If there is one sound that marks the arrival of Spring in Provence more than any other, it’s the beefy bark of cyclists calling to each other as they criss-cross the Luberon valley. In a moment of absolute quiet; still wind and spotless blue skies, a sudden volley of shouts will punctuate the silence, and sure enough a gaggle of 20 or so cyclists will come spinning down the lane. I like to think their barks translate as ‘nice ass; you in the yellow’ though I expect it is something more mundane: advice on gears or chains or whether to go left or right at the next junction.
Cycling in the Luberon is much loved. There are the serious lycra-lovers on wheels so thin I don’t know how they stay upright. There are nut-brown, breezy couples on sturdy bicycles weighed down like pack-horses. And then there’s a handful of mothers from the local village; set free by the morning school bell, freewheeling down a bumpy track past fields of wild mint and early poppies, yelping with delight. I think this is what we moved to Provence for.