"Why do you keep going to that part of France, the Roussillon, isn't it? Away over there on the Mediterranean coast, just under the foothills of the Pyrenees?" He was often asked that question and generally fumbled on about the lovely long strand, the fact that in that corner, there was a pleasant breeze from the sea; about the easy, pleasant places to eat and drink, the relaxed nature of the Catalan people.
But to himself he admitted that what drew him there again and again was the smell of the place - the many heavenly smells. Down at sea level there was the smell of the pines. We have many pines in Ireland which also give similar pleasure in warm weather, but under the Mediterranean sun, it is intensified a hundred times. Likewise with fennell, growing wild around all the nearby beaches.
You could, give the same olfactory recommendation for most of southern France. A magazine just arrived has on its cover a brilliant splurge of colour - from lavender grown as a major crop. Inside, there is a two page picture of the Cistercian abbey of Senanque, in the Vaucluse, with what looks like a few acres of the crop in a sort of lazy bed pattern. The essence of levander and honey for it, is a big source of income to the community of twelve.
Probably one of the greatest concentrations of delectable odours comes from the markets. One such, held in a tight space under lofty plane trees is bewildering in choice. Follow your nose. There is the man who presides over a long, long portable counter, covered with sacks and sacks of dried herbs. You can plunge your hand in and sample them. Ask him what role the particular herb plays in the cuisine - if it's not already written on the exhibit - or even just wander from one end to the other, breathing deeply. And he does know the virtues of every scrap of what he sells.
Almost as odorous, in a different way, are the stalls - the side of a travelling lorry let down - from which cheeses are sold. No matter who you are, you won't be able to put a name on them all. There are cheeses from this and this parish, as well as the better known varieties. Some are spiced up with this or that herb, but the sheer variety has you goggling. Smells, too, from the shellfish, from the vegetables, not all of which are familiar to us. And all the grapes. Not smelling, but looking gorgeous.
And the honey merchants, Monsieur Marsenach in particular, with his produce from hives at shore level and up to six thousand feet in the mountains. The smells drifting from the nearby hotels where people are already settling down to lunch, lures you away.