A Provence Diary

Music in Menerbes

Last night I took my parents to a concert in the church of St. Luc, a beautifully stark monument on the prow of Menerbes, one of the Luberon’s many ancient hill-top villages. It was the start of the Luberon music festival.

While baroque quartets are not really my thing, it was rather lovely to let the manic strings and breathy flute waft overhead while getting lost in the kitsch splendour of St. Luc.

The churches of the Luberon are fantastically romantic: crumbling slowly, frescoes fading gently. St. Luc (now a target of the World Monuments Fund) is no exception; its cobalt sky is studded with pierced red hearts and cumulus clouds while obligatory cupids pose, chubby in gold lame nappies.

If you’re in the area, my other favourites are Oppede-le-vieux’s Collegiate Church of Notre Dame d’Alidon and Gordes’s Romanesque church, now home to rather a lot of pigeons.

The church at Oppede-le-vieux:

It never rains

Husband’s current pride and joy is a small plastic map that shows Vaucluse and the Luberon in relief. Vaucluse is our Provence ‘departement’. Initially I mocked this miniature version of the region (incidentally he’s also very keen on model villages) though recently I find myself drawn to it.

This map shows that our valley is in a natural harbour created by the Plateau de Vaucluse and dominated by the Mont Ventoux (a regular and most gruelling stage of the Tour de France) and the Montagne du Luberon. I don’t remember being actually present for my Geography O-Level but I think it is this natural harbour that brings so many reliable sunny days; 300 a year according to the weather boffins.

When the cloud does come, the Mistral soon hears about it and comes howling down the valley, chasing the clouds out like an over-exuberant sheepdog.

And that's why it (almost) never rains in the Luberon.

A natural harbour:

Le pic-nic

The French really like to picnic, and the iconic baguette was made for picnicking. Today we joined them, in the Foret des Cedres – about 20 minutes from Bonnieux. The cedar forest is at the top of the Luberon mountain, and a great place to cool down on a hot day, as the pines and cedars seem to have their own air conditioning.

So we perched on a tree trunk bench with our baguette and melon slices and enjoyed the stillness and quiet, except when Husband was ranting about how even in Provence, a land made for picnicking, people will still throw down the blanket in the car park.

Good hair day

I think I have something new on these French women – on how they are so very chic, at all times. It’s in the air. The dry air. The Provence air is astoundingly dry. Great for asthma sufferers, great for the washing line, and great for good hair. This, and a 10 euros a week ‘Le Brushing’ habit.

‘Le Brushing’ is, of course, what every hairdresser on every corner in every village offers, without appointment – an uber-chic blow dry (the sort you can NEVER do yourself) that lasts all week. Of course after a week in the kitchen with the garlic it can get a bit whiffy, but then there’s a Parfumerie on every corner too.

The colour of Provence

Provence has undergone a transformation in the last week, with a dramatic shift in the colour spectrum to green. Everything is green. Fields that were brown in winter, trees that were bare, vines that looked spectral. The 35-metre-high plane tree next door to us, supposedly the largest in Provence, now makes a sound like a vast waterfall when the wind blows, as its 23 million leaves reveal the power of many. The greenness is so invasive that familiar places become unfamiliar. Roadsides look completely different and whole houses disappear behind a screen of foliage.

With all this green, what you really notice and feel grateful for is the odd spot of non-green provided by the humble poppy. A simple weed, unremarked by natives, downtrodden and ignored. But everywhere you look in this part of Provence, there are bright red poppy heads bobbing at the bottom of the vista. It’s this contrast that makes the scenery ‘sing’, instead of overwhelm. So here’s to Papaver rhoeas, the poppy of Provence.

Back in the veg garden

Another sunny afternoon spent in the veg patch, weeding out lettuce seedlings while Child A throws sharp and heavy objects off a nearby wall shouting “Attack the village!” I suspect he is re-enacting the siege of Menerbes in the XVIth century. The Luberon is studded with hill-top villages, all reeling from a violent past. Surely he wouldn’t be destructive just for the sake of it.

Anyway, from all that I’ve read on organic gardening it seems that the most important thing is to be weed-free. And though I can’t tell the difference between weeds and lettuce seedlings I think it’s better to be on the safe side. Better to sacrifice the crop and be weed-free. Probably.

The First Freeloaders

The first English freeloaders have been and gone, shaming me with their rather excellent A-Level French and ability to identify (and eat) everything in the local butcher.

We sheltered from the mistral in Fontaine de Vaucluse, clambered down to the source of the Sorgue and threw stones in to the spooky blue pool. Another lazy day was spent at Cassis, where we chickened out on a plate of sea urchins, but said yes to a round of bouillabaisse, dozed with trousers rolled up on the beach and marvelled at the local fashion – just one hour south of the Luberon and it’s all animal prints, zips that go nowhere, sky-high heels and hair gel – a real St. Tropez vibe.

Making an organic garden in Provence - 2

Today I sent three courgette and 8 tomato plants to almost certain death, and ruined my Marc Jacobs plimsolls in doing so. Still, I’m giving the local pro something to chuckle about over his pastis; an important contribution to village life, I think. On a recent trip to England to stock up on baked beans a friend asked me if Luberon soil was sand or clay and I realised when I couldn’t answer that this may be my downfall.

After a bit of prodding with the hoe, the soil looks like the stuff Mr Monty Don likes to crumble and sniff like a fine wine, yet in just a few hours it becomes a parched, cracked desert, a few ominous beetles strutting towards my sweet peas.

In contrast to all else, my nasturtiums (planted to encourage bees or repel pests, I’m not exactly sure which), are doing well, and very pretty they look too, though unlikely to feed a family of four.