Mont Ventoux and Venasque

The other day I had asked Dan at Venasque’s tourist office about the cherry festival. His eyes lit up, and he told me about the confrerie and the costumes and the enthronement of the new members. “It’s just like all the other towns’ festivals,” he said, “but these are our people.”

Maurice and I parked in a field at the base of town and soon a navette (shuttle bus) arrived to pack us in and ferry us up the mountain to the Place de l’Eglise. We wandered up the street into the village, chatting with local artists displaying lovely Provencal scenes. It was busy at the Place de la Fontaine but not mobbed.

Maurice with his fountain painting from two days ago

Finally from down the street trumpeted the strains of Dixieland. I had a nice seat on the fountain as the enthusiastic five-piece band processed up the hill, closely followed by the festive banner of the Confrérie de la Cerise (Brotherhood of the Cherry). There were the members in their red robes and capes, the women offering cherries to bystanders from baskets over their arms.

But that wasn’t all. Other confréries followed decked out in their own regalia–the strawberries, the chestnuts, the melons, the figs–all cheered on by a DJ. It was a very informal procession, slowing and stopping as necessary to avoid families, pets and cafe tables. Past the fountain and into a narrower street, the band led the confreres up to the ramparts where they processed around displays of regional goods ringing the terrace, giving festival-goers plenty of opportunities to mingle and take pictures.

The chestnuts (above) and the strawberries (below)

The cherry booth had bowls of the fat maroon orbs out for sampling; many people carried around their purchased two-kilo boxes of fruit. “Are you enjoying the day?” asked an American voice behind me as I popped another cherry. It was Dan from the tourist office; how nice that he remembered me. Meanwhile Maurice was getting his picture taken with two chefs wearing tall toques.

(It is part of the mysteries of cell phones as to why this image reversed when Maurice took it….)

On the stage, with Mont Ventoux in the distance, all the inductees had their bios read and were enthroned into cherryhood. Then the band resumed its Dixieland swing and a little boy all alone in front of the stage danced his two-year-old heart out to the delight of the crowd.

Back at the fountain I bought treats from the boulangerie table, including a pain au chocolat aux cerises et amandes, and we found a shady bench near the church to eat lunch. Then we took the bus down the mountain, dropped things at the car, grabbed our hiking poles, took the bus back up to the church, walked up to the ramparts, gave a final glance at the festival and started down the Chemin des Aires for a retry of the hike I had done two days ago. “Be sure you use the new directions,” Dan had reminded me, and we did, and all was well. Our poles kept our footing steady, we found the natural rock staircase, ginestra and wild herbs perfumed the air, Venasque still pearled its way up the ridge from church to ramparts and all the signposts matched the directions.

Then, to finish the hike, instead of climbing back up the mountain into Venasque, we hopped in our car and went home.

I was sitting in the breezy afternoon looking at the big tree outside the kitchen door, with the blue sky high above, listening to the washing machine sound like it was trying to take off. Maurice had ambled to the pool with his sketchbook. I was getting drowsy. Crash! I looked up. The spinning washer (aka jet engine) had vibrated the heavy wooden cutting board from its top (the only kitchen workspace other than the gas-burner stove) to the kitchen floor, and the coffee maker was close behind. I jumped up to catch it–a worthy save. My shoulder was achey this afternoon anyway.