The British author Peter Mayle best describes me; I am not a scholar. Instead, I am a dreamer, one who crowds a collage of perfectionistic photos and then places them (complete with fragrance and aroma) percolating and illustrated ‘on location’ in my fixated fantasy land, recently Provence.
MP and I dove into the deep end; in September, we settled in a small, out-of-the-way village nestled in the hills of Provence-Alps-Cote d’Azur at the foot of Saint Baume Massif.
Rooted in remote, mind-boggling history, the sweet hamlet is located on the edge of the Huveaune River, which flows with life-giving water and mythical fairy lore.
Off the beaten track, without a monument, museum, or lavish fête insight, its proximity to the sea, countryside, and terraced medieval towns makes a seamless dot from which to ‘slow travel.’
Without an agenda, we settled into a ‘guardian house’ attached to a massive 300-year-old home in a walled garden. There, notable trees, trailing vines, and hiding bushes–according to Arnaud, who spent boyhood holidays in the garden– speak to each other and applaud the towering Au Grand Cedre, who claps his hands and, in a deep voice, dominates over them all, I imagine.
We slept well and took time to listen to cooing doves, French schoolchildren on the boulevard below, and dwell between the bells of the church chiming on the hour (if you forget to count, a re-chime occurs a moment later); a pure melodic heartbeat signaling a call to set aside unspoiled mealtime, to worship, to celebrate, and to mourn.
A zillion trails in fragrant forests, some steep strewn with rocks and steps, others with wide-open red soil, and sheer cliffs led us to Calanques de Cassis, carrying us over 90 miles in 25 days.
We experienced unhurried days, simple pleasures of daily baguettes, hand-held quiche, delectable pastries, and fresh green markets touting bright, juicy melons.
We wandered toward colorful cities, cathedrals, synagogues, rows of brocante wonders, and even an endless cheese trolley, which propelled us to be ever-present.
Our senses were seduced, our bellies indulged; we were cared for with only a few words of French in our quiver. Unassuming ambassadors, respecter guests of another culture, we knew if we were polite, kind, able to laugh at ourselves, puff appropriately, shrug, and hold an open palm of coins when the math eluded us, spontaneous bouts of infectious laughter ensued–buying mosquito repellant in the pharmacy comes to mind.
Doors widened; new friendships tendered vulnerable conversations, and old-fashioned genteel correspondences emerged.
When we left Provence for Paris at the end of the trip (another thunderous bolt for the oozing senses),
I wrote this of our 20 days.
Our last day in the village meant packing. We lingered a little longer when our neighbors invited us to share a lunch of purplish-green artichokes (with the biggest hearts), sliced beets, soft, creamy cheeses, and a sourdough baguette around the Provencal table below the grand cedar in the garden.
Being so polite, I took a few pictures of our new friends. I dragged my bag, feet, and heart to the gate and looked up to lime-green pomegranates and yet-to-flower wisteria vines—equally green. A source near the garden said, “Stay until we bloom.”
(Note: The tiny house belongs to our dear friends and remains a vacation rental. If you want to learn more, please let me know, and I will connect you with Eric and Corinne.) Photos are mine.
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