My Provence - Tamed and Wild
Provence
is a land of contrasts where people and landscape are
intimately related. A wonderful travel destination and
a generous land that was born dry and rocky. Most people
think of it as tame - small villages, vineyards, Roman
ruins, cafes. Yes, that is Provence. But just a few minutes
away is a Provence that has never been tamed, and probably
never will be. A rugged Provence with steep slopes and
a few narrow roads clinging to the edge of mountains.
That is also my Provence.
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Provence
is a land of contrasts where people and landscape are
intimately related. A wonderful travel destination and
a generous land that was born dry and rocky.
Sitting
on the main plaza of a village and sipping a legendary
pastis on the terrace of the local café, you face
an arch celebrating an obscure Roman victory, admire a
simple and rustic medieval church and look down a narrow
street framed by historic houses painted in warn tones
of ochre. The shade of a centennial tree gives you a welcoming
protection. Too much to see to notice the carefully chosen
potted flowers decorating the houses and the lilac trees
and vines bent around entranceways.
As
you sit quietly, let me share my thoughts with you. Whenever
I think of Provence my memory loads a patchwork of images
and impressions. Even though my home, my life, my family
are in Quebec, part of my heart is in Provence where I
spent a few years during my early childhood and my early
teens. My years spent in Provence are just enough for
me to understand it better than most foreigners but not
enough to turn me into fully-fledged local. However, whenever
I visit, it gives me the advantage of being able to be
both a foreigner and an insider.
My
parents are true locals. My brother lived and died in
Provence. My partner Elsa and I own my family's house
between Carpentras and Mazan. Our home is in the countryside,
at the foothills of Mont Ventoux. Mature oak and pine
trees protect the house from the Mistral. The property
is quite large by French standards. It has a pool and
is surrounded by vineyards. Open space all around and
no immediate neighbor.
This
traditional countryside house is quite different from
what is experienced in our café du village. Within
the boundary of the ancient fortified walls, the village
is compact and the houses tall and narrow; protected by
a gently slopped tiled roofed in the rich red and rusty
tones of fired clay. Some of the tiles date back to the
Middle Ages. When a house is demolished (which is almost
unheard of) its roof tiles are reused.
Still
sipping a pastis, next to us, the petanque players argue
about how the last move should have been played. They
will not discuss the next move - one can be wrong about
the next move - but one is never wrong about the last
move. Locals have learned that the past teaches lessons
and that tomorrow is just a guess.
In
the middle of the plaza a stone fountain still provides
its share of fresh water. The polished stone around the
fountain tells its age. The polish comes from use, not
by design. It used to be the most important gathering
place in the village. A reminder that not so long ago,
houses did not have running water. Fountains in villages
are not meant for beauty but to provide water to drink
and wash. Water was carried from the fountain to one's
home. Some villages have kept the antique 'lavoir', a
community shelter with water basins in the middle and
stone tables slopping down to the basins. The shelters
were used to wash cloths. Shirts were washed and news
was spread. Water was and is still rare. People save it.
Villages were built where water could be found. Farms
where built where water could flow to irrigate the fields.
I
remember my mother watering plants with the bucket she
used to clean the vegetables. Very little water went down
the drain. Water is also expensive. Locals do not waste
anything, money above all.
Two
years ago we renovated our house in Provence. Workers
kept pieces of pipes and old taps in the hope they could
someday be reused. Water is so rare and so needed to keep
the farms going that a canal bringing water from the Alps
was dug during the time of Napoleon to irrigate Provence.
In Roman times and during the time the Popes resided in
Provence, aqueducts were built, bridging wide valleys
and rivers. The Pont du Gard is one of the best examples
of Roman engineering and a popular attraction less than
one hour away from Avignon. The village we are in is sitting
on a hill and is protected by fortified walls that could
not have resisted the efforts of a serious attacker. Carefully
groomed vineyards, lavender fields and cherry trees cover
the slope of the hill and surround the village. The small
flat areas around the hill support wheat and sunflower
fields.
Yet,
in the distance, I can point to a range of hills harboring
no village, no farm and no field. Just nature - part of
its rocky flanks exposed. No one has clearly succeeded
claiming the hill. Some have tried but left scattered
ruins behind. A world of rocks, junipers, oak and pine
trees filled with the musky scent of Provence. The jagged
limestone crest is evidence of the erosion that has shaped
the landscape into a piece of art. At sunset, the light
turns the crest into a gold ribbon. A quiet and magic
time to savor.
These
hills are a shepherd's kingdom. A few shelters along the
trails providing access to the hills were built and used
by generations of shepherds to protect them. They are
now a great place to rest, drink and have lunch. Do not
treat yourself into a long conversation about the easy
life people had in the old days. Life was hard, shepherds
were alone for the entire four summer months, busy keeping
sheep alive, selling milk for cheese production and miles
away from all basic needs.
I
am old enough to have seen the last shepherds of Provence.
All of them were old; no one wanting to carry a trade
of the past. They all looked alike with their long gray
wool cape, large black felt hat, long beard, a sturdy
walking stick and their faithful dog. walking slowly,
sheep well controlled. I always wondered what tragedy
turned a man into a lone shepherd.
These
hills are a clear reminder that nature has not been completely
tamed and that a good part of Provence is still untouched.
A road and a few trails are the only concession to civilization.
Patience, erosion or a forest fire will change its face.
This
village is in the Provence I best know. In the heart of
Provence - also called the Comtat Venaissin - presently
the Vaucluse and Var administrative areas - east of the
Rhone valley - surrounding Mont Ventoux.
People
have settled in this part of Provence since the early
times of humanity with the evidence of formal organization
dating as far back as 3,000 BC. Generations after generations,
people have carved it. They have left us an incredibly
rich heritage filled with art and history. Provence is
a mirror of who they were. I have a tremendous respect
for that.
Yet
part of Provence remains untamed, somehow economically
useless but stunningly beautiful. As if civilization was
unable to conquer its wild sides and its dryness. Truth
is that now these areas are protected.
Local
people are very proud of their roots. Provence was one
of the first and most Romanized Roman province. It was
settled by the Romans in the 2nd century BC. Roman ruins
and vestiges can be found everywhere in Provence: roads,
arches, bridges, aqueducts, remains of an entire city
in Vaison la Romaine and almost intact amphitheaters in
Nimes and Orange.
The
influence of Provence peaked between the 12th and 14th
century when Popes resided in Avignon. My Provence (also
called in France the Comtat Venaissin) joined France in
1791. Until then it was part of the Pontifical states,
not really governed and ferociously independent. Locals
like to be left alone and free to do as they like - they
view the administration as an imposed evil.
Avignon
was the center of Papacy. The Palais des Papes (Popes'
Palace) still presides over the center of the old part
of the city. Perched on a hill overlooking the Rhone river,
it looks more like a fortress than a palace - a witness
of the fears of the Popes and the uncertainty of the times.
East
of Avignon is Carpentras. The geographical center of Comtat
Venaissin, Carpentras is host to the first synagogue built
in France. A reminder that Jews were the bankers of the
Popes. The synagogue still exists and can be visited.
Each
Friday, Carpentras holds an open market. Street vendors
literally cover with products every available space on
the sidewalks. The weekly market is a tradition dating
back to the 13th century. Since then each vendor claims
very clearly and loudly he or she has the best salad or
the tastiest cheese. Women are the most aggressive, often
promising much more than they are willing to give. Every
local male knows it but the words are pleasant and well
chosen.
Carpentras'
market is well known but similar markets are held in the
oldest towns and villages of Provence. They were and still
are the best outlet for local goods and help ensure the
quality of products eaten in the towns and villages. Markets
are a social event; locals dress up for the market. News
is spread - it is the best way to know if uncle François
is still limping - reputations are made and destroyed
and Mireille has a chance to disappear in the crowd to
talk to Marcel and be kissed.
copyright
© Philippe Guerin, 2006
all rights reserved
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More
on Provence - in My
Provence - Mistral, The Wind of Wrath
****
about
Philippe:
I
left Provence years ago. Settled in Quebec and forgot
about Provence. Two years ago, I renovated our home in
the heart of Provence and felt the area was reaching me
deeply. Thus my need to share my experience and vision
of Provence.
I
also traveled extensively for my work and have always
tried to understand the culture and people I visited.
I never failed noticing that people and places form a
rich ecosystem. That is the core of my words.
My dog Bongo
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