Crillon le Brave...

Close to my first Provençal home last week, I decided to pay a visit to my old friends at the hotel Crillon le Brave, where I worked as a receptionist for two years. I had forgotten just how much I had fallen in love with the countryside here, at the foot of Mont Ventoux: tiny hilltop villages, views extending to the far reaches of the plains of the Rhône Valley, surrounded by a sea of vines with patches of olive groves and cherry orchards, and of course views of the other villages that dot the landscape. This is without a doubt my favourite little corner of Provence: a little corner I'd like to call home one day...

On this particular day, the skies were threatening their worst above Ventoux -- set just behind the village of Crillon -- while the village itself bathed in a few timid rays of sunlight...

More Hiking in the Luberon Mountains

Spring is upon us in Provence, though delayed this year. In my hikes over the past two weekends, in the Luberon mountains, almond trees were showcasing their delicate blossoms, accompanied by their unmistakably sweet fragrance.







One of the hidden gems of the Luberon is its 3000 year-old Fort de Buoux, perched vertiginously above the Aiguebrun valley. Its masterpiece is the secret staircase, carved out of the limestone rock, leading back to the valley... I've taken many groups through the fort and all are awed by not only the ruins, but also the vistas from the stronghold.



The town of Apt, nestled at the foot of the Luberon mountains, lit by the only opening in the sky:


Here's the village of Saignon, also lit but the day's timid sun, complete with the ruins of its three feudal castles (leftmost part of the village). I took this picture from a perch set about a 30 minute walk from the village, up a hidden and steep trail. It leads to a limestone platform, perfect for a picnic-with-a-view...


Near the summit of the Luberon, after having shvitzed a storm, I took the time to dry my new merino wool t-shirt from Decathlon (French sporting goods store -- my house of worship). The merino wool shirts dry faster than cotton -- not as fast as technical polyester t-shirts -- but the wool t-shirts never stink. Well, you smell a bit like a wet dog (or should I say sheep), but I'm willing, as a guide, to scarifice dryness for bodyodourless (is that a word? Probably not).

Part 2: Bonnieux and Lacoste via the Forêt des cèdres

On Sunday I began my hike in the town of Bonnieux, opposite Roussillon from the Calavon valley (10km apart). This was a proper hike, unlike yesterday's, with some altitude gain to the upper ridge of the mountain.

Here's a picture taken of Bonnieux from the outset of the hike. You can notice the peculiarity of the village, having two churches. The one at the top of the village, dating from the 12th century, proved too small to house all the church-goers , and "l'église du bas" -- or the lower church -- was built in the 19th century. Today it's tough to fill a quarter of one of them.

Bonnieux is set in the Luberon made famous by Peter Mayle in his Year in Provence. This part of the Luberon is filled with magnificent hiking trails, linking village to summits, old farmhouses to vineyards, allowing travellers to experience a Provence far from the tourists...


During my ascension toward the cedar forest, I encountered some lone specimens of cedar on the lower slopes. Cedar trees were introduced in Provence in the 19th century from the Atlas Mountains in Morocco. This was at a time when France had succumbed to terrible floods, and instated laws to reforest the barren slopes...

It was just after taking this picture that I heard a crash in the trees ahead. With the wind in my face the boar didn't sense my approach. I didn't see it but knew it was within a few meters. I froze, waited 30 seconds, picked up a couple of stones and threw them (I was a 3rd baseman after all). Nothing. I decided to continue up the path. Huge snort from the bush ahead. Back to the drawing board. I backpeddled, waited about a minute, and decided to continue up the path, and heard no more. It must have left without making another sound: amazing for a creature of its size. 50 meters ahead on the path, I saw its young one, probably from the last year's litter, about as tall as my thigh. It skirted off ahead. I knew then why the mother didn't dash away when I first approached. Good thing I didn't see her.


After a 1 hour climb, I reached the crest of the mountain and its beautiful cedar forest. Unfortunately, a paved road leads there too: it's always a little dissapointing to see parked cars after you've had to sweat your way up...


A picture taken at the outset of my descent: some of the remaining snow from the previous week's storm...


Back in the valley, I passed the 13th century St. Hilaire Abbey:


My return to Bonnieux was via Lacoste, a medieval village crowned by the ruins of the castle of the Marquis de Sade, seen in the picture below. Sade spent three years in the castle, working on his (in)famous writings. Altogether he would spend more than half his life in prison, thanks to his manuscipts. Poor guy. I had always thought that Sade had an open mind for his era: that he was ahead of his time, imprisoned for what today would amount to nothing more than a particular goût for a practise that now carries his name... And then I read one of his works. The man was disgusting.


But his village is charming. Despite being located in a prized area for tourists, Lacoste is often skipped over, its cobbled streets and stone archways lovely-but-not-too-restored, leading through a small labyrinth of centuries-old homes, some façades in ruins, plants sprouting from walls and rooftops. Truly magical. The shops are few and discreet, as are the homes that make up the American art school in the village.


This has always been my favourite shot to take in Lacoste: out the old village gate, with Mont Ventoux -- Provence's highest peak -- in the far backdrop.

First hikes of the Season, Part 1: Roussillon

It's been quite some time since I last strapped on my hiking boots. 6 months in fact: of eating fast food in Toronto, tipping the scales at close to 220 pounds, and being far from my beloved Provence. Well I'm back -- back in a Provence that's seen its rare snow storms this winter, and plenty of them, and with its nonstop Mistral winds that have howled most of the two weeks since I've returned; but it's a Provence that I nonetheless cherish, and wouldn't trade for all the Subway (tuna) sandwiches in the world...

The season's first hikes came this past weekend, in the Luberon mountains. On Saturday I was in Roussillon, a perched medieval town -- they're all "perched medieval towns" really -- but this one is different, I promise: set next to the world's largest ochre deposit (I'll spare you the geological details, which don't flow of my tongue anyway), its homes are painted with the various hues of yellows, oranges, and reds that have been quarried here for centuries. It's a sharp contrast from the austere-yet-equally-majestic grey stone villages that sprinkle the rest of the countryside.

Below is a shot of the village, taken from beside the quarry, the best vantage point:


The village itself is quite touristy, but you can find the odd side-street or narrow passageway that's shop-free, and thus tourist free. I have the luxury of doing these hikes in the winter and early spring, avoiding the mass tourist season and benefiting from gloriously crisp skies...


I'm a sucker for Provençal shutters:


One of the natural ochre cliffs set beside the village:


I've been to the village at least 20 times, and this little narrow passageway never ceases to amaze me. I could spend hours here, trying to wait for the right light and angle to take the picture (that I've taken a hundred times) that will finally do it justice: but it never seems to work out. My excuse remains that a picture can never really capture the experience. But in reality I need to learn to wield my experience-capturing-device with better mastery...



Here's the ochre quarry, set less than 100m from the village; for 2€ you can meander through a well-kept path through the abandoned quarry, complete with explanatory panels. Better yet, go in the middle of winter when it's closed, hop over the fence, and have the whole thing to yourself. I didn't manage to get there on Saturday, but went on a 8km hike around the neighbouring countryside.


I began my hike in Roussillon itself, heading on the ochre soils that surround the village:


Not really paying attention to my footing, constantly looking at my camera, and just after taking the shot below, I managed to fall off a 15-foot cliff. No harm done: ochre soils are soft, and despite being 20 pounds above my fighting weight, I was able to spring out of the dirt with a surprising show of agility, fearing more for my camera -- which was slightly damaged -- than for myself...

My experience the following day would prove scarier...

Avignon vs. Snow, part 3:

For those of you who are still unsure that global weather patterns have gone completely wacko, please come to Avignon. For the third time this winter, the city of the Popes was pounded by a snowstorm, this time dumping about 15cm within a few hours. While most of my friendly Provençal neighbours stayed indoors -- probably fearing the coming of the apocalypse -- I donned my snowsuit and hurried into the heart of town, giddy about the snow, eager to catch the event on film (can I still use the word "film" for a digital camera?) . After all, it was about 2°C outside, a beautiful blanket of snow, a lovely evening for a stroll...

Below is the town's main square, Place de l'Horloge, taken at about 10pm: so much for serving dinner on the terrace...


The Pope's Palace, the largest gothic building in Europe, probably hasn't seen many days like these in its 700 years...


And if you thought the Japanese tourists could be stopped, think again...


One of the many churches within the town, pelted with snow...


The 14th century ramparts...


A father and son having fun in the main square...



Two major lessons learned walking through the streets of Avignon in the snow:
1) What a wonderful town Avignon is, in any light, whether in the heat of the sweltering Mediterranean summer, or even under its rare snowy blanket.
2) It's frustrating trying to take pictures at night.

And so I was eager to get outside this afternoon, rush into the streets of Avignon in the light of the day, and snap a thousand pictures of every monument covered in snow and at every angle. But as suddenly as the snow fell last night it vanished: all 15cm of it reduced to mere puddles by midday, as if it never fell at all...

Arctic Avignon?

I'm writing from the comforts of an apartment building in Toronto, where I've been spending the hiking offseason. Below was a video taken a week ago in Avignon, where a rare winter storm dumped 30cm of snow on the Papal city. Without any snow-removal machines, the city was brought to an absolute standstill for a few days. Keep in mind that it usually snows about once every ten years or so in the region...

Bruges or Brugge?

Bruges. Or should I say Brugge?

Whatever the case, this Flemish town, set near the English Channel, is the jewel of Belgium. Just an hour's train ride from Brussels, one steps off the platform and into an alternate universe, where both language and culture have changed, and all this within a country so small it can be driven across in two hours.

There's a hesitation for a visitor who speaks both French and English such as myself. French is one of the two official languages of Belgium, but the language spoken here is Dutch, and due to decades of cultural clashes -- both real and invented --French speakers are often frowned upon. But I also hesitated to use English, the default language of the international traveller. Regardless, this is a tourist town, and most shop owners are more or less trilingual, and the international language of spending money doesn't offend anyone.



Below is the imposing Belfry, set in the town's main square, adding to the definite Medieval feel.




Several canals snake through the town, running alongside homes with noble brick façades, offering the meandering tourist several beautiful strolls. The town is intimate enough that all its streets can be covered in a day's time.



Like many days in this part of the world, it rained and shone ten times within the course of my afternoon in Bruges, the whole spectrum of light and ambiance...


The canals and brick façades are reminiscent of Amsterdam, though Bruges is more human in size and feel. Its streets are filled with chocolate shops and restaurants, kiosks tout the best fries in the world, the same for their waffles.



I rented a bicycle for the afternoon and my only dissapointment was that I didn't have a map: my pedalling took me along a canal to the quaint town of Damme (thankfully not named after Jean Claude), and then onward on narrow cycle paths bordered by rows of trees and an endless system of canals. Bicycle signs and paths everywhere in the countryside... Spectacular...








A look at Bruges from the perspective of its canals...