Haunting Images of Provence by Daphne Beames

From Avignon the road to Remoulins heads for the hills - through wild, lost countryside where one can almost imagine being alone with the ghosts of Romans! In the tiny, medieval village of Castillon-du-Gard we found ruins all around us and certainly nothing that even remotely resembled a luxury hotel. Surely we had mistaken the place? After driving all day, the prospect of an overnight stay amidst ancient, weathered stones was not an inviting prospect and we were disappointed.

By now the narrow, cobbled streets had become mere pathways and, with navigation proving hazardous, we decided to park in the small, deserted square. The only sign of habitation was a single pay-phone - so we set off on foot, down one of the alleys, in search of assistance. The evening was humid and light raindrops were falling when, beside the third, drab doorway on the right, we spied a small, discreetly placed, gold sign bearing the now familiar fleur-de-lis sign that advertises the Relais & Chateaux chain.

Still somewhat disappointed, we pushed open the door and then stood open-mouthed. The art of deception has here reached a new dimension - for lying hidden, behind a façade of old stones, is a multi-million dollar hotel! It really is unbelievable how expensive, modern architecture has been blended with the very old.

Rustic tapestries, rich velvets, oil paintings and suave staff combine to decorate and impress. More surprises were to come! Through the archways of an atrium we glimpsed a sheltered, courtyard garden – landscaped, inviting and green. Although cloudy, the evening was warm and the prospect of a swim was inviting, but there was neither sight of a pool, nor any visible space where one could be hidden.

‘Mais oui, Madame, la piscine est là’, was the response from the front desk.

Certainly a swimming pool had been promised - but where was it? We climbed three flights of stairs and finally found a large pool in the roof garden, framed by a backdrop of newly built ‘ruins’, and blending perfectly with the medieval surroundings. The view from this vantage stopped our hearts for, triumphantly on the horizon, due west - rose the magnificent, 19 BC Pont du Gard.

Back inside our quaint bedroom we found elegant wallpaper splashed with a design of pale blue hydrangeas - heavy brocades draped at the windows and gleaming antiques proudly on display.

Exploring the tiny village we discovered an American style, high tech hairdresser and beauty parlour, carefully camouflaged and also tucked away in an old, stone building. Only the authentic charm and historic character of the place reminded us that we had not accidentally stumbled into ‘Medieval Land’ whilst on a visit to Disney World!

Dinner in the terrace restaurant of our Gallo-Roman hide-a-way was yet another experience and we enjoyed the sophisticated, traditional cuisine accompanied by a great selection of Côte du Rhône wines.

We slept soundly in this very remote chateau and then were rudely awakened, quite early, by the sounds of a rural village about its business: metal carts being pulled over rough cobble stones and morning voices raised in hearty greeting. Clearly - no further sleep would be possible but, with the most impressive Roman aqueduct ever built in our sights, we were not sorry to rise and make the pilgrimage to the huge arches towering over the dark waters of the river Gard.

There is a stairway spiralling up to the third and highest level, which once carried water from Uzes to Nimes. It is strange to think that this picture postcard setting, this river bed, and this wild countryside have been inhabited for over 2000 years. If there is one image that dwarfs all others and truly epitomises Provence, this is it!

Bound for Tarascon and Beaucaire the next morning, we drove south down ‘the divide’ - chasing windmills as we went: the huge, flailing sails of the modern energy giants along the Rhone created a diversion and we criss-crossed the fields for a closer view.

Tarascon is a pretty tree-lined town linked to Beaucaire by a bridge and with only the river between them. It was immortalised by Alphonse Daudet in his literary masterpiece: ‘Tartarin of Tarascon’. But – Good King René was here before him and his white, fairy-tale, 15th-century chateau, standing sentinel on the water’s edge, remains the pièce-de-résistance. On its weathered façade, bullet holes from desperate sieges are still clearly visible. Each June during the Fête de la Tarasque an effigy of the legendary Tarasque monster, said to have once terrorised the countryside, is paraded through the streets.

Walk over the bridge and into beautiful, old Beaucaire. Here three villages abutt: the ancient; the medieval and the modern. A walking tour off all three lasts about two hours and includes visits to the ancient ramparts; the 11th-century Chateau de Beaucaire; the Place de la République (home of the fictional ‘Drac’ of French fairy mythology) and the modern Marina.

Winding our way back towards Nice, Côte d’Azure, airport we headed for the olive groves in the land of Nostradamus, autour Salon de Provence. We were bound for the Abbaye de Sainte Croix, perched on a plateau between the Alpilles and the Luberon mountains. The countryside around the Val de Cuech is thicky wooded and our path wound steeply through indigenous forests, cool and green and totally enveloping.

We found the private road that leads to the former monastery and emerged suddenly from the shade of the leafy canopy into the bright light, high above Provence. There, on a vast, remote escarpment, commanding panoramic views of Aix, stands the proudly restored, 12th-century Abbey.

The air is intensely clear - the terrain is wild and barren and the aged rocks are stark, weathered and Mistral-swept. As though piped from a hidden organ, the high-pitched, territorial chirping of çicadas loudly proclaims their centuries of uninterrupted residence.

In the late afternoon we emerged from the ecclesiastical luxury of St. Ives, our aptly saint-named bedroom, into a trembling heat haze and thankfully sought the cool waters of the large swimming pool. Later, we joined casually dressed, elegant, fellow guests in the refectory dining-room where views and wines were the order of the evening! It was a night where the brightest stars shone in the most intense silence. It is a strange, mystical place for reflection and meditation.

Is this the French Delphi and is the occult buried deep in this soil? One can almost answer, ‘Assuredly, yes’, as one drives the few kilometres to the market town of Salon de Provence.

Salon is not named for the drawing rooms of the princesses of Empire. It is named either after a wild Celto-Ligurian tribe, the Salliens, or for the salt, mined in the area. It is a pretty town of shady boulevards, moss-covered fountains, one in particular resembling a large mushroom, and of patisserie shops and sidewalk cafés.

Intent on a pilgrimage to the tomb of Michel de Notredame we stopped first for lemon ices and then explored the old town to the north. His book ‘The Centuries’ was completed here in 1555. His prophecies for the future of four continents are written in quatrains still published today and are full of obscure language and distortions of words. The works are apparently divine revelations that can still sway and influence.

The walk to the collegiate church of St Laurent was hot, uphill and over rough, cobbled terrain. We slipped thankfully through the high, wooden doors and into the semi-light of the cool, 14th-century, Provençal Gothic interior. To the east, before three, slender, triptych windows, rises the high altar. To the north, in a narrow, side alcove, stands the understated, cream marble tomb of Nostradamus. It is a quiet, peaceful place and there is no hint of the turbulence stirred by the sleeping seer! If we were expecting fireworks, they are not here!

As our foray into this strangely compelling, Gallo-Roman world had now come to an end for another year, it was time to head slowly back into the land of tourists and traffic jams, via St Tropez, towards Nice and jet aircraft, and the 21st-century.

The haunting images of this corner of old France will travel with us forever.