Provence Travels and Thoughts
A Voyage of Memory – Saorge in the Alpes Maritimes

Many years ago, when the world was a simpler place, I spent a winter in Saorge, a perched medieval village in the back country of Nice, high above the Roya River with my friend, Joanne Kauffman. This year, in March, we went back there together for the first time since we were in our thirties, and our children were young and clinging to our skirts. Joanne and I are working together these days, offering a Writers Retreat in Provence for women, and gathering our thoughts and constructs to write a memoir of our long friendship against the backdrop of a changing Provence – hence the visit to Saorge.

We parked our car, and with some trepidation, walked past the well-remembered bar-tabac at the entrance to the village and entered the heart of Saorge. Its narrow, cobbled ruelles and stair-stepped walkways, some with houses built across them, remained unchanged. Dangling single bulbs still lit the gloomiest underpasses, and the walls retained their soot and age-darkened patina. No cars are allowed – none would fit. The house we had rented on rue Thiers, where we had spent our winter, still stands, unchanged at the end of the village. Its second floor, stuccoed pink, where we lived, retains its soaring, unobstructed view of the ruins of the 13th  century chateau fort, Malmort, on the other side of the river’s gorge. It was one of  three that stood watch over the narrow pass, blocking invaders access to Nice and the Mediterranean until the last decade of the 18th century, when the forts were ordered destroyed by a French General. The olive groves I used to walk in spill down in shimmering silver all the way to the river, but look a bit untended, or perhaps memory made them grander.

Leaving behind our house, and those memories, we continued the familiar walk beyond the village to the grassy outcropping where the 17th century  Franciscan Monastery, and the 11th century Madonna del Poggia stand, glowing a warm yellow. Here we would come in the old days on cold mornings, watching for milk coming down from the mountain on donkey back, the cans clanging against one another and the donkeys bells keeping time. Standing in the shadow of the monastery, it was easy to conjure the sight and the sounds of that winter.

Only one restaurant was open on our visit, Le Bellevue. It is literally a balcony hanging over the edge with full windows overlooking the olives, the river, and the mountains across the river, much the same view as from our house on rue Thiers. We drank red wine, reminisced, and ate bowls of homemade ravioli and a salad of nearly wild greens. It cost more than it should have, about forty euros for both of us, but we didn’t care because a view of memory has no price.

Saint Dalmas de Tende
Since we wanted to visit another of our old haunts, Saint Dalams de Tende, after stopping at the bar-tabac for an espresso, we left Saorge and drove down the mountain and then headed north, arriving by a twisting road just as dusk fell. The auberge where Joanne had reserved a room for us was a restored farmhouse, with multiple styles of accommodations. We were shown a room on the ground floor hewn into rock, once no doubt the storage cave for the farm. The bathroom was lushly tiled in deep salmon and creamy white, the beds modest but with crisp white sheets. Best of all was dinner, prepared by the owner, a former chef. While the wood-fired stove kept the room cozy, we were brought a carafe of red wine and a first course of beautifully-arranged, thin avocado slices, drizzled with a vinaigrette, along with a basket of bread. Next came one of my very favorite dishes, veal stew. It was accompanied by a potato gratin and perfect little carrots. Dessert was a wedge of chocolate cake with thick cream.

The next day, after a breakfast of fresh bread, served with butter and a jar of homemade, seedless raspberry jam, good strong coffee and hot milk, we explored the famous frescoed churches of Saint Dalmas,  bemoaning that we couldn’t get access to Notre Dame des Fontaines where 15th century artists painted all the walls in bright colors and a Brugelesque style. The faces of the people suffering in the grips of various demons and torments locked deep in Satan's domain are said to be those of the villagers of the time.

We took the short road back to Nice, staying at my favorite hotel there, and continued our reminiscences walking along the Promenades des Anglais, before I caught the early flight to Paris and on to San Francisco.

Photos by Maria Adams