CLIMBING BACK ON THE CHEVAL.
Embracing the charm of Provence was as easy as slipping back into my old linen shirt; this region practically serenades us with its azure skies, warm sunshine, and a chorus of cicadas that sounds suspiciously like Edith Piaf singing "La Vie en Rose" as she wanders through the vines.
These loonie-sized (Canadianism) tree insects are the ones who serenade the valleys of Provence, their melody echoing through the olive groves and lavender fields, a soundtrack to our escape from the monotonous humdrum of the daily grind. With a healthy appetite for the joie de vivre that the South of France promised, we settled in on an epicurean adventure in the wonderous Luberon Valley, our refuge from the seemingly dystopian reality of Trudeau’s folly.
Nestled in the ample lap of the Luberon mountains, this (thankfully) overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make us forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the copious amounts of local rosé.
As we journey through the region, every winding turn of the rustic country roads teases our senses with a new spectacle - a tableau vivant of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant vineyards to the rocky cliffs, everything bathed in the golden Provencal sun. We half expected Julia Child to pop out from behind a vine to hitch a ride in our Renault. Once settled in the back seat, she could begin narrating our journey into the culinary wilderness.
On this latest visit, our first spectacle of the Luberon Valley was a quaint local produce market with such an array of colors and scents that even a seasoned gourmand (aka Fat Bastard) like me could explore with childlike wonder. We walked past stalls of ripe tomatoes and fragrant herbs, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of market vendors, providing the perfect soundtrack to our gastronomic documentary.
History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Romans once tread here, proudly leaving their mark on the pristine landscape. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered ruins and ancient vineyards, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.
Our 30th wedding anniversary dinner was at a charming little restaurant known as L’Arome, tucked away in a cobblestone alley of our little village. The chef, a jovial man with a mustache that would make Hercule Poirot green with envy, served us a meal that was nothing short of a symphony on a plate. The local wine flowed like the nearby Sorgue River, and the laughter and conversation echoed around the terrace like a well-rehearsed orchestra.
Now, don’t let Provence’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of Paris, but that’s akin to comparing a fine Bordeaux with a rather introspective Coors Light or “NASCAR nectar”. And here's a thought, could it be that Provence intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep the hordes of tourists at bay? Maybe, maybe not. But one thing's for sure, the triumphant crème brûlée at the local dingy dive bar is even top-class. You would be a fool not to travel with the Michelin Guide, but as always, trust in your own senses and follow your nose!
As I bid you farewell once again from this pocket of tranquillity, our hearts and minds continue to fill with warm and vivid memories. A trip to Provence might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapters in our lives. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Provence being Provence. It's a place that offers a symphony of nature, a pinch of history, a dash of culture, and a good chunk of serenity. Just bring your camera. My intention going forward is to post on Sundays and Wednesdays. I hope you enjoy and continue to be ever so slightly entertained.
Please leave a comment if you have a moment.
Live Well!
Mark
p.s. All images were captured with the Leica SL2-S / 24-90mm lens and the Leica Q2.
