No trip to Provence, or anywhere for that matter, would be complete for us without a few days in some obscure and remote destination. This time, it was Vaison-la-Romaine, in a region called the Côtes du Rhône. We left NÎmes on a local train that carried us back to the Rhône River and the relatively big city of Avignon, where we transferred to another local train north to the industrial town of Orange. The plan was to take Bus #4 from Orange to Vaison-la-Romaine, but the vicious mistral wind that we had managed to evade all week finally caught up with us. There was no shelter from the wind at the bus stop. But there was also no reason to be miserable when the waive of a hand and a pocket of Euros could secure a taxi!
As we traveled into the Dentelles de Montmirail mountains, the farmland gave way to vineyards, and the vineyards stretched on forever. It was almost an hour on winding country highways until the village of Vaison-la-Romaine came into view, its abandoned castle high on the cliff above the Ouvèze River. Our driver dropped us at Les Tilleuls d'Elisee, an old farmhouse on the edge of the village. From our corner window we could see the snow on Mont Ventoux which bike enthusiasts recognize as the most challenging peak of the Tour de France.
The food was exquisite. The weather superb. We spent our first day soaking up the sounds, smells, tastes and views of this rugged mountain village. We didn't linger in the archaeological ruins (and there were many) but I did snap a few photos as we strolled by. The foundations of the old roman city were more expansive than any we had seen in Carcassone, Arles, or even Nîmes.
Our last full day in Provence was spent on e-bikes. We left Vaison-la-Romaine early, and headed north, east, and up. Our first stop was the tiny hilltop village of Sainte Romaine-en-Viennois, then onto Puyméras. By the time we got to the third village on our planned loop, Faucon, we were hungry, thirsty, and in need of a break. But the little villages were all closed up tight. It is off season, and wherever the townspeople were, they were not at the cafés, shops, or wineries we passed. There was only one road in Faucon, and it headed up. So up we went. At the top was a magnificent old church, and next to the church, sheltered from the famous mistral wind, was a tiny restaurant tucked under a row of olive trees. The tables on the patio were empty, but the door was open. We parked our bikes, and by the time we had finished lunch, a row of bikes had joined ours, and the little patio was filled with fellow bikers, travelers, and hikers. Perhaps it was the sun, or maybe the altitude, but the meal I ate was the best since arriving in France!
Fed, watered,and rested, we turned our bikes toward the next hilltop village, and started down hill. And down we went. We came to the next little stone town, St-Marcellin-lés-Vaison, but we didn't stop. We had not yet peddled since leaving Faucon, and we were literally flying through the country-side. We waived to the little village instead as we flew past, and added it to our "maybe next time" list. It was down hill all the way home. We were back in Vaison-la-Romaine while it was still daylight, and had plenty of battery left on our bikes when we turned them in.
We savored our last breakfast at the farmhouse. I lingered over the much-too-strong coffee, stirred local honey into plain yogurt, and spread thick apricot jam on a warm croissant. [Note to self: food tastes better when enjoyed in serene places with good company.]
The edge of the farm's olive grove bordered the yard of an old church - the Cathedral Notre Dame de Nazareth, and its cloister. We had walked past it many times, but had not yet been inside. So after breakfast, we walked around the fence for a look. I am glad we didn't miss this special place. It was plain and grey from a distance, but up close the stonework was impressive. The Cathedral was constructed in the 1200s on the site of an ancient Roman temple. The cathedral builders excavated Roman columns, and used them for the foundation, still visible today. The interior was quite dim, with little artificial light and only a few windows. But Ron found a wooden door with a pencil note to "please close door behind you" or French words to that effect. So we pushed the heavy door open, and sunlight flooded in from the courtyard cloister.
Bus #4 was right on time to return us to Orange. A few hours on a high speed train and we were in Paris before midnight. The French sounded so familiar on the Metro after a week of such "exotic" languages as Italian, Spanish and German. Even the police sirens seemed to serenade us as the sounds of the city welcomed us home. Ah, Paris....
[Editors note: This blog was scheduled to post yesterday, April 16, but was delayed by the tragic events of the evening before, and is now out of sequence.]
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