Chapter 7 Chapter VII

A summer day in Luberon begins. Sitting on the porch in front of the door enjoying a cup of fresh cream coffee, the bees are busy among the lavender, and the sunlight turns the forest into a shiny dark green. Being a millionaire feels even better. Slowly pass the fifty mark (1) I never paid much attention to my birthday, and even the days that mark another wobbly decade of my life are often overlooked. On my 30th birthday, I was working. For my 40th birthday, I'm still working.The thought that my 50th birthday will also be spent at work makes me happy.But things backfired, my wife didn't think so.

"You're fifty, and considering how much alcohol you've drank over the years, it's an achievement in a way, and we have to celebrate!" It is useless to quarrel when the wife has made up her mind.So, as we proceeded to discuss where and how to spend my fiftieth birthday, I should have thought she had an idea.She listened politely to my suggestions - a trip to Aix, a floating meal in the pool, a day at the seaside in Cassis... until I couldn't think of anything else Idea, she leaned in and said, "Give some friends a picnic in the Luberon mountains!" That's how birthdays are celebrated in Provence.Next, she described a picturesque scene: in the woods, on the clearing, the sunlight casts mottled shadows.I don't even have to wear long pants, I'll definitely love them.

Would I like a picnic?Don't even dare to think about it.My picnic experience is limited to a few impressions left in the UK-the moisture seeping from the wet mud all the year round has been climbing up the spine, a large group of ants competing with me for food, slightly warm liquor, and hiding The lingering dark clouds finally floated overhead, and the raindrops suddenly poured down, and everyone scrambled to hide from the rain in a panic.I hate picnics, and I'm being rude to tell the truth. The wife said this time was different and she would arrange everything.In fact, she had discussed it closely with Morris, and what she wanted was a civilized and unique picnic that, in good weather, could even rival Grande Poon.

Maurice, owner and head chef of the Lupert Inn in the village of Buoux, is a standard horse-drawn carriage enthusiast.Over the past few years, he has collected and restored two or three 19th-century coaches, a horse-drawn limousine, and a well-maintained stagecoach.He now offers adventurous customers horseback rides to the woods for lunch.I will definitely love this arrangement. Things are so in front of me, I know I can't escape, so it's decided.We sent out invitations to eight friends, and all we had to do was clasp our hands and pray for good weather – not quite as tightly as we did in England, of course.Even though it has only rained once in two months since April, Provence in June can be elusive with occasional rain.

On my birthday, I got up early and walked to the yard. The sky at seven o'clock in the morning was an endless blue, which was the color of Gaul cigarette packs.Bare feet on the stone slabs are still warm.Our lodger, Mr. Lizard, has already occupied the best spot for sunbathing, flattened on the wall of the house, motionless.Waking up and being able to enjoy such a beautiful morning is already a perfect birthday present. A summer day in Luberon begins. Sitting on the porch in front of the door enjoying a cup of fresh cream coffee, the bees are busy among the lavender, and the sunlight turns the forest into a shiny dark green. Being a millionaire feels even better.

The warm and comfortable temperature makes me feel healthy and optimistic.I don't feel a day older than I was at 49, look down at my ten brown toes, and I hope to turn 60 this way. Before long, the warmth turns to heat, and the clatter of the diesel engine drowns out the buzzing of the bees.A classic open-top off-road Land Rover, painted in camouflage, climbed up the driveway angrily, and stopped abruptly in a cloud of dust.It turned out to be Bena, a swimming pool cleaning expert, dressed like a scout from a long-distance desert army—military-style short sleeves, shorts, tank commander's sunglasses, oil drums and backpacks tied to the car, and a tanned face , only the Louis Vuitton baseball cap on his head seemed out of place with the Alamein battlefield.Our scout comrades have successfully crossed the enemy's line of defense on the N100 Avenue, sneaked into the village of Mena, and are now making final preparations to attack the mountains in one fell swoop.

"My God! You look old!" he said. "May I borrow the phone? I left my swimming trunks at the house last night. It's a piece of kutch, like General Noriega. 7's panties, very special, I'd be sad if I lost them." While Bena was on the phone, we drove the two guests and the family's three dogs into the car, and then we waited to drive to Biwu Village to meet other friends.Bernard came out of the house, adjusting his baseball cap to shade the harsh sun.We set off under the escort of an off-road Land Rover. This car and its driver attracted the attention of farmers half-hidden under the vines on both sides of the road.

After Benniu Village, the scenery becomes desolate and pristine, the vines are gone, replaced by rocks, oak bushes and long strips of purple lavender.There were no cars or houses on the road.We are about a hundred miles from the bustling town of Luberon.What excites me is that such primitive, empty countryside still exists.It will be at least a while before Sulei multi-stores and builders invade here. We turned into the deep valley, and Biwu Village was still sleeping.A dog nestled on a pile of firewood next to the town hall, opened one eye and barked perfunctorily a few times, a child holding a kitten raised his head, with only two small whites of the eyes showing on his round brown face, and looked at the dog. Look at this rare convoy.

The scenery around the town hotel is like a film studio that has not yet decided on the plot, characters, costumes or era.There were men in white suits, wide-brimmed Panama hats, shorts and espadrilles, silk dresses, and Mexican workman's overalls, dangling scarves, brightly colored capes, and different Hats of different ages, a little baby in costume, and our man from the desert, jumping out of the car to check the gear. Morris came across from the horse staging area, smiling at us and the beautiful weather.He was dressed in Provençal Sunday finery—white shirt, white trousers, black thin-striped tie, bordeaux bustier, and an old flat straw hat.His friend, who drives the second carriage, is also dressed in white, with crimson suspenders and a nice salt-and-pepper mustache, almost a copy of Yves Montand in Love on the Hill.

Morris said to us, "Come on, come and see the horses." He walked us through the garden asking how our appetites had been.The vanguard has just left by bus to prepare for a picnic, and there will be a big meal enough to feed the entire Biwu Village. The horses were tethered in the shade, sleek, their manes and tails well combed, and one of them neighed and put his nose into Maurice's jacket for sweets.The youngest guest, leaning her head on her father's shoulder, giggled at the sight of such a monster, poking pink fingers eagerly into the horse's chestnut-colored loin.The horse mistook it for a fly and flicked its long tail.

We see Maurice and "Yves Montand" leading their horses to a black and red-edged open carriage and another seven-seater four-wheeled carriage, both oiled and waxed, Polished and shiny like a decoration.Maurice spent the winter in the carriages, and they were, as he said, beautiful!The only modern thing on board is an old-fashioned bugle-sized horn that serves two purposes—to overtake poorly maintained carriages and frighten chickens trying to cross the road. "Come on, get in the car!" The car set off and drove through the town at a normal speed.The dog by the woodpile barked us farewell, and we headed out into the open country. This mode of travel makes people regret inventing the automobile.Everything looks different, bigger and more interesting. The people in the car sway slightly with the change of the horse's pace and the height and slope of the road surface, creating a comfortable sense of rhythm.The carriage creaked, the horseshoes clattered, and the iron wheels rolled over the gravel on the road, making a rustling sound, like a pleasant old-fashioned background music.There was a scent in the air, a mixture of the heat of the horse, the soap from the saddle, the paint on the wood, and the scent of the prairie blowing in from the window.The speed of the car is negligible, so that you can have enough time to enjoy the scenery.Sitting in a car, you are in a fast-moving space, and what you see is only a blur, an impression that you are separated from nature; while sitting in a carriage, you are a part of the scenery. "Hey, slow down!" Morris tapped the horse's rump with the whip, and we shifted into second gear. "This horse is lazy and gluttonous," he said. "She knows she will run faster on the return trip when she has something to eat." The valley below us slowly unfurls a long, bright red patch of cypress in bloom. beauty.A vulture hovered overhead, peering, its wings outstretched, gliding in balance through the air.Just at that moment, a cloud floated over to cover the sun, and the sun struggled to shoot out from behind the cloud, forming streaks of light that were so dark that they were almost black. Slowly pass the fifty mark (2) We left the main road and followed a narrow path that wound through the forest, where the tang of thyme drowned out the hooves of the horses.I asked Morris how he found it here.He told me that every week when he was on vacation, he would go exploring on horseback, sometimes for hours without seeing anyone. "We're actually only 20 minutes away from Aipu Village, but no one has been here, except me and the hare." The forest is getting denser and the road is getting narrower and narrower. Just enough for the carriage to pass, we bypass a large rock outcropping and pass through a tunnel arched by branches. What we see is my birthday dinner. . "Here it is!" Morris said. "The restaurant is open." On a level grassy lot under the shade of thick oak trees, a table for 10 sits, covered with a crisp white tablecloth, lined with an ice bucket, starched napkins, pots of flowers and just the right amount of knives and forks and chairs.Behind the table is a small stone hut that has been idle for a long time and has been converted into a bar in the wild.With the pop of the cork and the clink of wine glasses, all my bad memories of picnics vanished, far better than cold wetlands and ant sandwiches. Maurice cordoned off an area and let the horses loose.The horses rolled in the grass, like two old ladies undoing their corsets with relief.The curtains of the carriage were drawn and my little guest retreated to nap while the others sipped refreshing peach champagne chilled in the stone yard. Nothing lifts the mood quite like such a cozy adventure.My gratitude to Maurice has grown beyond measure, and he deserves it.He thought of everything, from plenty of ice to toothpicks, and as he said, we were in no danger of going hungry.He sat everyone down and began to introduce the first course—melon, quail eggs, butter-baked cod, game pate, stuffed tomatoes, and pickled mushrooms, one by one, from one end of the table to the other. With the sunlight shining through the treetops, it is as perfect as the still life photos printed in the artistic recipes that do not require human fireworks. At this time, everyone stopped the knives and forks in their hands, and gave me the heaviest but most correct birthday card-a round metal road sign, two feet in diameter, with a big black number written on it, absolutely nothing. Not euphemistically reminding me of the passage of time - 50.happy Birthday!Happy eating! We ate and drank like heroes, taking advantage of the breaks between the serving stations to get up and walk around, cups in hand, to digest and return for more.After eating a meal for almost 4 hours, by the time the birthday cake and coffee were served, we had all entered the dull stage after eating and drinking, and even the speed of speaking slowed down.What a wonderful world and what a great age to be 50! When the horse was on the road back to Biwu Village, he must have noticed that the weight on the cart had increased.But they seemed more lively than in the morning, with their heads held up and their noses twitching to taste the air.As I was walking, suddenly a gust of wind blew away my straw hat from the flat ground, followed by rumbling thunder, and within a few minutes, the sky was covered with dark clouds. As soon as we got on the road, there was hail, the size of a bean, and it hurt so badly on our heads.Hail bounced on the drenched horses.The horse didn't need to use the whip at all, and went forward at full speed with its head slumped, steaming from its body.With the brim of his straw hat collapsed over his dripping ears and his red coat stained to his trousers, he laughed and shouted into the wind, "Hahaha! British picnic!" My wife and I used travel blankets to make an awning and looked back to see how the wagon handled the downpour.Its roof is obviously not as waterproof as it looks, and from time to time a hand appears on the side of the carriage and pours water out of the vehicle. When we returned to Biwu Village, Morris was numb all over, holding the rein tightly with both hands. The horse smelled the smell of home and food and just wanted to rush in.To his humans and their picnic! Storm victims gathered in the restaurant to refresh themselves with tea, coffee and brandy, drenched but in high spirits.The image of the elegant picnickers in the morning has gone with the wind. There are only a group of drenched chickens with thinning hair and dripping water from head to toe. The clothes on their bodies show different degrees of transparency. The shorts with the red "Merry Christmas" lettering, the puffy clothes that are now clumped together, the straw hats that look more like congealed cornflakes, and everyone standing in a puddle of their own dripping water. Mrs. Morris and the restaurant waiter Marcel, who came back first in the van, brought all kinds of dry clothes and brandy to everyone one by one.The dining room suddenly became a dressing room again.Boehner, in his baseball cap, wondered if he should borrow some swimming trunks for the drive home.The off-road Land Rover has been submerged in water, and the driver's seat is full of mud and water, turning into a small puddle."At least the storm has stopped," he said, looking out the window. If the storm had stopped in Biwu Village, it would have never rained in Mena Village.The drive home was still dusty, the grass was dry and the wood was yellow, and the yard was still steaming.We watched the sun set between the two peaks to the west of the house, linger for a little while, then disappear into the reddish sky. "How is it? Do you like a picnic now?" asked the wife. What words!Of course I love picnics, I love picnics!