President For Lift Going Down

What better on a Sunday than to attend an “organised” walk followed by a communal lunch in the hills behind Gourdon in pleasant autumnal Provençale sunshine? Very little in my opinion and it would have been a very nice experience had it been err… organised, if lunch had been booked and if I had been invited.

The A.R.A (who knows what it stands for? – perhaps A Rabble Arrive?) was, I think, the brainchild some years ago of renowned Provençal art and history Svengali and renowned smoothie Anthony “Dock Of The” Bay who, having initiated the event, failed to appear on the walk at all.

The ARA has a President For Lift (he would have been President For Life but for an unfortunate typo a few years back) Dancing Greg Harris from Cote D’Azur Villa Rentals and Currencies Direct affiliate had inadvertently leaked details to me at the gentleman’s post-tennis lunch at the Auberge St Donat on Friday, marked by a distinct lack of tennis due to inclement weather. I have previously been denied membership of this Rabble, despite never applying for it, I think because I didn’t go to the right school or I am a successful author or something (there are just a few hard copies of The Valbonne Monologues left, although it is also available on Kindle) which of course made me more than determined to turn up. “Meet at 10 in the square at Cipieres for coffee” a beautiful old village in the hills beneath Greoliere, said the invitation and by 10 past 10 the Rabble had swelled to close to 20. It might have been a bonus for the gathering group to have had the ability to purchase said coffee but such was the organisational ability of the President For Lift (who had still not appeared) nowhere was open.

Some 45 minutes later, minus the thin grey bum fluff of a beard of which he was so proud and that had caused so much merriment for the Friday lunchers, and squirming embarrassment for our esteemed leader, the now clean shaven Dancing Greg arrived with scarcely an apology and then proceeded to take another 20 minutes to park his car. This was now becoming a worry because clearly the real reason for an outing of this nature is for what Peter Mayle, author of A Year In Provence, when asked to describe living in the South of France in one word replied “lunch”. I think it was about two miles into the walk and about 300 yards higher up the mountain when I asked the President For Lift about the luncheon arrangements. It was at this moment he pushed the metaphorical button which said “going down”.

Emergency luncheon venue

“Err… Nowhere local could take 20 for lunch” he said casually and strode away from me up the hill and I could sense my life blood leaving me. Here I was with That Nice Lady Decorator and the irritating mutt Banjo, plus local luminaries such as The Master Mariner Mundell, Dangerous Jackie Lawless, Blind Lemon Milsted, and Nick “Falling Off His” Pearch on the side of a mountain at midday on a Sunday with no luncheon arrangements in place. Catastrophe!

I think I was in shock. Turning back immediately I was told by our President that the ARA did not like quitters (he seems to forget that I am not a member) when I said that I urgently needed to reach the ground floor. Suffice to say that a small select group descended the hill at a much quicker pace than we had ascended and after a swift dash to Greoliere the thirstiest and most determined walkers found solace and lunch at Le Relais. I can laugh about it now as I have forgotten the blind panic that had gripped me earlier. As to the rest of the group? They may still be on the mountain for all I know… I suspect the President For Lift is still out of order.

Chris France