When I was working as a journalist in Tasmania, I attended the opening of a new art gallery. The owners spent a lot of their time in France, a lifestyle reflected in the pieces on the walls. The works of one artist, whose name I have unfortunately forgotten, depicted the French countryside. Every piece revealed a landscape of rolling paddocks scattered with hay bales, lined with deep green trees and filled with bright yellow sunflowers. I could have stared at those paintings for hours. They were perfect; so perfect that a part of me felt as if their creation must have involved a degree of artistic license.
But as we drove from Versailles into the countryside I realised those paintings I’d seen all those years ago were no exaggeration. Paddock after paddock was filled with sunflowers, or a rolling stretch of cut grass as tractors drove around picking up fresh hay bales. It was a view more stunning than anything I’d seen in Paris. I felt we were seeing a more ‘real’ side of France – one that wasn’t maintained for our benefit.
We travelled many winding roads through the French countryside and small townships. It was a slow way to travel as opposed to cruising along the motorway, but immensely more interesting. I never knew how big the villages we passed through were – it’s difficult to tell because we only saw a street or two. However there was always an impressive church. Every now and then, in what looked like the middle of nowhere, we’ll pass a random business – a mechanic, car dealerships or a furniture store. I always wondered how many people actually stop. While top speed on the motorway is 130kmh, through the villages it’s usually 50km, and 70kmh on the approach. It goes up and down quite quickly. Sometimes we’d come through a village and the speed will go up to 70kmh, only to return to 50kmh around the next corner.
The houses here are small, especially by Australian standards. Many have plants creeping up the side and look so quaint and magical I want to take a photo of all of them. Most have exterior shutter blinds, pulled down during the heat of the day and making the town look eerily quiet. It’s regularly topping 30C with the hottest part of the day the afternoon. I don’t know what time it gets dark because I’m always asleep by then. When walking to the supermarket at 9pm the other night I still had my sunglasses on.
When our canal boat was moored we spent the evenings cycling, riding down the empty roads running off the bike path. As the sun set we’d peddle alongside more sunflowers (they never lose their appeal or beauty), corn and towering silos next to farmhouses and barns. Occasionally we were greeted by a dog venturing down the lane.
France may widely acknowledged as home to the most beautiful city in the world, but I’d take a holiday out here over the city any day.
