"Offload the car through the kitchen window," suggests our temporary neighbour, Monsieur C. It's an odd suggestion but as we hoist suitcases and groceries across the two-foot thick windowsill, we realize it's actually a very efficient way of doing things, the window being the closest point to the car. Monsieur C. is a character, wandering around the property in his dressing gown most mornings, tossing out greetings in an accent so extreme, we don't understand a word.
We have rented a small cottage here in the sleepy village of Saint-Saturnin-lès-Apt in the Vaucluse part of Provence, southeastern France. Its huge brick oven of yesteryear has been converted into a cool pantry; ancient ox-blood tiles have been left on the steep, shoulder-width staircase and the bedroom looks out over the rolling vistas of Provence through heavy shutters newly painted in bleu de Provence.
Saint-Saturnin-lès-Apt (or simply St. Sat) is reached by narrow country roads winding through orderly vineyards and compact orchards, where clouds of apple blossom nod in the sunshine. Peaches, melons, strawberries are for sale at farm stalls; lavender fields offer a purple haze above dusty earth, and early cherries are starting to blush crimson. The village snoozes in the midday heat; its tile-roofed, terracotta homes snuggle down beyond avenues of slender dark cypress. The area is known for its food production: the 16th century windmill set high above the town attests to this fact, while the statue of Joseph Talon in a small square reminds us that this is truffle country. He is known as "the father of trufficulture."
Once settled in, we take a walk in the pale gold of the evening light and head uphill towards that landmark windmill. We clamber up past it to the castle ruins, breathing in a view of Provence seen so often in magazines, yet so fresh to our eyes. The site dates from the 11th century but the castle was abandoned as early as the 15th century, during religious wars. The Chappelle du Calvaire (established in 1056) still sits at the highest point of the rise. Several miracles are said to have happened here but today, only the wind disturbs its peace. Returning to the cottage, we pass the boulodrome, where sun-wizened old men chain-smoke Gauloises and Camels as they compete at boules. Time seems to have by-passed St. Sat. The village is a perfect base for day trips around the area: Roussillon, Gordes, Lacoste, Bonnieux, Buoux, the Sénanque Monastery are all within easy reach. Roussillon, perched between the Vaucluse plateau and the Luberon mountains, is permeated by the colours of its ochre cliffs. The delicate rainbow shades of this fine powder were a much sought-after ingredient in the production of superior paints, bringing wealth to this area for centuries before synthetic pigments took over. The cliffs still offer shades of orange, purple and white, the deepest blood red and the palest golden brown. From the viewpoint up at the church, we look out over the broad back of Mont Ventoux as the painted cliffs shift and change hues with the light. The colours of the ochre are arguably even more stunning at Le Colorado Provençal de Rustrel, about eight kilometers away. Le Colorado is an area of more than 30 hectares of old ochre quarries and outcrops that have been eroded into fanciful towers and hoodoos such as the Fairy
Chimney and Sahara. We stride out along a wonderful forest trail between the cliffs - a vivid carmine corridor between the trees, powdering our shoes with russet dust. Burnt umber, raw sienna, misty lavender, an entire palette of colours, all gleam in the warm rays of the sun.
The road to the 12th century Sénanque Monastery, four kilometres north of Gordes, twists and turns through the Vaucluse mountains, finally bringing us into the narrow valley that contains the old church. As we leave the walkers and cyclists behind on the approach road, a sense of tranquility descends. Despite the numbers of tourists who visit this place, it still has an overwhelming feeling of peace and quiet, perhaps because the monks here maintain their ancient vows of silence. The signature lavender fields at the entrance to the monastery's lands are almost at their peak.
Another outing takes us to Buoux. Pronounced "beeyux," this is an ancient citadel perched high upon a rocky outcrop with splendid views out across the surrounding valleys. What a strategic location this must have been in the 12th century, when it was built. We make our way up via a massive rock overhang that dwarfs us beneath its towering curve. Today, the place is known for rock-climbing: as if on cue, we find a group of firemen training by abseiling down from the heights on a zip-line. To them it's fun: for me, no thank you. I prefer to meander the trails amidst stands of golden broom, being dive-bombed by butterflies and trying to imagine life up here in centuries past. Amongst the ruins, there's an ancient church, a town hall, homes and great storage bins carved into the rocks to preserve precious food stocks.
Our final outing is to Lacoste, where it's not a church that dominates the village, but a castle. In fact, Lacoste's biggest claim to fame (other than being the universal name for golf shirts with that tiny alligator logo) is that it was home to the infamous Marquis de Sade. Even in ruins, the former villa seems too big for the village, with its tiny lanes and homes that lean towards each other across the cobbles. We can only guess at the abuses that took place up in that glowering stone hulk: mere size wasn't the only excess here. Today, we visit a beautifully elegant shop called Le Moulin de Sade, with its lovely vaulted stone ceilings and high-end items like chocolates from Maxim's in Paris. We stroll across to the Café de France with its cheerful outdoor patio overlooking the fertile valley between Lacoste and Bonnieux, to contemplate the good and the bad of Lacoste's history.
For foodies, this part of Provence is the stuff dreams are made of. Each morning, we bring fresh croissants and baguettes from St. Sat's bakery, slathering them in home-made preserves from local markets. We promise to diet after our vacation, but right now we cannot resist a pile of sinfully huge prawns for dinner; punnets of dark, sweet Spanish strawberries; half a dozen wickedly rich cheeses with unpronounceable names; sweet Cavaillon melon. We feast, al fresco, in our tiny cottage garden, in the soft evening glow of the Provence summer. One evening, our quirky neighbour, Monsieur C. invites himself to dinner: fortunately he's not in a dressing gown and the bottle of cognac he carries is an adequate bribe. We still don't understand most of what he says but, thanks to the cognac, that doesn't seem to matter.
The nearby village of Bonnieux holds its farmers' market each Friday. It sprawls across several different levels from the "new" church upwards, each level connected by narrow lanes. At each turn our senses experience something different: the plaintive strains of Edith Piaf, the bright colours of local pottery, the contrasting smells of fish, cured sausages, cheeses, garlic.
Saturday is market day in Apt, about 15 kilometres away, with its intriguing "submersible" parking lot on the (hopefully dry) river bed. There is good-natured banter from the vendors, a flirtatious egg-seller, the rapid patois of the fish-man. Apt is for gourmands: not only does it have the homemade sorbets of the famous Pierrot Blanc (including pastis sorbet) but it also has its signature candied fruits: translucent pears or shimmering figs so good that the Centre national des arts culinaires has named this town a "Site remarkable du goût."
Yes, we're feeling guilty after these gourmet meals but in Apt, we have none of the self-discipline needed to withstand the temptation of fougasse, brioches pralinés, tropéziennes, macarons, calissons, chaussons, fruits confits or miel de lavande. We're quick and hungry learners: for example, chaussons are made from neat semi-circles of light, flaky pastry filled with apple puree. Fougasse is a savoury puff-pastry loaf topped with olives, walnuts, pine-nuts or local cheeses according to your taste. That diet can come later. .. . much later.
On the day we must leave, Monsieur C. is in a panic, convinced he has a snake in his larder. We recognize the word "serpent" in tones of rising alarm. We rummage around between his dry goods and bags of flour to no avail and he is clearly not satisfied. An hour later, he calls the fire brigade. The snake is never found and we finally have to depart, unloading suitcases through the kitchen window as if we'd been doing it for years. We take with us memories of bleached stone and old tiled roofs, of history, of exquisite foods, of sunlit colours and balmy evenings. .. and of an eccentric but lovable neighbour.
If you go: Rental accommodations: gite.com, holidaylettings.co.uk, vrbo.com, General information: theluberon.com, goeurope.about.com, buoux-village.com, senanque.fr.
