At the end of the road, at the end of the trail, buried: an old countryside for Marseillais on vacation. 

In 1880, the man wanted to enjoy as a family a place of resort, the kilometers between Marseille and Aix still represent hours and are the guarantee of

a frank change of scenery.  Strong of three rooms, high of one floor, this deserted mazet of long time is like the tracing of all its past holidays, of these

vigils in the light of the stars, of its crazy hugs with the scattered noises of the night.

There are a few children around a large swing farther under a bump we take a shower while away petanque balls slam. Here are some of the memories of Mireille chosen among the thousand photographs as many visitors who came to his domain. Since the beginning of the 60’s, the tenant comes and goes, pushes here a trunk, deforested by there a space. Of his dreams of Provence, of this desire to pursue a life begun in the tenderness of a biscuit plant then threatened by a terrible meningitis, Mireille drew a very real universe. At the time, the latter dreamed with her companion, Charles, is to settle around Marseilles.

At the turn of conversations and like an outbreak, the idea of camping is obvious. Gone on the roads by motorcycle in search of this type of Eden: occasions are rare to own one. In this way, many establishments are visited as an immersion in the world of a sixtieth smallness of camping operators. All are active and sculpt their spaces, adapting to mass tourism. At the turn of a coffee taken under a veranda, along orange canvases, there are first the ralles of a young dachshund then finally an opportunity looms.

On the Aix-en-Provence side, a campsite would be for sale. A case whose rarity is expressed by the seniority observed of the patrons of campground. At the arrival of the couple, the eyes of a pure blue of Mireille sparkle at the edge of the property. The atmosphere is however not at the party. If the high tops of the trees, the chirping of the birds charm the visitors, their older guests are plunged into the insolent sadness of mourning. Memories piled up in the field, of this lost son, there at the bottom of the field near the old transformer: it was necessary to leave.

In the early 60s, Mireille and Charles settled. Their business was taken to the former Horse Post Relay, which served as a residence. Very quickly it is the effervescence on the ground, especially for Mireille who gives body and well while his companion exercises his profession of physiotherapist around. In this momentum, children come into the world and clump to what becomes a family campsite.

Under the trees, the sites of the old "International" are improved, connected by crossings rich of their gravel. As a landmark "the Egg" still sits in central building in the camper area. " The Egg" is an ovoid building which by the way of Mireille recovers its social functions despite its dilapidated state. A few meters away, a health point bears its green doors painfully. The flaked paint is connected with the scratched enamel of the sometimes Turkish toilets. A thousand times soiled, the thrones are now the prey of lush vegetation. In an adjoining room, water used to flow along sinks that laughed at the yellow of their earthenware. Under the dust, Charles' work gives the devastated room a charm of eternity.

If the summer months mark the intense seasons, as of 1965, campers are faithful throughout the year as in this winter 1975 where campers are numerous and present for the Christmas holidays. There is this precious Aix family from its location a few kilometers from the city or this police woman who willingly invests in the life of the campsite. Royal, Ista or Bebelle the dwarf goat, scares the barge out of the zone. The wooden hut in front is reserved for balls which provide a festive atmosphere many days in the summer while another building serves as reception.  Behind the opaque windows of dirt an old fridge recalls the presence of a small store. A few stacked leaflets finish getting wet while the glass walls of a telephone booth wait.

Unloading the packages of the trunk of Amie 8, with his arms weighted, Mireille supplies what could be akin to a bungalow. A liter of chocolate milk drink in the morning here, a bottle of Valstar (beer) whistled there like so many little delights sold at the foot of the tent. In the shadow of an old English bus a regular waits peacefully. In fact, a mound of a few meters, the imperial bus: cut out and then partly freed by a scrap dealer. Between two logs collected or stored in stock, Mireille continues to another toilet block. If the appellation ice the blood, the refinement of the building imposes it. "It is the alveolus" proudly asserts Mireille in the name of her architect husband.

The honeycomb lost in the shade of wild trees, light plants, was once the VIP area of the campsite. The strength of the six pitches lay in the access for each to one of the alveoli like so many showers and toilets. At the end of the path a magnificent tree, stronger than the others, represents for Mireille a magical place.  Under this venerable oak, past and present, Mireille delivers its happiness: the impeccable power grid, the luxury of pitches equipped with private telephone lines. An old tractor at the back of the stage protects a space reserved for relics: some caravans come there in the good days.

Above the center of the village in Fuveau, like a rampart, a beautiful house stands out among all. Dominant, this bastide half city-half country is long time empty of any occupant. Partly burned down a few years ago, a time of parties for young locals smokers to extend the evenings of votive holidays, the house today serves as a deposit for municipal equipment. Partly restored, the house remains mysterious pretending never to have known the joys of its owner.

Welcoming, the small Quartier des Platanes gives itself to see its small shops. Dashing between the exit of Venelles and the climb of the Alps road, which goes down to Aix-en-Provence, a bakery rubs shoulders with a bar, a grocery store and a little higher a colleague bakes.  Behind this crossroads with a parking is a network of secondary roads that flee from all sides in deadlocks.

Some of them sleep in the shelter of old tiles arranged on beautiful bastides. A few meters away, others continue the alternative experience of our contemporary hippies. Encouraged by "understanding" parents, a young couple enjoys a breathtaking view of the city, perched in a piece of greenery of the Platanes district in a house with only pedestrian access. In addition, beyond the Viaduct, along the A51 motorway, a path looks like pavilions. All plots are neat and hidden gardens of plaster and clean walls.  Purring a Karcher on wheels is in action.

Inside, the stone jars are cleaned, scratched: the new acacias will be very good. However, as if breaking up, the Villa Mady imposes it by its architecture. The weight of the years of difference between the venerable and the riverside houses gives the building a sense of poise. While most of the houses were built in the 1960s and 1980s, the Mady claims a small century of existence. Not quite in his time, the house has almost never been in agreement with his time. Indeed, as soon as the beauty came out of the ground, her estate was already threatened. Victim of its situation, the park of the property is struck by alignment in the plans of what must be a solid alternative to the Alpine Road.

 Remember. In the 1950s, access to the municipality of Aix-en-Provence from the Alps, the north of the city, was only possible via the Route des Alpes, whose saturation threshold was quickly reached. The terrain of the site makes it impossible to envisage a widening of the roadway. This sum of elements leads us to consider the development of the section of motorway linking Aix-en-Provence to Venelles and subsequently to many other cities - via the extension of the motorway to Sisteron. Soon, surveyors came knocking on the door of the house. In fact, the workers of "Pont et Chaussées" (Public work engineers) are uncomfortable alas the owners since the old wrought iron gate.

The announcement of the news, of the end of the Mady, is all the more painful to carry out as the residence is welcoming. The officers invited to return pass through a garden flooded this June by summer fires. Yet under the hundred-year-old plane trees the air and fresh. A stone staircase leads to the flowering terrace.  Inside, the agents follow and finally access another terrace, this one is glazed and dominates the fields. Sitting around a glass, the discussion begins on the terms of the expropriation.

Like others, The Mady is hit with alignment and soon part of its gardens is sunk under the asphalt of Highway 51. A thin mesh, unrolled along the new route, cuts the Mady in half. In the end, all the frame is preserved. Besides, the view from the closed terrace has changed a lot.  Besides a crane or the passing gabian, José must hear the sound of the landscape of thousands of motorists. Moved, the latter remembers the first days when the house was requisitioned as the headquarters of the highway construction site. Located on the public network, the house has become over the years a branch of the DDE (Public Department Construction). Up until 2007, discarded panels, objects found along the roadway, a dirt truck or a bulky tractor were stored there.

Since the ambassadors of the Pont et Chaussée to the snow removal officers, the men in orange took possession of the property. Thus, the garden was decorated with metal boxes charged with the reception of the machines. Further, a boat is as if stranded: fallen from a car on a Sunday in January. The memories of the expropriated family disappeared except for a green jersey sweater, works of art corrupted by the humidity while for about twenty years those of the highway were there as a gallery. Emptied of its contents in recent months, the Mady should soon know a second life, perhaps on the occasion of an auction sale. Rescued from the raid, a panel "limited speed 50" is useless like this old safety poster well recorded with yellowed walls.

On an anonymous road there is this strange place. Difficult to stop as the road is narrow, frequented, without possibility of parking. With a little effort, we finally reach. On the spot, a kind of occult mechanical garage. Some frail half-collapsed buildings served as a workshop to serve the customers of this occult auto-wreck. A separate space seemed dedicated to the sale of paint.

Many pots are there, spoiled by the years. Surrounded by vegetation, countless waste materials that were once part of an automobile form a disturbing landscape: in a state of permanent decomposition. At the bottom of the plot, a stream is equally soiled, revealing a burial of older garbage, contemporary to the operation of the site.