When I studied A level French in my late teens, one of the books on the curriculum was ‘Le chateau de ma mere’ by Marcel Pagnol. We had a marvellous teacher at sixth form college (unlike the extremely unpleasant one I’d had at school) who would read to us from the book which we would then translate as we went along. The combination of his enthusiasm and the writing of Pagnol left a lasting impression on me, which for many years manifested itself only in finding and reading more Pagnol books. But his descriptions of the countryside just east of Marseilles where his major stories are based and where La Treille, which featured in my A level book, is to be found, finally proved tempting enough for me to visit this part of the world to see it for myself. (A note for film fans: ‘Jean de Florette’ and ‘Manon des Sources’, hit French films in the 1980’s were both from Pagnol’s books and were set in this same area.)

I had decided to stay in Aix en Provence, known for some reason as the ‘Paris of the south’. It is fairly up market and the locals do seem quite fashion conscious, but that’s about it as far as comparisons go. It’s quite a small town really, which used to be the ‘capital’ of the Provence region and apparently is very popular with retired criminals who have still got enough of their ill-gotten gains to buy a posh house there. It has some lovely, quaint back streets, and a very old cathedral, all of which are worth seeing, but the jewel for me lies on the south side of the town where Cézanne’s house and studio can be found. You can go into the studio which is, they claim, just as he left it before he died. It does look as though it might be, except that the fruit and flowers scattered about probably would have deteriorated somewhat by now, but I forgave them this minor deception. A couple of miles from the studio, along the country roads, is the famous Mont Sainte Victoire which Cézanne painted so many times.

I had arrived in Aix on a Saturday, and had spent Sunday getting to know its streets, café’s, bars etc. For my first expedition I had decided to visit La Treille on Monday, keen to get out there and explore. My plan was to go to the nearest town to La Treille, called Aubagne (which also happened to be Pagnol’s birthplace), which I could do by rail and then get a local bus. The first part was easy enough, Aix to Marseille, change trains, Marseille to Aubagne. As soon as I walked out of Aubagne station, however, I could see that things might not be as easy from then on.

Aubagne is a very sleepy town and arriving in it is like stepping back in time about 30 years, or at least that’s how it seemed on that hot September morning. I didn’t have a street map, so I just wandered about looking for anywhere that might provide some information, at the same time trying not to forget where the station was. I knew that there was a small museum dedicated to Pagnol in the town and had decided that that would be my best bet. Inevitably I went the wrong way at first, but eventually found it at one end of the town’s main street. It was shut. The first lesson to learn about exploring mainland Europe is that for some reason, museums, galleries, historic sites etc. are all closed on Mondays. Not just in France, but also, as I’ve so far discovered, in Germany, Spain, and Italy and probably a number of other countries too. Whether this has something to do with the EU I’ve no idea, but it’s very annoying, especially when you’ve forgotten about it.

By now it was about 11.30 am, and I was a bit puzzled about what to do next. There definitely had been no sign of a bus stop and the locals all seemed to be avoiding me. I could only see a few in the distance at the far end of the dusty street. Then I noticed a big board with a map on it. I went up to study it and discovered that its purpose was to highlight the main walking trails in the area, including a rather arduous looking one to La Treille which appeared to deliberately deviate about ten miles before getting there. The map showed no roads, only the tracks across the hills, and I could see that my aim of getting to the village and back in what remained of the day was looking pretty futile. I started, reluctantly, to make other plans; at least I could go and have a look at the countryside on the outskirts of the town, and I had an alternative ace up my sleeve. The headquarters of the French Foreign Legion was also just a mile or so away in the same direction, that had to be worth a look.

Just as I had settled on this plan, two people, a man and a woman, seemed to materialise right next to me, out of nowhere, and started to look at the map. I was a bit startled by this for a moment, then curious. I mustered up my best French and asked, “Vous allez voir la campagne de Pagnol?” (Are you going to see the Pagnol countryside?), and they immediately did that very irritating thing that foreigners do when they realise you’re English; they replied in English. “Yes, We’re driving up there in about an hour, after lunch.” I thought I’d get my own back. “You’re not French either, are you?” I replied, and must have looked pleased with my efforts at detecting that they indeed weren’t French, not that I had a clue where they were from. “No, we’re Danish. Are you a fan of Pagnol?” “Yes”, I replied, “I was hoping to go and see La Treille”. The man looked at the woman for a moment and then said, “We’d be happy to give you a lift if you’d like to come with us.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. Having come all this way and because I’d not planned properly, my dream of seeing Pagnol’s village had vanished only a moment ago; now it had been rescued by the unlikely intervention of a middle-aged Danish couple who were fans of Pagnol and happened to be in Aubagne on the same day at the same time at the same notice board! If that wasn’t the hand of fate it was an incredible coincidence. I replied with deep gratitude, “That would be fantastic, what time are you going?” The man looked at his watch. “Shall we say one o'clock, meet us here.” Even better, I could have a wander around first. “Thank you so much, I’ll see you then. It’ll give me time to find the Foreign Legion.” I turned and set off along the road which led out of the town.

In retrospect, I should probably have phrased this parting remark a little differently, but I walked off oblivious to the impact that it had made on my new Danish friends. I found the Legion HQ easily enough and was absolutely astonished to discover that it had a gift shop. It was shut, of course. Even the Legion daren’t flaunt the Monday closing laws. I peered through the windows wondering what sort of souvenirs could be bought here. There were the famous caps of course, with the square of material dangling down the back, imitation guns and swords and lots of photos and paintings. If only I’d come on Tuesday. Conscious of the time, I made my way back to the town and awaited my lift.

When they turned up I could tell that they had been arguing about something. The woman looked very white faced and fed up and the man was obviously putting on a cheery veneer. I gave them the opportunity to back out of their offer. “Are you sure about the lift, I don’t want to spoil your plans.” The man didn’t give the woman the opportunity to say anything. “Of course we’re sure, the car’s just over here.” We started to walk. “My name is Anders, and this is my wife Meta.” I shook hands with him and announced my own name, then held out my hand to Meta. She looked very sheepish and very briefly and gingerly shook it. When we got to the car, she insisted that I should sit in the front and looked relieved when I didn’t argue. Anders gave me a map and we set off for La Treille.

It took us about half an hour to find the village which we achieved with the aid of some passers-by as the map didn’t seem to bear much relation to whatever road we were on. The village is near the top of a hill, quite a big hill, and therefore almost totally on a slope. We parked on a slope, got out of the car and began to walk up the slope as we’d stopped just short of what looked like the cemetery. It was indeed the cemetery, where Pagnol is buried along with his wife and other members of the family, though some of the locals apparently aren’t that happy about it. They felt that he had portrayed them in his books as ‘country bumpkins’ which I suppose is partly true, but done with great affection, not malice. Fortunately the cemetery is not on a slope, being on a levelled out ridge on the hillside which looks over Pagnol’s beloved countryside stretching away towards the Mediterranean.

We spent a while here, looking more at the view than anything, and I felt that the tension between Anders and Meta had eased slightly until I went to get my camera from the bag slung over my shoulder. Meta actually looked frightened and retreated towards the cemetery gate. When I brought the camera out, Anders looked at her rather contemptuously and began talking to me about one of Pagnol’s books while I snapped away, wondering whether Meta had some terrible fear of being photographed.

We then had a good look around the village and finally came upon the little road that led away into the hills, the route that Pagnol as a boy would have taken with his family on their way to their rented house for their idyllic summer holidays. Anders and I started to walk up the road, but Meta stopped and said she was going back to the village to buy a drink. She watched us as we walked slowly up the road in the afternoon heat and looked as though she wanted to leave as soon as possible. Anders seemed cheery enough though, and as we rounded the bend out of the village the most magnificent view of a valley opened up before us with more hills rising away in the distance. It was clear to see why Pagnol loved this area so much and wrote about it with such passion. The colours of the trees and wild flowers against the limestone rocks were stunning, how wonderful it must have been for a ten year old to have this as a playground back in the early 1900’s. Now modern roads dissect it of course, and much of the woodlands have been destroyed by fires, but as our view testified, you can still see in places what it used to be like.

I’m not sure how long we stood there, just admiring the scene, chatting and photographing, but eventually we turned back. I decided to brooch the subject of a return lift. “If you’re going back to Aubagne, would it be okay to hitch another ride back? I’ve got to catch the train back to Aix.” Anders looked at me for a moment, then a slight grin crossed his face. “No need to go back to Aubagne then, we’re staying in Aix, we’ll take you back all the way!” I pretended to protest very slightly, in my English way, then gratefully accepted – it was very hot by now, not an afternoon for walking any distance. As we rounded the bend into the village Meta was sitting on a wall clutching a bottle of something. She stood up immediately looking very relieved. Anders spoke. “It’s a pity you didn’t come with us, the view was superb.” She looked half-daggers at him. “I was too hot,” she replied simply, then added, “it’s time we were getting back.” Anders broke the good news, “Yes, John is coming with us, he’s staying in Aix as well.” Full daggers were now employed. I still hadn’t worked out why she was so wound up, but I needed the lift, so I decided I could live with whatever was going on between them for the hour’s journey back to Aix.

We pulled up just over an hour later at the entrance to a caravan park on the south side of the town. I’d noticed in the rear view mirror that Meta had been watching me quite a lot again during the journey and she’d hardly said a word the whole way. I’d been thanking them for their kindness and pointing out that I’d never have made it to La Treille if I hadn’t met them, and how much I’d enjoyed the trip, then chatted some more with Anders about Pagnol’s books. I said goodbye and opened the car door, but before I could get out Anders spoke again. “You’re not really joining the Foreign Legion, are you, you don’t seem the type to me?” The penny started to drop. It’s well known that the Legion is populated by all sorts of dubious characters which I now began to realise was the reason for Meta’s behaviour. They must have had quite an argument back in Aubagne about whether to give me a lift. I replied, still rather taken aback by the question. “Join it, no, I just wanted to see it. The gift shop was closed though.” Anders’ mouth dropped open. “Gift shop? They have a gift shop?” He then started to roar with laughter. I said goodbye again, Anders raised his hand and Meta nodded, obviously relieved that her ordeal with a desperado was over. I walked off, the sound of Danish mirth now ringing from both ends of the car as I headed for the town centre, my day as a blissfully unaware Legionnaire now at an end.