Carrières de Lumières
A famous image of Provence shows bright purple rows of lavender leading to the solid but elegant mass of a timeless Romanesque abbey, Senanque, near Gordes. We saved our visit there until the end of our trip in hopes that the lavender would be in bloom; sadly such was not quite the case.
Another visitor to St. Paul de Mausole, Margaret from Maine, saw this scene of us and snapped it with her phone. What a good eye and quick fingers she has, and how gracious of her to share the photo with me. Keep reading
Outrunning the bull in a course Camarguaise
In the morning we explored Isle-sur-la-Sorgue’s enormous market, stocking up on strawberries and tapenade and a white lace top that dazzles like the hot Provencal sun.
Tapenade and other delights for enjoying on your Provencal patio
Tapenade for packing into your suitcase so at home you can try to pretend you’re still in Provence Keep reading
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. Keep reading
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 Keep reading
Le Mont Ventoux
The painters had the day off, so through the congestion of Carpentras Maurice and I drove toward the Mont Ventoux. Rising high above the ripe cherry trees and waving wheat fields of the fertile earth, Mont Ventoux’s top bare of foliage gives it a faux snowcap. We were excited to meet the Mont, the Giant of Provence of Tour de France fame. For years we had agonized with strong young cyclists straining at the ascent up Mont Ventoux, pumping with legs of sinew and steel, sucking air, oozing sweat–well, we agonized from the comfort of watching them on TV from our family room with cold drinks at hand. Now we were going to check out the climb for ourselves. We passed a fortified church in a town square, a field of poppies, a hill town glowing in the sun, and the Giant loomed ever higher. Ignoring the glories of the village of Malaucene, we turned at a sign announcing that the route was ouverte. Keep reading
Eating cherries in Provence
Marie-Line our landlady pointed out the little orange fruits growing on the big tree at the pool–nèfles, and we are welcome to help ourselves. After breakfast I washed the dishes and hung out laundry with care. My shoulder moves farther and with less pain every day. Keep that cortisone coming! Keep reading
At the Parc Ornithologique Pont de Gau
My shoulder is so much better I washed the breakfast dishes. Soon I hope to dress myself without contortions.
The gardien, M. & Mme. Laurent and their son Patrick
It was a good two-hour drive to a peninsula in the marshy Camargue where Janice had arranged us an outing to a manade, a type of farm in the Camargue that raises bulls for French bullfighting and the semi-wild Camargue horses in the care of a gardien. Keep reading
Old Ansouis
We arrived in Ansouis and the painters wandered off to find their inspiration. There were winding streets, a view over the valley, an art exposition and a fortress church, dark inside, junky-looking and well-used. Keep reading
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.” Keep reading
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