the 3rd-century BC Pont Julien

Painting lessons were over for the Provence trip. “Let’s go sightseeing!” said Maurice. We had noted a few tantalizing places nearby and set off.  Today I put on the other pair of hiking shoes I had brought, a new pair of Merrells in men’s size 9W. My right foot is happy but my left foot wonders who else is coming to the party. The shoes look like clodhoppers. But my shoulder is so much better that I can get dressed by myself.

A tiny church on a tiny hill on a tiny plot in a tiny town, St. Pantaleon beckoned us to see the nécropole rupestre, tiny tombs cut into the rocky hill. It was a sanctuary of grace. The belief in this time and place was that infants who died before they were baptized could be taken there and revived for a mass and baptism, after which they died again and were buried. Tangles of weeds and wildflowers half hid the empty graves; hollyhocks brightened the surroundings of the 12th-century church, which was locked up tight.

Saint Pantaleon:  I didn’t get a close-up of the tiny graves but you can see a hint of them

Maurice sketched. I wandered. A few more tourists ambled by. I walked to the church door again. A scratched sheet of plastic covered a piece of paper with church notices, and this time I looked at it more carefully. Typed in the middle were times and places where the church key could be procured for a visit. What a find!–or it would be if I could find the right cafe. The silent town was small, so I headed down the curving street, turning into a lane that led to the closed mairie, then locating the cafe nearby. “Is this where I can get the key for the church?” I asked a waitress in my best French. “If you leave something of value,” she told me, so I handed over my driver’s license and she gave me a giant key. Back up the hill I waved my treasure at Maurice, who was about finished drawing.

We unlocked the church door and stepped into the cool darkness. Three short naves made the church wider than it was long; a couple short recycled columns adorned the chancel. Two more tourists poked their heads inside, then we locked the door again and exchanged valuables on the way out of town.

A little farther down the road the elegant Pont Julien’s three golden stone arches reached for the blue summer sky. The Pont Julien has spanned the Calavon river on the Domitian way between Italy and Spain for the last 2300 years. The Roman construction has held up so well that traffic continued to use it up until a few years ago when a modern bridge was built almost right next to it. Now the Pont Julien is open to walkers and cyclists and sightseers. The rushing river underneath has dwindled to a stream but its setting among poppies, thistles and ginestra is enchanting.

The hill town of Bonnieux was nearby. This is Peter Mayle country (A Year in Provence), and apparently the local expatriates are irritated at the swell of additional tourists brought in by the popularity of his books. We had quiche, pizza and drinks at a boulangerie / tea room (with a loo) on the quiet main street.

Not a French soul was out, just a smattering of meandering elderly couples, the ladies in light sundresses, the gentlemen in jaunty shirts tucked neatly into Bermuda shorts–retired Brits drawn by the Provençal sun. It’s just another hill town, we said–another exquisite arrangement of stone and deep-rooted trees, of arches and curving lanes and history, graced with fruit trees and fragrant flowers–but we climbed a slope and peeked around a corner and took an accidental walk up a silent twisting stone staircase to a weathered church under thick ancient branches and views over the countryside.

The next village was Lacoste, clinging to the mountain and topped with a ruined medieval castle, and not just any castle but the former chateau of the 18th-century Marquis de Sade, who left unsavory memories in several towns in the area.

The castle was destroyed in the French revolution and has since been partly rebuilt, but it was not open for visits.

“I could meet you at the bottom if you want to walk down through the village,” suggested Maurice–oh, he knows my heart! I had a lovely walk past artistic remnants and worn stone on tiny streets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The peaceful 13th-century Abbaye Saint-Hilaire was a treasure. This lovely complex had been rescued from its life as a farm (machinery in the chapel, sheep in the refectory, a horse in the kitchen and rabbits in the cloister) by a French couple who bought it in 1961 and spent the next forty years restoring it. Down a rutted lane, the silent abbey was now open to visitors with a box for a suggested donation.

Abbaye Saint-Hilaire

A folder with typed notes in plastic pages in a language of my choice directed me on an informative and leisurely walk through the buildings and grounds while Maurice found a shady spot out front to draw.

Saint Hilaire’s refectory above, kitchen sink below (still in use!)

Garden walk behind the abbey

I was still admiring the carved letters on what had been a medieval tombstone in the cloister when Maurice appeared beside me; he had given up the art because ants were dropping from the tree onto his head.

Our final stop for the day was Oppede-le-Vieux, another village perché that had been abandoned after World War I.

In the Middle Ages hill towns were started as refuges and vantage points when there was great turmoil in the plain, but in the last century or so life in the valley became much easier and more appealing than life up the mountain. After World War II a few artists and out-of-towners returned to Oppede-le-Vieux but much of the village along the walkway snaking up the hill is empty, roofless and overgrown.

A sturdy Romanesque church still anchors the top of town, though, sadly, remains of the castle a few steps past it are in such disrepair that they are fenced off from visitors.

Someone is profiting from the decay though. The town is closed to cars and there is a parking lot below it at the entrance, the only place to leave your car if you want to explore. Only three euros, and you get a brochure too.

16,216 steps

Crucifix in Lacoste

“God was also pleased to bring everything on earth and in heaven back to himself through Christ. He did this by making peace through Christ’s blood sacrificed on the cross.”    Colossians 1:20