A recent Christmas holiday with family in Provence opened the writer’s eyes to the
charm and beauty of French life.
WHAT MAKES PROVENCE? - VAUCLUSE AND FORCALQUIER
BARBARA DURLACHER
Many books have been written about it; thousands of photographs published and
celebrated movies set within its boundaries. “L’Arliéssenne” the famous orchestral
suite by Bizet, warmly captures some of the essence. Van Gogh and Cêzanne were
devoted to the area, their famous paintings inspired by the light and scenery.
And yet … and yet…
It’s a place that’s difficult to quantify. There are other parts of the world with more
majestic mountains, forests, lakes and rivers, spectacular waterfalls and big horizons.
The scenery in this part of Provence is relatively tame. Could it be that it’s the
domestic and human scale, the sense of nearly three thousand years of habitation?
Maybe it’s the picturesque honey-coloured villages clinging to the hilltops that make
the place so endearing. Or should one attribute it to the French flair for making the
most of even the most unpromising ingredients, creating an ambience, a particular
kind of immediately identifiable cachêt which, together with the huge tourist boom
that followed the post-war popularity of the Côte d’Azur, identified Provence and this
part of Southern France as uniquely special, and even more uniquely French?
Is it the undoubted charm of the well-used, idiosyncratic, French farmhouse? The
beauty of an antique chair, gilt decoration rubbed paper thin; or the fabric of the
faded curtains still in use in an ancient bastide? Maybe it’s an old stone sink and a
worn kitchen table and chairs in a simple mas? Perhaps it’s the bright, colourful
Provençal fabrics in clear yellows, greens and reds; a cracked stone well in a paved
courtyard, or a pale-blue shutter against a russet wall. Or could it be the quality of the
fresh vegetables and fruit?
In the Vaucluse where the soil is particularly poor and infertile, the cultivation of
lavender and olives for commercial and domestic use lends a sense of colour and
contrast to the landscape. Here spring is welcomed with mimosa and yellow broom
spilling their delicate perfume into the air while almond and apricot flower in protected
fields. Summer’s banners are gold and purple; acre after acre of lavender alternating
with fields of wheat and barley. Autumn and the frosts transform the vineyards into a
riot of russet, chrome and red. Winter brings a blanket of snow and the sound of the
hunters and their dogs up in the hills shooting wild boar. Then silence settles thickly
over the landscape.
Maybe it’s the vitality of the country markets, throbbing with colour and life. Stall after
stall packed with provisions of all kinds from saucisson, cheeses, olives and oil, to
anchovy pastes and tapenades; lavender honey and soaps. Homemade breads in
every shape and size, beignets, spices and dried fruits for the Moroccan tagines and
stews which make up a large part of their diet that colours the imagination and
excites the senses.
Is it the simple bowl of olives, a glass of good red wine, farm bread and a circle of
goat’s cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves and tied with raffia that conveys that
feeling of contentment and ease? Set on a simple wooden table under the shade of
the plane tree in the courtyard while a contented cat sleeps on the doorstep, it’s a
mixture of all of these that go to make up the charms of Provence.
And yet still the essence escapes me, the underlying vitality, the true heart of what
goes to make up the lifestyle, the character of the people or their way of life. Perhaps
it’s something indefinable, something that greater writers than I have tried to express.
Maybe it’s something that can only be said in French by someone who has lived
there all his life.
But whatever it is, there’s no doubting its charm; nor is there any doubting the strong
pull it has on the emotions and senses and how, once one has been there, one longs
to return.