CIRCLING THE LACE MOUNTAINS OF PROVENCE

Across the top of a high 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 formed a base to lead my eye further, to curvaceous rows of grapevines that rolled gracefully for miles into the distance before meeting line after line of high mountains. A woman was carefully cutting sunflowers and placing them in her basket along with cosmos and marigolds, and a profusion of colorful dahlias.

"Your garden is lovely," I said.

The woman looked up from bending over the bed of golden flowers. Under her sunbonnet her complexion was creamy white, and I watched her expression shift from wariness to pleasure as she looked me over and decided I was sincere. ir arms enfolding us and their heads towering above. No wonder people spoke of the Himalayas as being 'of the gods'.

Only a couple of hours drive north of central Provence, the tallest mountain in the region, Mt Ventoux, forms the eastern boundary. A series of lesser mountains and hills punctuate the vast space with fertile valleys inbetween. In the center are the Dentelles. Flowing down the sides are vineyards and tiny hilltop villages dating back to the middle ages. To the east, the wide Rhone Valley spreads flat to the horizon and the setting sun.

The village of Suzette, where I’d stopped to admire the garden -- as I’d discover with most towns of the region -- was built at the top of a hill. The houses were all made of stone with wide wood shutters painted different colors, rodiron railings around balconies dripped red geraniums. In the center was a church with an ornate bell tower that rang out over the valley below. Down from the church circles of narrow lanes wound their way like coiled snakes, flanked on either side by homes and stores, the "Marie," that is the town hall. There was little else.

My guide left me at the cemetery, and I returned to my car. From the high vantage of the village I’d noticed what looked like a monastery on an adjacent hillside and determined to go there. At every turn of the road another lovely vista appeared. Balanced precariously at the top of a hill might be a village, at another, a crumbling castle glowed golden for a moment in the sunlight like a visual echo of another time. Rocky outcrops jutted up from the rolling verdant green mountains and hills. When not planted in grapes or olives, the region was covered in pine and cedar forests and low bushes of herbs. The scent of pine mixed with sage, mint, and thyme in the morning air.

There were few vehicles on the road but for an occasional truck or slow going piece of farm equipment lumbering down the lane between the rows of grapes. Few tourists had discovered the regions secret charms. However, it is not unknown to Europeans who’ve valued it for centuries as a country idle, similar in many ways to Tuscany. There’s a road that goes to the top of the mountain if hiking isn’t your thing. The most famous Russian poet, Petrarch, summered here regularly. In fact, he’s perported to have been the first to climb Mt. Ventoux -- in 1336 -- and to have written his Laura poems while resting here!

In the afternoon I drove to Vaison la Romaine, 20 Km. from Bedouin on the northern side of the Dentelles. Vaison is the largest town in the region, and boasts both a fascinating history and a creative present.

There are three distinct areas of the town. In the 1st century A.D. it was the capital of the Celtic-Ligurian tribe of the Vacontii, Vasio Vocontiorum when it was Romanized. Many public and private buildings were constructed, including a theatre that seats 6000 and a patrician domi of over 7000 sqm. Today it is the largest archaeological site in France. The Roman city was constructed on the plain.

Then there is the present town built around the old Roman ruins where many winding streets of shops and cafes meander. However in their long history the people periodically took to the hillside for better fortifications making the Mediaeval and Renaissance city above the more fascinating.

I crossed the Gallo-Roman bridge and went along the ramparts, passing a belfry with a wrought-iron bell cage to the upper town fortified by a double wall and dominated high above by the castle of the late Count of Toulouse. A maze of narrow streets wound up and out of my sight as the two to four story buildings forced my gaze down tight channels. There are no cars allowed. Many of the buildings are private residences and among them are a few cafes and quite a large number of artist’s shops and studios. Most were painters and took for their subject matter the natural surroundings of the area. Several of the famous painters of Southern France currently live and work in Vaison.

After wandering happily for several hours I made my way back down the cobbled lanes to the restaurant recommended by my hostess for dinner. Auberge des Platane is situated at the bottom of the hill with half a dozen tables set up outside under a green and white striped canopy and another dozen inside where dark umber walls are lit-up by yellow lamps creating a golden glow.

Both the ambiance and the food perfectly reflected my impressions so far of this rich land. The chef-owner insisted on helping take orders and serve. With a subtle humor he charmed everyone as he went from table to table instructing his clients on what they should try and of course which wines to choose for their meal.

He told me that I must try his vegetable puree for an appetizer. I couldn’t possibly describe it as it bore no resemblance to anything I’d tasted before. It was made of several vegetables with a cold bright flavored sauce. It was followed by tender rabbit in a thick brown sauce with thin crisp stringbeans and tiny potatoes. The dessert was an ice cream with a raspberry sauce that literally melted in my mouth. For wine he chose a light bodied red Fiole du Choaliu d’Elbene grown in Seguret one of the Cote du Rhone villages that I’d planned to visit. After the wine, I knew I’d stop at some of the caves on my drive the next day.

Early the next morning I set out to explore this stage on Papal Provence’s Route de Vins. The medieval village of Crestet, five km. south of Vaison, glistened in the rising sun. Cascading down the side of the hill, its ancient walls of stone and many windows looked to the east where they captured the sun and reflected it back like the moon
 

On the way out of town I followed signs through the forest to the Crestet Centre D’Art. The center was originally the sculptor, Francois Stahly’s studio. Here he did his own work and invited other artist’s to join him. Together they created shows for the public. In 1983 it became state property and a program was developed to carry on the work of supporting artists and providing a better understanding to the public of todays art. The center is open every day from ten to six. There may, or may not, be an exhibition in the building, but the main attraction is a series of outdoor sculptures found along winding paths deep in the forest.

Only a few kms. beyond Crestet is Seguret. In direct opposition to Crestet, it is set on the other side of the hills facing west from where it catches the dying light to reflect it back across a wide valley of vineyards turning the entire area a rosy hue as the sun descends. The village itself is mysterious and inviting with winding narrow avenues full of twists and turns, of flowers, filigreed rodiron, and winding stairs to secret gardens where cats stand guard, and windows and doors of every conceivable shape decorated with outlandish designs and bright colors. No cars are allowed. It is full of tiny shops; for tea, for brilliantly colored Provencal fabric, for paintings, artist’s studios for rent, handmade clothes, and several shops that specialize in miniatures that Seguret is known for. At the top of the hill is an hotel and restaurant, La Table du Comtat, built against the rock mountain. It’s stunning and a definite choice as both a place to stay and to eat. The restaurant has the best views in the whole region at sunset that look out over the rooftops to The Dentelles and the wide Rhone Valley.

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