The Giant Oat

After a night in Valence, I caught the train to Nice via Marseilles, effectively making almost a complete loop from where I was a week ago. The trip to Marseilles was interesting in that the landscape is flat and there are huge hedges everywhere. Along the coast from Marseilles to Nice was a vibrant technicolor version of the Italian Riviera: far more ooh la la and bigger waves, bluer water, and fancier hotels.

I have not seen much of Nice itself, as following the adrenaline rush of escaping the farm, I was exhausted. I found my way to St Paul de Vence, where I am staying with a cousin’s friend. The village is fortified up high on a hill from which both mountains and sea are visible. This is the perfect place to chill out and contemplate and prepare for my return to reality. I hope for one last dip in the ocean at least and a scuba dive at most.

The Art Farm is a place in France which calls itself a community of artists, musicians, and eco-builders. I went there thinking that i would learn a bit of organic farming, and would participate in a workshop in cob building. I was wrong. There is one guy with a dream and a huge sex drive. Today I cut my losses – a dear thousand dollars, nearly – to get the heck out of there. The Art Farm takes WOOF-ers – people who work on organic farms in exchange for lodging and instruction. There is no organic farm here, but i did find two woofers who, like me, were not impressed with the weirdness going on. By weirdness i mean the owner (who says it is not his place but everyone’s place) sleeping with at least two of the four girls who were there with me. Everything was a sexual innuendo; his way of scoping out his chances. He was also talking astrology, numerology, and other quack stuff and Wayne Dyer was on the stero telling me that I am God and to imagine the sands of time wiping away my name written in the sand. I could deal with that, except it was incessant, intermixed with very loud repetitive music. I had no time to think my own thoughts. To boot, the mood of the place was largely dependent on the owner’s emotional state. He would go from dressing up and dancing around like a child to brooding to flirting and taking off for secret quickies with one of the girls. He wanted us to discover what the mountain wants us to build: but when i had any opinions different from his it became clear that the mountain has his voice and he is not happy when anyone challenges or questions him or the mountain. The three other girls seemed all into it; yelling at flowers, contemplating suicide, dancing in circles and singing songs, playing imaginary card games and having imaginary ice cream fights; I had to get out of the mess.So the two Irish boys and I packed our bags and left this afternoon.  I slipped out the back door and ran up the mountain, through the thistles, with the theme of the great escape running through my head.We hitched a ride to the nearest town and promptly ordered two rounds of pints to celebrate our return to sanity. Now I will make my way to Nice until Sunday when i return home. I feel I have survived something strange and am glad to be out with a few lessons learned. I am not giving up on permaculture or cob building: i am giving up on the idiotic idea that you somehow have to be outside the system of normality to be creative and connected to life and creation and beauty. My eyes have opened. Do not go to the Art Farm.NB Very seriously, this place is unhygienic, unsafe for single travellers, isolated, and not at all as advertised. I’m up for creative adventures of the alternative sort, but this was beyond that. I can smell a quack and a fraud, and this place reeked of it.

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