Provence on the Rocks

Across the top of a low Provencal hill, a garden rolled out like an Oriental carpet from the steps of a perfect little stone house. Orange, yellow, pink, red, purple mingled in delicate shapes that led my gaze beyond, to curvaceous rows of grapevines that marched for miles into the distance before meeting line after line of mountains. In the foreground, a woman was carefully cutting sunflowers and placing them in her basket, along with cosmos and marigolds and a profusion of dahlias.

“Your garden is lovely,” I said in my best French.

The woman looked up from under her sunbonnet, and I watched her expression shift from wariness to pleasure as she studied me and decided I was sincere. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and then she insisted that I come down the road with her. She was taking her flowers to the cemetery, and from there she would show me something wonderful. Walking beside her, I was aware of her strength and her serenity, and of the scents of thyme, rosemary, lavender and clean verbena soap emanating from her.

I had no idea how long this walk would be, but I didn’t care.

“It is going to be very hot today,” she said. “Listen to the cicadas. They get louder as it gets hotter. Ah, voila!”

As we came to the top of a hill, she stopped and pointed to the right. Rising to fill half the sky was a line of delicately carved stony peaks--the Dentelles, or “lace mountains,” as they’re called by the inhabitants of this remote area of southern France. Granite sparkled silver, like fairy dust over lace, in the morning sunlight.

The Dentelles de Montmirail are in the region of Provence called the Vaucluse, about 80 miles inland from the Mediterranean. Their narrow, jagged ridges form a backdrop for bunched hills and valleys where every inch is planted in grapes, olives or fruit trees.

This is not the Provence of package tours and celebrity villas. This is the old Provence of people still living close to the earth in hamlets too small to be on most maps.

I’d come to spend a week after a whirlwind visit to the more touristy parts of Provence, and I’d chosen the most peaceful type of lodging: a maison d’hote, the French tourism board’s designation for bed-and-breakfasts. My choice, Aux Tournillayres, was in Bedoin, one of a string of villages that encircles the feet of the Dentelles like a garland.

East of the Dentelles is Mt. Ventoux, a remnant of the Alps and, at 6,263 feet, the tallest mountain in the region. To the west, a series of lesser hills slopes down to the horizon where the Rhone River flows through its flat, wide valley.

Aux Tournillayres--it means a place of wandering around and around--was set amid an olive orchard. There was a large house for the owner and four charming separate cottages for guests. The couple next door to me was wine-touring Provence from Canada. On the other side were two young women from Germany who planned to hike Mt. Ventoux.

With my camera as my companion, I wandered the winding roads eager to see what was around the next bend. That’s how I came to be in the village of Suzette, where I met the woman with the garden.

The houses in Suzette were made of stone and had wide wood shutters painted different colors; red geraniums dripped from wrought-iron balconies.

In the center of town, church bells rang from an ornate tower. Below the church, narrow lanes flanked by shops and houses wound downhill, ending at the town hall. There was little else.

From the high vantage of the village cemetery, I noticed what looked like a monastery on an adjacent hillside. I decided to make it my next stop.

The drive was lovely. At one turn of the road, the vista opened to a village balanced on the top of a hill. At another, a crumbling castle glowed golden, restored to beauty for a moment by a glance of sunlight. Rocky outcrops jutted up from green velvet hillsides. Land not planted in grapes or olives was covered in pine and cedar forests and low bushes of herbs. I wished I could bottle the scent of pine mixed with sage, mint and thyme in the morning air.

I encountered few vehicles apart from an occasional truck or plodding piece of farm equipment. This isn’t a big tourist destination; there are only a few hotels and perhaps several dozen maisons d’hotes. But the Dentelles area is popular in summer with rock climbers, campers, bicyclers and hikers.

A road to the top of Ventoux is open in summer and early fall, but I wasn’t tempted. There was enough around the villages to make my heart race with happiness. My drive in search of the monastery is a good example.

After a couple of false starts, I saw a sign for the monastery. Up the road, curved rows of lavender set the stage for the ochre stone buildings. From the open doors of the church came the sound of male voices chanting in prayer.

The day had reached its peak, the sky bright blue with a temperature of about 80 degrees. The scene was enchanting.

I’d left Aux Tournillayres before breakfast to catch the best light for photographs. The September sun, with its lowering arc, drew shadows long and turned the early morning colors a rosy hue. It was now noon, and I was hungry. My hostess had promised to save my breakfast until I returned. Sure enough, I found a freshly set picnic basket on the table of my terrace. Inside were flaky croissants, jam, butter, orange juice, two peaches and a bunch of grapes, plus a large thermos of coffee and a pitcher of milk. Ravenous, I sat down to eat among the olive trees and the sweet smells in the midday heat.

After a short rest in my cottage--a single room simply furnished with twin beds and a sitting area and with a good-sized bathroom--I was ready for an afternoon in Vaison-la-Romaine, the largest town in the region.

Vaison is on the northern side of the Dentelles, on the Ouveze River, a Rhone tributary. It boasts both a fascinating history and a creative present. In the 1st century it was the capital of the Celtic-Ligurian tribe of the Vocontii. Romanized, it became Vasio Vocontiorum. The Romans built many public and private buildings, including a theater seating 6,000.

The Roman city was constructed on the flatter north side of the river, and modern Vaison rose around and atop the Roman ruins. In their long history, however, the people periodically crossed to the south bank for the protection of its 14th century hilltop castle. I found this recently restored medieval “upper city” fascinating for its dramatic aspects.

I crossed the 2,000-year-old Roman bridge, which has withstood countless floods over the ages. The most recent, in 1992, swept 34 people to their deaths and reburied the Roman excavations in mud. Restored again, they are in better shape than ever, I was told, but I had my eye on the castle.

A maze of narrow lanes--cars are not allowed--wound up and out of sight as the two- to four-story buildings forced my gaze down tight, shadowed channels. Many of the medieval buildings are private residences, and among them are a few cafes and many artists’ shops and studios.

After walking up to the castle--not much in itself, but worth the view--and wandering slowly back down, I made my way to the restaurant recommended by my hostess for dinner.

Auberge des Platanes is at the bottom of the hill. Half a dozen tables are set up outside under a canopy; another dozen are inside, where dark umber walls are lighted by lamps that create a golden glow. Both the ambience and the food perfectly reflected my impressions so far of this rich land. It was so fine that I went back twice.

The chef-owner insisted on helping take orders and serve. With subtle humor he charmed everyone as he went from table to table dispensing advice on what to order. He told me that I must try his vegetable puree for an appetizer. It was thicker than soup, closer to a mousse, served chilled, and could be spread on bread. Otherwise, I can’t describe it beyond the word “delicious,” because it resembled nothing I’d ever tasted. It was followed by tender rabbit in a rich brown sauce with crisp green beans and tiny potatoes. The dessert was ice cream with a raspberry sauce. For wine I had the recommended light-bodied red Fiole du Chevalier d’Elbene, grown in Seguret, one of the Cotes-du-Rhone villages that I planned to visit.

Early the next morning I set out to explore this stage of Provencal culture. A few miles south of Vaison my breath was taken away by the sight of the medieval village of Crestet, its many windows winking back at the newly risen sun.

After a stop at the Crestet Centre d’Art, a state-supported exhibition site for contemporary artists, I followed the road to Seguret. This village is Crestet’s twin, facing west to bid the sun adieu across a broad valley of vineyards.

The village had a mysterious but inviting air, beckoning the visitor into narrow streets of twists and turns--and again, no cars. The tiny shops sold tea, or fabric in the signature Provencal yellow and blue, or hand-sewn clothes, or the carved wood miniatures that Seguret is known for. There was art for sale, of course, and artists’ studios for rent.

After an afternoon of browsing, I felt it was late enough to visit some caves (cellars, or tasting rooms). There were so many that it was hard to choose. I wound up in the village of Gigondas, home of some widely admired hearty red Cotes-du-Rhone.

I was disappointed to learn that none of the caves were set up to ship their wines. If I wanted to buy any, I’d have to carry it home myself. I made room for one bottle of my favorite, Domaine de Longue Toque, which I carried gingerly all the way back to California. It was worth the effort. When I finally opened the wine some weeks later, all the richness of the Dentelles came back to me in its bouquet.

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GUIDEBOOK

Sitting Pretty in Provence

Getting there: The closest major airport is Marseilles. Connecting service (one plane change) from LAX is available on Air France, AOM and Alitalia. Restricted round-trip fares begin at $610.

You’ll need to rent a car; Avis, Budget and Hertz are among the agencies at the airport. From Marseilles, it’s a two-hour drive on Autoroute A7 north toward Avignon; a few miles past Avignon take Highway D977 northeast to Vaison-la-Romaine, 27 miles, about a 45-minute drive. All of the towns mentioned are within 45 minutes of Vaison.

Where to stay: The cottages at Aux Tournillayres in Bedoin sleep two and cost $71 per night. Contact Marie-Claire Renaudon, telephone and fax 011-33-490-12-80-94.

Chateau de Taulignan is a restored chateau in a vineyard outside Vaison-la-Romaine; rooms for two start at $80. Tel. 011-33-490-28-71-16, Internet https://www.chateau-provence.com, e-mail chateau@pacwan.fr.

Les Geraniums in Le Barroux is a charming, more traditional hotel, with rooms about $50. Fax 011-33-490-62-56-48.

I found my cottage and a wealth of other information on guidebook writer Karen Brown’s Web site, https://www.karenbrown.com.

Another good resource is https://www.provenceweb.com.

For more information: French Government Tourist Office, 9454 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 715, Beverly Hills, CA 90212-2967; tel. (310) 271-6665 or (410) 286-8310 (France-on-Call hotline), Internet https://www.francetourism.com. Office du Tourisme, Place du Chanoine Sautel, B.P. 53, 84110 Vaison-la-Romaine, France. Fax 011-33-490-28-76-04, Internet https://www.provenceguide.com.