"A winter mistral in full blow can often reach 115 miles per hour... If it doesn't actually live up to the Provençal fable of blowing the ears off a donkey... it has little to commend it except one redeeming value: it brings with it blue skies"
Le mistral was in full force all weekend, and Saturday's outing to the Luberon took us to villages perched atop hills that were being pummelled by the biting cold wind. We were also accompanied by an over-enthusiastic tour guide; she was knowledgable, but didn't know when to stop. I learned all about which government entities paid for the D7N, the road we took to the Luberon, and exactly how to build the dry-stone walls that are so popular in the area...
Speaking of which, I didn't realize that the Luberon was a region, rather than a town. Surrounded by dramatic mountain ranges, the Luberon is unmistakably rural and isolated but undeniably beautiful and includes scores of small, old, quaint villages.
Our first stop was Ménerbes, a tiny town perched on a hill that looks out over the Luberon. I took this panoramic picture from the top:
Although beautiful, Ménerbes was closed. Other than a boulangerie where I got a pain au chocolat, nothing was open. And the town is so small that there wasn't much to do except take scenic pictures and try to keep warm. The town's big claim to fame, incidentally, is that Peter Mayle lived near there until the late 90s. By then, I'm told Mayle had so many tourists coming to visit him that he moved away.
Next stop was Roussillon, also closed and cold. We did manage to find a small place for lunch, which was good even if the service was slower than glaciation. Roussillon made its money by extracting the ocre in the local soil. That gives the soil and cliffs a stark orange tint, as you can see at left. Like Ménerbes, Roussillon was very quaint and pretty but, because of the wind, the streets were practically deserted.
We then took a winding road down into a valley to the Abbaye Notre-Dame de Sénaque, a cistercian abbey. (Well, apparently it's not really an abbey; you need 12 monks to be an abbey, and with just six, Sénaque is just a priory.) Either way, it was a fascinating place and we had a great guided tour. The monks there, I learned, must be chaste, without posessions, and can only talk when it's absolutely necessary. And until recently, they couldn't even leave the abbey.Our final stop of the day was Gordes, which is most remarkable from the road leading up to it. Like many old Provençal towns, Gordes is a so-called "perched village". Towns were built atop big hills and surrounded by high walls to serve as natural fortresses. The benefits are clear: a perfect view of the surrounding countryside and an easily-defended town. Our bus stopped on the road leading up to Gordes for the best view of the town—it's literally cut into the side of the hill. At the top, it was the same story: a chilly, windy, deserted town that, like Ménerbes and Roussillon, would probably be lovely on a warmer day.
I don't wish to sound like I hated the trip. On the contrary, we saw some truly picturesque scenery, learned a lot about rural Provençal life, and had an eye-opening tour of an abbey. But I thought that coming to the south of France would let me escape the bitter cold that pervades Michigan in February. Little did I know!Today my literature class was canceled once again. I've been reading the Corneille book for the class, though, and Thursday morning our exchange program has organized for some tutors to come and help us keep up with the work in the class. At this point, the strike has become something of a fun little game. Each time I go to class, I never know whether I'll be going home in 15 minutes or two hours.
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