Luberon.

Luberon Villages Day Trip 3-16-08

The South of France is a dangerous place. It’s giving me all kinds of ambitions to become disgustingly rich so I can afford to buy a quaint little fixer upper in a French mountain town and pour millions of dollars into authentic restoration. The cities we toured today were absolutely incredible. The tour guides weren’t lying when they said that the villages in the Luberon Mountains were some of the most beautiful in all of France, and we came during the off season when the place isn’t even in full bloom! As I’ve said a million times, there’s just something about this place…

The morning was rushed as usual; I found the only way to get out of bed was to dream my way to the kitchen for my breakfast toast. Once I was finished in that department, I rushed off to the bus and surprisingly made it on time. As we weaved around mountain passes with our wonderful tour guide Carol, the scenery was breathtaking. We had a great day going for us. Bright blue skies and puffy white clouds made the perfect backdrop for the deep browns and greens of the forests we sped by. We learned the bloody history of the medieval mountain towns we passed and made it to our first stop, Lumerer. Not quite nestled in the mountains enough to be considered a mountaintop village, but that didn’t take away from the charm. We began by circling the beautiful old stone church and making our way to the graveyard where famous writer Albert Camus is buried. On the way there, we had a slight detour for class purposes. In my comm. class, we watched a film that ends with all of the characters holding hands and dancing around a windmill, and on this lovely March day we just happened to pass a windmill very much like the one in the movie. Cut to Amelia, Kaitlin and I posing mid dance to bring back to class, it was pretty magical. Once we got the cemetery, it was one of the most florally decorated I have ever seen and all of its inhabitants were very well remembered. I’m not sure if it’s a provençal thing or not, but many of the graves had ceramic flowers on top of the mausoleums, it was pretty neat.

From there we took a long road back to the town, upon which Emma and I mused about France and how lucky we were to be here. Back in the town center we found it quite bustling and bought some lunch and pastries to picnic on later. By then we had used up our designated hour and a half and had to board the bus again to get to our next destination; the hilltop village of Odeon villue. The trip there involved driving through many more scenic mountain passes peppered with towns that boasted the previous residence of the Comte de Sade, or Peter Mahle. We arrived at our drop off and were told it was an absolute must to climb to the top of the hill and take in the scenery. I’m increasingly glad I did as I review the photos taken up there. It was arguably one of the most interesting sights I’ve come across in France and the skies switch to cloudy grays and deep blues only enhanced the mysterious feel the town elicited. We picnicked near the old chapel until we were itching to explore. We climbed through old stone windows, cautiously peered over steep mountain drop offs and attempted to take it all in for the half hour we had left. Caitlin, Lauren and I were so wrapped up in it all that we ended up being the last ones up there with under 5 minutes to get back to the bus. This led to one of the absolute funniest moments I’ve experienced this semester. The steepness of the grade and the speed at which we were running merged with the fact that we had done the exact same thing to catch our bus at Mt. Saint Victoire and one way or another we all started laughing hysterically while we ran. Hysterical laughter is funny when you’re in a controlled situation, and completely elevated when you’re running down a hill. Somehow our laughs were transformed into cackles and squeals and the three of us all doing so in unison basically put us one step away from seizing up and collapsing with tears streaming down our faces. We made it down somewhat composed only to see people lazily throwing footballs, idly chatting and taking last trips to the bathroom. We weren’t late at all.

With the air blasting to cool us down we headed to the last village of the day, Roussillon. On the bus towards the village, we got the pleasure of hearing the two variations on why the rocks and soil shine the bright bold colors that they do; one scientific and one romantic. I think we can all guess which one I’m going to sum up right here. Many years ago in the medieval village of Roussillon lived the king and queen and their townspeople. The king was a very stern, perhaps even barbaric man who found pleasure in long hunting trips, leaving his wife alone for days on end. She busied herself with sewing and crafting like many women did at the time and would have most likely continued to do so had not a young handsome troubadour arrived. Well known for their ability to tempt and captivate noblewomen with their poems and romantic lyrics, the troubadours were infamous throughout the land and the queen found herself quite taken with this young man. Their situation remained blissful for awhile due to the kings extended absences but as it would in any small town, word spread and eventually reached the king. His rage was unparalleled and unfortunately he had a wit to match. He smartly invited the troubadour to join him in a hunting trip with him and his men. Naturally such a trip was considered a great honor during those times and the troubadour proudly accepted. Soon after they departed the king ordered his men to kill the troubadour and cut out his heart. The king returned early from his hunting trip with the troubadour’s heart in tow. He ordered the castle cooks to include the heart in the queen’s dinner. That evening the queen was served her food and she ate it without question. When the plates had been cleared the king asked his wife if she had any thoughts about her dinner. She replied that she hadn’t a clue what it was but it was quite delicious. With a smirk the king coldly replied that she had just consumed the heart of her dead lover. Horrified, the queen ran from the table with her hands to her throat and threw herself off a nearby cliff. Legend says the severe reds and orange colors that made Roussillon famous are the result of the spilt blood of the queen and her troubadour love.

I could probably write seven pages on how gorgeous the ochre colors were and how well the village paralleled the painted cliffs but I think I’ll leave it to your imagination, aka I’m exhausted. Moral of the story, if you ever get a chance to visit the Luberon I would highly recommend it, and if you get a chance have Carol as your tour guide. She tells a great story with tones that are oddly similar to the soothing voice of Delilah from the light rock radio station back home. Anyways, it was a day very well spent and I look forward to exploring