The nose-coned train pulled out of the station three seconds late by my watch, which probably was three seconds too fast. The mist was heavy, which made a line of hunters and spot dogs creeping over a rutted field hunting for partridge in Fontainebleau all the more delightful.
Two hours later, the countryside changed dramatically and we headed over the western sections of Rhône-Alpes and onwards to Avignon, a dramatic city dominated by the Palace of the Popes, in which lived all the popes from 1305 to 1378; the city remained the property of the Vatican until 1791, two years after the fall of the Bastille. For another two years after 1378, it was home to the two Antipopes, Clement VII and Benedict XIII. It’s other major site is the ruined Pont d’Avignon, which sticks halfway across the Rhône River and also goes by the name of Pont Saint-Bénezet; to summit it costs an exorbitant €10 (I arrived there five minutes after the last ticket time, thus avoiding me having to ask myself if I would have been too miserly to pay).
Annoyingly, right below the Palace of the Popes was the Provençal Kenny G, tootling away when all tourists wanted was to marvel at the setting sun illuminating in orange the sandstone of the palace’s impressively high walls topped with a 23-foot-high Virgin Mary in gold; later on, Kenny G was replaced by a Beatle, equally droll, who played energetically to a flash mob of Japanese tourists who literally ran to the large main square, the Place du Palais, snapped away, ignored John/Paul/George or Ringo and disappeared.
If I had come here in high summer (it was mid-November), they might have been drowned out by the noise of cicadas. I heard none and saw only one, part of a stained-glass window along a dark street that my camera’s flash only just picked out. The cicada was made popular here by poet Frédéric Mistral, who decorated the covers of his books with them, above the motto—in Provençal—Lou souleu mi fa canta (“The sun makes me sing”).
Visit the Rocher des Doms gardens above the palace for wonderful views, and poke your nose along the narrow streets around the Place Carnot and Place de la Principale.
L’isle-sur-la-Sorgue is a classic Provençal town bordering the Sorgue River, which when I was there was almost overflowing its banks and was running at the fastest speeds anyone could remember. A terrific storm had devastated parts of France and Italy but thankfully preceded me, and all I saw was the damage; several people died, notably in the Italian Cinqueterre area. I ate at the excellent Le Jardin du Quai (www.danielhebet.com) and met the young but Michelin-starred Daniel Hébet, who showed me how to make macaroons. His restaurant is an oasis of peace in what is a pretty peaceful place anyway, famous for its antiques. It was also here where one of my childhood heroes (and I am no chef of note) Keith Floyd, the rakish TV presenter who progressively got more tipsy as his cooking programs went on, had a restaurant, probably just called Restaurant, like many of his others, in the late 1970s.
Aix-en-Provence is truly delightful. Head there. Wake up early in the morning and walk through its neat, attractive, revealing streets to the Place du Verdun and Pôle Judiciare for an Aladdin’s Cave of fresh produce. Very early, stall holders are more likely to hand out little pieces of food. One huge table contained at least 10 different species of my favourite food, mushrooms, and cheeses, sausages and vegetables are displayed so beautifully, it seems mean to actually buy any and spoil the arrangements. I did buy a handful of cumin-rubbed mini-sausages, which I forgot about until I got back to New York City. They were delicious. Another pretty square, sometimes with a market, is Place des Fontêtes, and the place to stay is the Grand Hôtel Roi René (www.accorhotels.com/gb/hotel-1169-grand-hotel-roi-rene-aix-en-provence-mgallery-collection/index.shtml) to the south of this compact city; I tried to find the café where Paul Cézanne and Emile Zola used to take their coffee, but I could not, and then ran out of time.
I did run out of town along the Cours des Arts et Métiers to the eastern fringes of town. A road called Chemin de Beauregard climbs uphill and past villas of increasing beauty, before narrowing. Asphalt led to cracked asphalt and then gravel and large stones, the hedge to either side closing in, too, and then brushing both shoulders. I thought I was lost but then saw two cars parked with their backs to me, so assumed a larger road lay close. It did, as did a weathered, wooden sign saying that La Tour César was a 20-minute walk. The roads here are sunken slightly, the birds tweet (November was suddenly very clement) and all is pleasing. The medieval Tower of César I can find few notes on, but it seems to guard the city’s eastern approaches at the beginning of the lofty Luberon Mountains, dominated by Mont Ventoux, which rises more than 6,000 feet, sees the Tour de France on occasion (the last grueling time in 2009) and was painted by Cézanne on numerous occasions. Cezanne also painted the Tour de César, from his perch on the Bibémus Plain, but his rendition shows it sitting on a bare hillside. Today all is trees, the path going straight up a ridge in the Luberon foothills, circling the tower and heading off to the left.
Another stop was the gorgeous Château la Dorgonne (www.chateauladorgonne.com), which I was told meant “house of the shepherd’s pie” in French. Part of the Côtes du Luberon appellation, between the Cavalon and Durnace rivers, this organic vineyard near the town of La Tour-d’Aigues produces a wonderful red, and I drank from a 2009 bottle. A Berber woman with small crosses tattooed on her chin (see photo above) and forehead raked leaves and told me that she had worked for the owners for 20 years, one of which looked very much like Prince William.
A perfect day ended after visiting the mountainside town of Gordes with a visit to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, where the Sorgue river begins. I popped up to the source between my appetizer and main course at Hostellerie le Chateau (the brave among us chose frogs’ legs), and even in pitch blackness the force of the spring emerging from the hillside can be felt, seen and heard. This village was called by the Romans Vallis Clausa, or Closed Valley, and I like that very much.
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