From Mandela’s Cell to Van Gogh’s Hospital Room

From Mandela’s Cell to Van Gogh’s Hospital Room

My visit to Robben Island had stayed with me long after I left South Africa. Even months later, I found myself recounting the experience to anyone who would listen. Standing inside Nelson Mandela’s cell was profoundly moving — a place where human endurance, dignity, and history converge. I did not yet realise that later that same year I would encounter another space of quiet power, this time in France, connected not to political struggle but to artistic genius and fragile humanity.

Later that year, I returned to my beloved France. I flew into Paris Charles de Gaulle — a vast, futuristic gateway to the country — and from there boarded the legendary TGV (Train à Grande Vitesse) bound for Lyon. Even by French standards, the TGV is extraordinary. I had travelled on it before, and I still remember the first time with some amusement: convinced I had mistakenly wandered into first class, I jumped off the train to ask an SNCF employee. He smiled and assured me that, yes, this was my seat. I was more accustomed to the tired, creaking trains of Scotland.

The contrast was astonishing. A journey that once took two and a half hours was now completed in just sixty minutes. It remains hard not to imagine what such infrastructure could achieve in Australia — competing directly with overpriced domestic air travel.

Soon, we were racing south at over 300 km/h, cutting through the French countryside towards Lyon. From there, I collected a small Peugeot — a wee Pug — and headed south once more, this time by road, towards Roman France and my destination: Arles-en-Provence. The drive through the Mediterranean landscape was a pleasure in itself — sun-washed fields, distant hills, and the unmistakable colours of the south.

Marseille, Provence’s great port city, lay nearby, and while its energy was tempting, my heart was set elsewhere. I wanted to walk in the footsteps of one of my lifelong heroes: Vincent van Gogh.

I have long loved the Impressionists, and in earlier years I painted myself, working with oils and a palette knife. I even managed to sell a few works at an annual open-air exhibition in Edinburgh. Van Gogh’s paintings had always spoken to me — not just for their colour and movement, but for their emotional honesty.

Arles is where many of his most famous works were created. Starry Night, Crows Over the Wheatfield, and countless others emerged from this light-filled corner of Provence. The city itself is steeped in history: a Roman amphitheatre dominates the centre, beautifully preserved, while the Rhône flows steadily through the town, opening out towards the Camargue — land of flamingos and wild white horses. It is, quite simply, breathtaking.

For film lovers, Arles will also be familiar from Ronin, starring Robert De Niro, which features spectacular car chases through the ancient streets — a striking contrast between modern cinema and Roman stone.

My gîte sat on the outskirts of the city, where even the simplest buildings seemed infused with colour: pale yellow walls, powder-blue wooden shutters, and roofs tiled in warm reds and oranges. I arrived late, ate simply, and retired early.

The following morning, I took a bus into the city and wandered without urgency. I visited the Roman amphitheatre and stood at the street corner where Van Gogh painted Starry Night. It felt uncannily like stepping inside one of his canvases. I crossed bridges over the Rhône, absorbing the rhythm of the city, before returning to the gîte for a proper Provençal siesta.

Refreshed, I returned to the old town in the late afternoon and settled into a small café. A café au lait and a croissant arrived, and with map in hand I planned the next day’s excursion. My eyes settled on Saint-Rémy-de-Provence — the village where Van Gogh had spent time in an asylum, and where part of the building is now dedicated to his life and work.

The next morning, I drove the short distance — just 25 kilometres — through the countryside. Saint-Rémy is a beautiful, understated village, and I soon found the former asylum. Inside, I wandered quietly through the space. Upstairs, a small room stood open — a reconstruction of Van Gogh’s bedroom. It was exactly as I knew it from his painting: sparse, intimate, deeply personal.

At the far end of the room, I opened the French windows. Beyond them lay the olive grove — the very view Van Gogh had painted in The Olive Trees. I stood there for some time, overcome

Some journeys stay with you not because of where you went,
but because of where you stood.

In a cell.
In a hospital room.
In silence.