Pic de l'Ours

We haven't blogged about a local excursion since our trip to the Plateau de Calern with Doris & Dirk last year, and we haven't blogged about our penultimate excursion, the previous Sunday, 10 days ago, because we forgot our instruments --- not the instruments that draw the housewife's attention as she opens the door for the plumber in one of these clips (those instruments we did bring) --- but the instruments that the rasender reporter should never forget, but did, in this case, thus depriving him of proof of the house of the forestier (what would be the English word?) built a century ago smack on the slopes of the Mont Marsaou, the second-highest hill in the Esterel, a post belle epoque structure (the house) in measured, utilitarian style, or a proof of the curtains of said house, which have withstood the taste of times for eons now, or of the source nearby, which spends pure, refreshing water through a minuscule tap and forces users to crouch into obscene positions of which we have no proof now, or the forestier's horse, (HORSE) which owns the place, and came to join us at our picnic, and suggested to eat first Serge, who declined, and then his partner Pauline, who declined as well, and then Chang, well, the proof by induction is complete, one, two, three, infinity, we all survived.

The excursion was such a success, we had to repeat it. Pete suggests the Pic de l'Ours, which is right next to our hill, and we bring sandwiches, water, and the camera, and meet at Pete's villa, which is the best on the hill:

Pete? Yes, it's our Pete, Pete McK, who discovered the giant wave two years ago (follow-ups here).

Back to the excursion: our destination is not far. We reach the top of Pic de l'Ours in less than an hour.  Up there, at 500 m altitude, you have a view of the entire world. And here's the part that includes St. Tropez (you need to know, it's exactly at the center of the picture):

The conversation revolves around Serge's youth in Algeria during the war of independence (he got almost killed several times, and his stories have a funny authenticity, you think you're in the Hurt Locker movie), Pauline's life in Canada, hospitals (we all get older), and the weather, which is the best we ever had.

Since we forgot to bring the domestiques, or the folding chairs, or  the picnic baskets with special compartments for the Bolly, we have to improvise, sit on tiny rocks, eat boiled eggs, and stay sober. We try. We take pictures.

Serge unfolds a hammock and invites me to test it. The rasender reporter at rest:

And we are done. Earlier than we thought. We're heading back. Time for the bubbly (3 bottles):

Chang, Serge, Pauline, Carole, Pete (note the abandoned glass)

Update, Update: Pete sends a picture of the forestier's horse: