Fontaine de Vaucluse is an idyllic little town for daytrippers under plane trees at the base of abrupt cliffs in an enclosed valley (“vallis clausa”) . In the 14th century the Italian poet Petrarch retired here at age 33 to pine for his lady love, married to another; though she died of the plague, he never got over her. Collecting water from all over the Vaucluse plateau, the source of the river Sorgue is here as a resurgent spring. Some decades ago Jacques Cousteau plumbed its depths to 315 meters and still did not touch the bottom. Guidebooks say the river “springs full blown from the mountainside” but no more. Something has shifted deep within the earth and, though the sapphire blue pool is still visible within the mouth of a cave, the river appears some hundred meters or so further down its rocky bed, just suddenly there bubbling among boulders between tangled banks. It tumbles over little falls and flows past the big mossy wheel still turning five times a minute at the paper mill that’s been beating pulp since the 16th century. Clear and cold, the river rushes over a dam with a kayak course arranged, then widens and calms a bit as it embraces water plants and spreads into a garden park with sweet colorful blooms and old plane trees where the painters have set up their easels.

Maurice with his talented instructor Janice

Above the town a castle ruin perches impossibly on a cliff edge. In the mountains higher up yawn huge dark holes, caves where French resistance fighters hid from the Germans. It can’t be that the Germans didn’t notice the caves; it was perhaps way too much trouble to climb up there after the French.

Caves & castle ruin above Fontaine de Vaucluse

Dewey wanted to walk with me again, maybe even hike up to the castle, which Janice said had been doable some years back, but we decided first to walk back along the river and see the source.  We had a pleasant stroll over the bridge, up the tourist street, through the paper mill where its ancient wooden paddles were pounding but not too much else was happening…

…and all the way to the fence where no water was gushing from the mountain but we could see the mouth of the cave.

As we ambled back toward town we watched middle school student kayakers with a couple instructors daring the little falls.

Across the river Jenelle was painting serenely under her floppy sun hat. Several times Dewey mentioned maybe walking up to the castle but I wasn’t at all sure that was a good idea. We separated as we met up with our painting spouses.

I went to the car to get my hiking poles, checked in with Maurice, ate my quiche (a tasty but sloppy one today), went back out through the rock tunnel that connects the garden to the street and turned an immediate left up a stone stairway, which the randonne’ directions I had acquired from the tourist office said was the path to a 3-km walk that included the castle. After the steps ended, my ascent was via rock paths on the steep scrub-covered cliff, every few meters requiring a fresh selection of which trail looked the least dangerous. I had a hard enough time with my hiking poles; Dewey would never have made it.

Part of the path to the castle

The chateau ruins at the top were sunlit and wildflowered, with great views down to the town and river. Over a waist-high wall I spotted the waterwheel at the paper mill, though in other places I didn’t get too close to the edge (they would never let you climb around these places in the US!).

Caves, water wheel & kayak course

Then I resumed the hiking path through the fragrance and birdsong of the forest, alongside piles of stone that used to be something, and, set into the slope of a hill, a bory, a round dry-stone hut that locals used centuries ago for storage or animal shed or shelter from the weather or even living quarters.

When I got back, Maurice was not painting in the park, and it was a couple hours before the artists’ critique session, so I decided I might as well do the other suggested walk, the 6-km one, which surely wouldn’t take me the 2 1/2 hours the directions said. The trail started across the river, straight up for two kilometers in the sun. I realized this could be worse than I thought. Should I continue, take an alternate route back to the village or just go down the way I came? I called Maurice to tell him my whereabouts and ask how much time I really had before he would be finished (and this time the phone worked). He sighed. “Just come back as soon as you can. Please don’t get lost.” I wasn’t lost! I had written directions plus I was at a yellow hiking signpost. After carefully evaluating all the path options, I decided the path down was hot and steep, the alternate route back was uncertain, I was probably at the top, it would be easier from here and I should just continue, which I did. It was a lovely walk. I passed a French woman about my age walking the opposite direction with a petite backpack, bright white blouse and red lipstick. “Bonjour!” we called to one another. Out of the shade again, around the curve of a farm with a tiny bory at its entrance, past a cyclist putting his gloves on under a tree (he got his bike up here?), and the directions guided me on a downhill track along dry stone walls, with nothing but rocks underfoot.

The path was in and out of sun and the rocks never let up. It was starting to feel like a bad day on the Camino. I was wearing the shoes in which I had started the Camino, the pair in which the left shoe finished with me and the right shoe got sent home. I had thought on short day hikes these shoes would be just fine but my right foot was feeling squashed. Scritch, scratch, skrake. The rocks beat and mashed and pummeled my feet from below. Scritch, skraaaake. My right foot complained, “I thought we weren’t going to do this any more!” I gripped the poles, I planted them firmly, right, left, right left, tais-toi, right, left, and soon I was back to Petrarch’s column in the traffic circle under the plane trees. The artists were just coming out of the rock tunnel and crossing the bridge so my timing was perfect. The second hike had only taken an hour and forty-five minutes…although when we got home I propped my feet up on the patio chairs and let Maurice mix the calimochos and get out the Provençal delights for supper.

24,800 steps