Hamish Waits For Me.

Below, in the sun sits the Chateau Lacoste.

Above the Cloud Line: A Morning in the Cedar Forest

There is a special kind of winter morning in the Luberon that appears designed specifically to test the human spirit. You know the one: the sky hangs low like a sulking teenager, the cloud cover sits directly on your roof tiles, and everything—including the olive trees—seems to mutter something along the lines of don’t bother. It was precisely one of those mornings when we woke up today, peered out the window, and found the world so thoroughly socked-in that even Hamish, our eternally optimistic black Labrador, sighed.

The entire valley had disappeared into a uniform, colourless soup. It was the sort of weather that makes British people nostalgic and French people irritable. Here in Provence, everything usually sparkles with a sort of smirking confidence—lavender fields, golden light, smugly charming hilltop villages—but today felt more like a damp corner of northern Wales. And not even a scenic one.

Naturally, the only reasonable response was to leave immediately.

We needed altitude. Height. A chance—however slim—to rise above the grim pudding of cloud that had swallowed our village whole. So we pointed ourselves toward the Forest of Cedars, just to the south of Bonnieux. It’s a place we return to often, not only because the cedars lend a whiff of biblical drama to an otherwise normal day, but also because altitude offers hope: the possibility that the sun might still exist somewhere above the atmospheric gloom.

The road up into the forest is one of those narrow Luberon affairs where you become intimately familiar with stone walls, roadside shrubs, and the precise dimensions of your car. As we climbed, the cloud thickened around us until the world became a study in monochrome—handy, as I had brought the Leica Q2 Monochrom specifically for this sort of occasion. (One must always allow the camera the opportunity to feel clever.)

Then, quite suddenly, we broke through.

The ceiling of cloud fell away beneath us like a curtain yanked open by an impatient stagehand. Above, everything transformed: a brilliant, operatic blue sky, sunlight that felt almost boastful, and a forest glistening in that crisp, cool, high-altitude winter way that makes you question whether the valley gloom had even been real. Hamish perked up immediately, tail beating the air like a percussion section.

We parked and began our ramble along the trails. The forest was silent, the air soft and clear, and the cloud sea below us stretched across the landscape like a carelessly tossed white blanket. But as we continued on, one thing became immediately apparent: the boar were still very much here, thriving, and—if the evidence was to be believed—winning.

Hundreds upon hundreds of fresh holes gouged into the damp grass lined the sides of the paths, each one a little crime scene of enthusiastic foraging. The sangliers had clearly been feasting, digging up roots, truffles, and whatever else a Luberon boar considers haute cuisine. And despite the relentless enthusiasm of the French hunter—who treats boar season with all the intensity of a military operation—the beasts were plainly outsmarting them. The sheer number of fresh excavations suggested they were not only eating well but doing so with a certain gleeful indifference to the bullets being lobbed in their general direction.

Now, for those of you who have read along with me before, you’ll know that I once had a face-to-face encounter with one of these tusked behemoths—an experience so thoroughly terrifying that it has likely shaved several months off my lifespan. The locals call them sangliers; I call them “the reason I now walk more loudly than any human reasonably should.” So today, I was fully prepared—emotionally, mentally, and spiritually—for another encounter. Perhaps it was the presence of Hamish, trotting ahead and making a healthy amount of noise, or perhaps the sangliers had simply decided they had better things to do than terrify foreigners. Whatever the reason, they kept their distance, for which my nerves remain grateful.

Back in the realm of landscapes, the views were spectacular. To the south, the Alpilles range rose through the cloud cover like something introduced for dramatic effect. To the north, the Haute-Alps shimmered with fresh snow. And all around, in glorious 360-degree clarity, lay winter Provence—silent, empty, deeply beautiful, and inaccessible to everyone still trapped below the cloud blanket. Up here, above the gloom, the world belonged to us, the cedars, the boar, and a determined black Labrador convinced the entire forest was his personal kingdom.

Hamish trotted ahead with the buoyant confidence of an animal who believes that every path leads to an adventure or a sandwich. He paused periodically to look back at me with an expression that very plainly said, If you'd just move faster, we could be at the next interesting smell by now. Of course, this was never going to happen. I was carrying the Q2 Monochrom, and the combination of winter textures, sharp light, and moody shadows meant that every few metres offered something new and irresistible for the lens.

Monochrome photography thrives in winter. Without colour’s distraction, you start noticing the sculptural qualities of the cedars, the delicate gradations of the cloud sea below, and the dramatic interplay of light and shadow that makes Provence feel like a landscape painted in charcoal. The forest, with its ancient trunks and sweeping limbs, seemed purpose-built for the camera—stoic, expressive, and unapologetically photogenic.

My wife walked ahead with the amused patience of someone who has long accepted that travelling with a photographer means progress will be measured not in kilometres but in shutter actuations. Every so often, she stopped to admire the view, leaning against a cedar or standing at the edge of a rocky outcrop, making some elegantly understated observation like, “It really is spectacular up here.” She was right, of course. She usually is.

We wandered for hours, accompanied by the gentle crunch of leaves underfoot, the thump of Labrador paws, and the occasional operatic cry of a raven who clearly thought it was starring in its own film. Each point of elevation revealed new shapes in the cloud blanket—sometimes smooth and billowing, sometimes torn and textured—like watching the world breathe. Each shift of light was another opportunity for the Leica to assert itself.

Eventually, as winter light began its slow drift toward afternoon, we headed back toward the car. The boar signs were still everywhere—fresh mischief, fresh excavations—but no tusked apparitions materialized. Descending into the valley, the gloom swallowed us once again. The sky grew dull, the temperature dropped, and the Luberon resumed its moody winter pose.

But it didn’t matter. We had lived above the clouds. We had walked in light. We had navigated the cedar forest with a Labrador, a Leica, and a suspicious vigilance for anything that grunted. And best of all, I had a memory card full of monochrome frames that captured Provence exactly as it reveals itself in winter—quiet, dramatic, humbling, and occasionally full of creatures that would very much like to surprise you.

All the best from the South of France.

Live Well!

Mark

I do look forward to hearing from you in the comments section if you have a free moment.

Quite a find along the trail in the park.

What you see when the blanket of cloud parts.