is gypsy land. Hints of gypsy lore and gypsy décor are obvious everywhere, even in the churches. Every May hoards of gypsies from all parts of Europe converge on this land, meeting up for their annual Pelerinage des Gitans, in a little town sitting on the sands of the Mediterranean coast: Saintes Maire de la Mer. So, we hunt it down. 

Saintes Maire de la Mer apparently got its name after the death of Christ when a group of the Marys -- Mary Magdalen, Mary Salome (Mother of apostles: John and James) and Mary Jacobe (aunt of Jesus), along with their servant, Sara, were put into a boat and shoved out to sea, left to die. Their barque, so the story goes, washed ashore at this point, and here they were welcomed by the local gypsy leader, Sara. Sara wished them well, listened to their tale, and offered them peace, if they only promised to baptise her and her little band of gypsies, into Christianity. Voila! So goes the priest’s tale. One of a store, no doubt. 

Not too many centuries later, a church is built in the Marys’ honour. It is a small dark stone church with a lot of giggle about it. There is a statue of Saint Sara in the crypt -- decorated in a coat of gay gypsy bling, edged with tassels of jangling, dangling golden coins and all the spaces in between are heavily stitched with flashing sequins, to catch every bit of light. St Sara is surrounded by so many offerings of red and green lit votive candles that the crypt roof is completely black. The temperature in the crypt is a full five degrees warmer than elsewhere in the church. Hellishingly hot.  I am not at all sure Sara would have appreciated it. 

Garishly decorated altars throughout the nave bear witness to many of the Mary miracles. Various bits of body parts have been remobilised thanks to the saints and their reliquary. Cripples have walked again. Hot winds from the 1833 Mistral blowing deadly heat across the Camargue were stopped in their tracks. Such is the combined power of the Marys, so it is believed. And if that isn’t enough to woo and wow the tourists, there is, behold! a full-length replica of the Shroud of Turin hanging along the back wall of the church. And who says that is not Jesus.  It looks exactly like him.  

Saintes Mairie de la Mer is built around great sandy beaches with protective bays braced in giant manmade horseshoes of stone. I bet it throbs in summer with heated sunburnt bodies splayed on the sand. As we left the church folk walking the little town started gathering around permanent barricades edging the road that leads towards Les Arenas: the Bullring. We had no idea what this meant until a vehicle with a loudspeaker whipped by yelling in such a way that those who understood scattered fast. We followed the leader. Then came the complete surprise: our first ever bull run. Just as in Pamploma, a cavalcade of gardiens galloped gallantly by on their white horses stringing between them a herd of black bulls bound for the bullring, There was to be a bull fight in the Arena that afternoon. Which we would miss as we were making tracks.   But we were there for the parade.  

We headed further down the coast to Aigues Morte. Mainly because I liked the sound of the name, which means: Dead Water. Which, though, a bit of a worry given that Aigues Morte has now become an inland port with the shift of sand and sea, is fairly self-explanatory. Aigues Morte is a completely walled town, much like Saintes, and is gorgeous. The walls were constructed in the 13th Century on the orders of Louis IX, who attempted to launch the 7th and 8th Crusades from here in 1248 and 1270, as he sought to reconquer the Holy Lands. There had to be money in crusades given the number of kings and popes, abbots and hosteleries itching to be involved in them. Louis did not have much luck. He was captured during the 7th Crusade and died during the 8th. Sadly, the omens were not in his favour. 

Aigues Morte is groaning in produits du terroir. From this land salt is made, tangy with the perfume of the garrigue: Fleur du Sel de Camargue -- flavoured with thyme and lavendar. The Camargue, too, is famous for its long grained fat white rice. This, too, is often bought in the local shops flecked with edible roses and jasmine. And, of course, there are tons of dried sausage made from bull meat, the other local specialty selling big in the little boutiques. Not to mention the delightful clothing for Apres La Plage wear – no Apre Ski wear here from smart little shops decorated with just a single vine growing from a a pot hole in the concrete, from which flourishes a beautiful winding vine spreading shade and tendrils and trumpeting with vivid purple morning glories. Like Arles, Aigues Morte, despite its name, is such a pretty place. 

At sunset we leave the village and drive past the last of the sweet summer lavendar fields hunkered between fields of the yellow headed rice. Occasionally, we see long lagoon boats bearing home the last of the tourists behind borders of tall bulrushes, tipped gold by a setting sun. Tonight we camp further inland in the heart of Provence and wind up atop the very hill that Dante looked down from, and which inspired his epic poem, the Inferno. Indeed the name of the wine cave we sleep above bears the same name: Cave du Val D’Enfer.  A monster cave it is, buried deep underground, showing scars where massive rectangular blocks have been gouged from the mountain’s heart. The wine in these rocky caverns is chilled. We sip it, and eat tapas here in this cavernous underground cathedral, sitting on massive cut-away wine barrels curved into wooden seats, corked in the centre with a table holding tapenade, olives, salami and cheese. It is cool. Spectacular. Otherworldly. And not a Netherworlder in sight.

Flamingoes feeding on the riches of the Camargue waters

Riding school, Camargue

Everywhere there is water

White horses of the Camargue