On my first visit to Tuscany I was seduced, like all English people, by the likeness to a mythical England in full summer; an England of guaranteed sunshine, populated by a handsome and charming people, an England where every café makes its own ice cream.
But just as my loyalty to Provence began to slip, came the long drive home - we left behind the ghostly greenhouses of the Italian border’s flower industry and crossed into France. The switch to playboy’s playground is immediate. Signs to Monte Carlo, St. Jean-Cap-Ferrat and Nice beckon, lush palm trees flank elegant facades, roads widen.
Two hours on and we approach the Luberon valley. She opens her arms and we are home; flanked by the Plateau du Vaucluse to the north and the Montagne du Luberon to the south: solid and ancient.
This land is a tapestry of vines and orchards, criss-cross lanes, salt & pepper roofs, towering walls of poplar. The vines show first thick foliage, acacia blows snowstorms of blossom and fields of winter wheat are thick with poppies.
I grant you, Italy is beautiful, but this corner of France? It can be sinister and melancholic, grand and cultured or just a simple, sunny delight. But early morning, or at dusk, when shadows slide across the mountain and the light is soft and peachy …… it is achingly beautiful.
Is Tuscany by contrast (and apologies to our good friends who are setting out on their own adventure), just a little too obvious?
Provence - plus subtile?
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