In the foothills near Tarason (between Avignon and Arles), 5,600 square metres of land with 138 olive trees (“138 pieds d’oliviers” – sounds grander in French) with a little house. About £100k.

Sounds perfect – the agent says “a place for you to de-stress”. From which I read there’s no phone line or electricity, or reasonable economic possibility thereof, and probably no mobile phone signal.

The house looks exactly like an Australian farmhand’s shack, with a verandah out the front – ahhh.

No, I’m not serious, just fantasizing.

But should you be captivated, the agent’s number is 04-90-43-59-73

Vieux Marc de Chateauneuf du Pape, made by the Legats.

Since last night was my last in Avignon, thought I’d indulge in a digestif, and the waiter persuaded me to try the local speciality. It is very strongly flavoured – reminded me of Chinese fortified wine with its complex combination of herbs – and very strong.

I drink much less now than I used to in my misspent youth, and I don’t have the tolerance for alcohol I used to have, but I’m still not a cheap drunk. However, my head remained in the clouds for several hours afterwards.

I’m thinking of buying a bottle just in case I should ever need to have an operation without anaesthetic – you wouldn’t feel a thing…

If you can tear yourself away from modern Saint-Remy-de-Provence* (and the ice-cream shop just into the old town from the Republique bus stop (the terminus) is highly recommended) – then you head due south, up a busy road with little provision for pedestrians, past the tourist office. I provide these directions because this is a town astonishingly lacking in signs and the street maps that most French tourist centres are liberally sprinkled with – and the tourist office is usefully closed on Sunday.

It is uphill all the way, which at least means a downhill run “home”. And just when you are starting to wonder if there’ll be sufficient reward for this hard work, on the right the official entrance to what was ancient Gallo-Greek, then Roman, town of Glanum.

It is a fitting introduction, for it marks the moment that the town changed hands – the astonishingly intact (and it doesn’t look restored) mausoleum is that of the family Julii, who took their name, of course, from Caesar, when they fought in his army against those dreadful barbarian Gauls. (Although when you get into Glanum you’ll find they were pretty damned civilised for barbarians – indeed with buildings scarcely distinguishable from the Roman.)

In the Place d’Horologie, which is the tourist centre of Avignon, with at least an angled view of the Palaise des Papes, is a roundabout that inevitably, with its lights and music, attracts the eye (and today, particularly, floods of small children).

I was watching the fun – it seems there’s a gender split. Wheneverthere was a male present, he got to ride with the children too small to be left on their own, while mum waited with stroller and waved at each pass. Not sure which is the preferable job really – one child was bellowing its lungs out with fear…

And I was watching a girl of eight or so, far too fearful for her age. Unable to find the stirrups on her own, obviously worried about losing her balance, she reminded me of myself at that age – totally physically inept through lack of exposure to physical activity.

Later, wandering along I was thinking about trying to learn French by reading books (I’ll be telling you soon about the first book in French that I hope to read all the way through – not counting 10-page guidebooks), and reflecting that this was how I learnt at least the more sophisticated corners of English. There are still words that when I go to say them I realise I don’t know how to pronounce because I’ve only ever read them.

It is that time of year when one tends to reflect on where you’ve come, and overall, I’m pretty happy with the progress from the suburbs of Sydney thus far.