Return to Old Provence

Twenty-five years ago, when we first discovered Venasque, doves were nesting and cooing in the blackened ruins of some medieval buildings. The only epicerie in the village had no refrigeration and almost no light. Instead, a cool marble counter top kept tasty foods--earthy French ham, brie cheeses and local olives--from perishing, while the darkness aided this process by keeping out the hot sun of Provence.

My composer husband, Donald, had won a grant that allowed us to live anywhere, so for five months we called Venasque home. Our three children attended a two-room schoolhouse where tiny, husky-voiced Madame Chalandard pointed to each of the French words on the blackboard with a long stick as the class chimed their pronunciation together. Our 6-year-old Jocy’s main memory of school was having to wipe her lunch bowl clean with bread and sop up every last bit of soup.

But to us adults, this was all a marvel. We were living in an exquisite medieval village on a soaring plateau in Provence with houses strung out like beads. Except for these attached houses, there seemed to be only one of everything else in town. We delighted in being able to say church, gate, wall, fountain, bakery, cemetery. We exulted in finding a village so small (only 300 inhabitants) that life could be reduced to its essentials within a stone’s throw. One could traverse Venasque in 10 minutes, on foot.

Broad Saracen stone walls anchored one end of town, where old-timers played boule on the ramparts. The unornamented, plain geometric lines of the 12th century Norman church, rectangular with a triangular bell tower on top, secured the other end. Behind it sat the mysterious 6th century baptistery built on a Roman foundation, with four rounded apses supported by carved Roman columns. Ancient grayish stone was illuminated by softly golden mystical light coming in from the right over the simple altar.

The few people in Venasque then were stereotypically French. Monsieur Buou, the mustachioed postman, delivered mail from his bicycle, carried long baguettes over his shoulder and wore a beret. The family that ran the bakery were rumored to have “talked to the Nazis.” And the mayor was a cheery farmer who once arrived at our doorstep at Christmastime, unwrapped a wrinkled newspaper and pulled out a large truffle as a gift.

*

Times change. Now Venasque has been officially designated un beau village, one of the most beautiful villages in France. Of course, once word got out, Venasque became chic, a great place for Parisians or people from Lyons and Marseille to get away for a weekend or buy a country house; and for Germans, Americans and Swiss to come visit.

We had been back to Venasque for short visits, but last fall we spent two full weeks there. It is still an absolutely beautiful village, and its popularity has helped fund repairs to the town and put it back in better shape. But for us the place doesn’t quite have the same sense of mystery and romance. When we first saw the village, it rose from the valley like a spectral vision from another age, sending us back to all the fairy-tale settings we’d ever dreamed ourselves into as children. “Where are we?” we used to ask ourselves, shedding several hundred years as though waking up from a long sleep.

Today, the lovely stone fountain in the main square still rings out its watery music, though all its cracks have been fixed. There’s now a sewer system instead of soapy-water drainage down canals, and the bumpy cobblestones have, alas, been smoothed over. The men no longer play boule on the ramparts, for they, and this old Provencal custom, are dying off. But the extraordinary view from up there of white-capped Mt. Ventoux, the highest mountain in Provence, with a limestone summit that looks like snow, remains unblemished. The fields below Venasque are still patterned with rows of grapevines and cherry trees, the cliffs have stayed verdant with rampant growth around exposed ledges of limestone, and the white cemetery in the valley, with old Venasque names, remains punctuated by two dark green cypresses.

The convent at the foot of Venasque’s cliff seems untouched and is largely responsible for the fact that the landscape has barely changed and probably never will. Martine Maret, proprietress of the charming blue trompe l’oeil-doored B&B; called La Maison aux Volets Bleus, told me the convent buys up all vacant land in the valley for farming purposes and will never allow the growth of dense suburbs around the cliff-perched village. The nuns form the majority of voters in Venasque and thus have considerable power to help elect a mayor and make sure their needs are met. France’s historic preservation laws also help.

For this reason, Venasque (current population about 800) and its surroundings, now liberally sprinkled with artisans from France and elsewhere, will never become an overly touristy spot like nearby Gordes, with too many houses and kitschy gift shops. The main street of Venasque has only one epicerie, now with refrigerator; one pottery and sculpture store; a first-class restaurant, Auberge de la Fontaine (with a superb formal dining room upstairs, a bistro on street level and five guest suites); another small hotel and restaurant, Les Remparts, with a view of a gorge; one bakery and a number of B&Bs; and a chamber of commerce that includes an exhibition room for crafts.

*

The massive, partly restored 12-room, 16th century house in the center of town where we had lived a quarter century ago has been turned into four apartments. The house was renovated, initially, by an American composer who rented it out to his compatriots for so many years that the town acquired a fair number of Americans who fell in love with Venasque and ended up buying property there. On this trip, we stayed in one of those apartments, renovated in bright Moroccan style and owned by a jazz artist.

But the person most vital to the town these days is Christian Soehlke, proprietor and chef of the Auberge. A talented man, he told me he searched for a place “made of old stones” before quitting his parents’ industrial sewing-machine business.

Finding the Auberge was love at first sight, and Christian bought it almost instantly, even though he had no experience as a chef. Cooking became another of his creative activities, and his restaurant gradually developed quite a reputation. He believes in making the most of natural ingredients, and in finding a harmony between them and the places they come from. So cooking is like music.

Because Christian loves music so much, he tried to find a way to bring it to Venasque, and succeeded magnificently. By offering performers a place to try out concerts for a live audience (and giving them free lodging and great food as well), he has attracted French, American and even Japanese musicians who come to play chamber music in a relaxed setting during the dinner hour. Last year there were 25 concerts--”more than take place in the city of Avignon,” Christian said proudly.

One night the food included a fan-shaped spread of eggplant slices covered with a puree of tomatoes and caviar; zucchini stuffed with mushrooms; a plate of mixed Mediterranean fish with Spanish-Italian-style rice cooked in black squid ink; a platter of superb French cheeses; and fresh fruits in rose syrup, to which Christian added bubbling champagne at our tables. When we had all finished dining, we heard a wonderful concert of Schubert. Then one of the guests went up to the grand piano and started playing a bit of Mozart’s Requiem. But the original pianist was drinking in a corner, and when he heard the “competition,” he rolled up his sleeves and gave a second impromptu performance after 11 p.m. just for fun--full of fast, flashy music. Then the other musicians followed suit.

The next day, I attended one of Soehlke’s intimate cooking classes in his tiny copper-pot-festooned kitchen. While he showed us how to brush dirt off huge wild mushrooms (cepes) with a metal brush (“Don’t ever wash them with water!” he warned), and mentioned how important it is to cut them in slices to preserve them, two other American women sat enthralled, listening to him while shelling fat black and white beans from large pods. The magnificent wild-mushroom odor wafted across the kitchen to where we were sitting--a perfume of woods, of wild humid places.

One of the women held a freshly cut mushroom up to her nose and sighed with rapture. Christian held two cepes roguishly near his ears, looking like a puckish, smiling forest troll.

Then he showed us how to prepare a beurre blanc sauce, taking a tiny copper pan and simmering vinegar and white wine in it till they were reduced by the cooking; adding butter and shallots, all the while shaking the pan constantly so that nothing would burn or stick to it. He was actually making sauce for a special dish: Pink foie gras (fresh goose liver) was quickly and lightly cooked with roasted apple slices, and then he placed the golden beurre blanc sauce on top of a perfectly seasoned, mellow wine-flavored sauerkraut. When I ate this food a little later, the delicate, warm, slightly earthy flavor of the foie gras contrasted perfectly with the pungent but mellow sauerkraut, sea salt and golden sauce.

*

One day we met some Venasque inhabitants on a path at the end of the village, and we all started conversing in French. When one of the women, Micheline, tried to answer in English we didn’t give in, and she respected our desire to continue in her native language. Partly because of a mutual love of music (her mother had accompanied singers for the opera at Avignon), we ended up at their charming house nearby, invited to have tea and hear opera arias together. We even sang them, accompanied by her exuberant elderly father.

Aside from meeting other villagers, we took glorious walks in the mountainous countryside laced with vineyards, orchards and dramatically twisting white limestone formations. We visited the lively market town of Carpentras, exulting in tasting and buying 10 kinds of shimmering olives, while also making excursions to other nearby “perched” villages, such as Roussillon, with its ochre quarries; Gordes, with its cha^teau museum of paintings by Vasarely; and elegant Menerbes (near the setting for Peter Mayle’s “A Year in Provence”).

Touristy Fontaine de Vaucluse (where Petrarch wrote his love sonnets to Laura in the 14th century) was intriguing for its literary connection and for the mysteriously deep underground pool emerging from a huge limestone cliff. We watched a white-faced-and-gloved pantomimist entrance tourists with hand-kissing gallantries while a barrel organ player entertained the immense street crowds. Touring the bare abbey surrounded by rows of lavender, we heard our guide project a line of Gregorian chant into the reverberating vaulted space, and later we enjoyed the large antiquities market of L’Isle-sur-Sorgue. Its shiny stream mirrored bright Provencal prints hung out on display, while a mechanical organ made everyone feel like dancing.

At the end of two weeks, we were so saturated with nature, lively experiences, grand food, friendly people, unique villages and a medieval mystique that we could hardly pull ourselves away. But, alas, we did, after eating a last breakfast on our little Venasque balcony while looking over earth-colored, lichen-encrusted roof tiles toward whited-domed, bluish Mt. Ventoux, the bonging of church bells nearby resonating in our ears.

Keats is a freelance writer who lives in Greenwood Village, Colo.

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)

GUIDEBOOK

Provence Redux

Getting there: Air France, United, American, Continental and AOM French airlines fly from LAX to Paris, and then connect with Air France to Avignon, about 20 miles from Venasque. Round-trip fares start at $700, although AOM French has a $580 fare.

Where to stay: Auberge de la Fontaine, Place de la Fontaine, 84210 Venasque, France, telephone 011-33-4-9066-0296, has five suites and a superb restaurant. Room rate: $145; three-day cooking course, $270 (including lunches, drinks), or three-day course with lodging, about $360 for one.

Other options: Hotel La Garrigue, tel. 011-33-4-9066-0340, fax 011-33-4-9066-6143, is at village edge; room rate, $75 (reopens next Easter). Hotel Les Remparts, tel. 011-33-4-9066-0279, fax 011-33-4-9066-6167, has a view of a striking ravine; $55 to $60 per room. La Maison aux Volets Bleus, tel. 011-33-4-9066-0304, fax 011-33-4-9066-1614, has a view of Mt. Ventoux, excellent food; room rate, $80.

For more information: L’Office du Tourisme, Venasque; tel. 011- 33-4-9066-1166. French Government Tourist Office, 9454 Wilshire Blvd., Beverly Hills, CA 90212; tel. (202) 659-7779 (hotline).