high-provence, verdon

Provence! In reading this name one thinks especially of the low country, Aix, Arles, Avignon, a coloured assembly of cities, plains and hills burned by the sun and whipped by the wind. One thinks less of the mountainous area, which covers almost half of the province and which belongs as much to the Alpine world as Mediterranean; it is this area and its mountains which I want to evoke.

High-Provence is much of heart and solitude; only the men and the women who had the one and liked the other could survive it. The life is healthy and full with fresh air, but the ground is thin and it is painfully necessary to plant and expect little : some cereals, a little fruit (plums, apples) when the late freezing spring allows it; the olive-tree quickly reached there its septentrional limits, right before the vine... and the cicadas. There are in these mountains only the noise of the wind, the noise of the trees, the life of the animals, the life of the sky and sometimes the passage of quiet men. The animal king is the sheep but, more often, it is the goat which is queen with the bees. Wild fauna, wild boars, roe-deers and even recently chamois adapt the spaces deserted by the peasants; in the skies the eagle of Bonelli and the vultures, reintroduced recently, have alway observed these slow evolutions. The "national sport" is hunting, an infortunate alternative for the idle.

The sunnits are never too high (less than 2000 m.) but, with the richness of their flora (saxifrage, peony, lily pomponium...) and their point of view from sites as imposing as the gorges of the Verdon or the plate of Valensole, near them, many giants of the Alps are small. The houses, turning their backs on the north, are fortresses with their small windows to protect themselves from the icy winters and torrid summers. The country houses are always kept by a lime and a black mulberry tree: first for its alleviating perfume, symbol of peace, the second for the lively red juice of its fruits, delicious and indelible, symbol of blood; this tradition goes back to the Roman times of which one still finds moving traces
(potteries, tégula...).

In summer, in certain places, a short moment, one can believe that postcard Provence with its noisy crowd has ascended uphere : nothing of the kind, with some distance we find calm and majesty, the natural and solitude. More and more, new conquerors try to domesticate these highlands; but in spite of material improvements a true communion with the elements is necessary to accept the roughness of this country. It has a true nobility which one discovers with his heart... and his feet, the only subtle and friendly approach.

Far from the stereotypes and artificial folklore High-Provence does not await you! But if you agree to leave your sacred car and prefer to the easy pleasures the paths that one discovers and who disappear again after you, go for it! What’s the risk? The best is to lose yourself!

farmhouse of the highlands -
lime and black mulberry tree
still and always