When I wore a younger woman’s clothes — almost two decades ago now — I tried my hand at rock climbing. Not just the clambering over boulders variety, but the dangle from a rope on the side of a cliff face variety. It was thrilling to say the least.
For all those rock-climbing friends I lost touch with long ago — I wish you were here! France is a climber’s paradise. You would love it!
We bussed to Aix-en-Provence from Marseilles this morning to climb a mountain made famous by Paul Cézanne. Montagne Sainte-Victoire made several appearances in a series of the artist’s paintings.
John and I determined to climb as much of the 3,317-foot piece of limestone as we could.
On a very hot, spring day, that turned out to be about 800 feet shy of the summit.
While we didn’t make it to the Croix de Provence, a 57-foot cross that notably stands out on the ridge, we did enjoy the attempt and the great views along the way.
When we stopped to eat our lunch and drink some water, two young men came down the mountain with their ropes and climbing gear thrown over their shoulders. For a millisecond I longed for my youth — no body fat and lots of energy.
But only for a millisecond.
These days, the only rope I want to dangle from is one that holds up the hammock John and I share.