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There are moments of discovery while travelling that morph into a slightly out of body experience. Time becomes slippery and the rest of the world beyond what is smack in front of your eyes blurs like the borders of a first kiss. I was so very lucky to have had such an experience while chasing the sun as it set over St. Saturnin Les Apt. I remember long ago reading that the town was a hidden bijou, or treasure, but couldn’t for the life of me remember why. I simply was along for the ride as Remi hurtled through the countryside. We had already driven to the farthest points of the Luberon and seen wonderful things, but more of that another day. He was determined to also make it to St. Saturnin, despite the rapidly waning light. It was far from the first time that we have been in such a situation and I can tell you that it is thrilling. Remi hunts light with the avidity of Hemingway on a safari. We saw the chapel, reigning atop the remains of a fortress, from afar. But how to approach and at the right angle? Instinct took him around the side of the village to rise up a cliff on the opposite side. Just when I thought that he had made a drastic mistake while every minute counted, he pulled the Range Rover off road and on to a rocky unmarked piste or path. Down, around, Ben bumping in the back, we came to a halt directly across from our goal just as the light exploded into gold. Amazingly, a small bridge led from our perch across a lake to the long winding road up to the chapel. Here is where time started to let loose as I became lost in beauty. The stone’s glow, the gift of black eyed Susan’s and walnut tree blooms, the utter quiet as we climbed, alone, to find a chapel of unutterable grace. 

Grace. To be touched by something greater than ourselves. Missing for so many of us, myself included, in this world of noise. How lovely to want to believe, to believe in general, to believe in everything. I could feel my heart. 

Remi and I lingered until the night came on, until we were forced to leave for fear of not being able to find our way in the dark. 

Afterwards I read about the “Rosette Tamier Scandal” in 1852, so named after a young woman who swore that she had beheld tears of blood falling from a painting of Christ in the chapel that we had visited. It was a story that gripped national headlines and yet was never explained, nor disproved.

The light is changing here in Arles. The softening of that harsh winter white into that lovely Provençal gold is more than welcome, it’s desperately needed! And as is befitting with the arrival of warmth, the town is preparing, primping for “the Season” when visitors from the world over wander and ogle at all of our old stones and stories. As Arles counts on tourism to supply a whopping 70% of its income, you can well imagine how so many here are looking forward to the possibilities that this time of year brings.

On the fabled Place du Forum (so named for the traces of the Roman Forum that once stood on this very spot), the tables have been brought from out of storage. Already a few brave folks huddle in the direct sunlight believing in the idea of Summer long before its arrival. A note to the wise, if you are ever in Arles, do not even think of eating on this gorgeous square, no. You will regret it and pay dearly for it as well. A glass of rosé? A morning crème? Fine. But even for that better to join the rowdy locals at Mon Bar or who knows what you will be served. 

Off we went. Piled up into the car to seek out a bit of lumière, the sky too blue to be ignored. The search for the new continues, it seems as natural as Spring. With a quiet buzz in our hearts we turned around the village of Roquemaure, papparazi-like, to find the secret access to what we were seeking. Across a canal, up a steep slope–et voila!–the Tour de L’Hers rose above the further banks of the Rhone, an elegant guardian. A diadem and not a crown. But the Mistral was at play, pushing the waters into waves and nearly knocking me to the ground. A force so insistent, no matter how pleasant, that I finally conceited defeat and sat on the grass, happy to be connected with something still. 

A flock of migratory birds valiantly flew upstream at such a speed that my eyes, already teary from the wind, could only make them out enough to snap and they were gone. What determination. From what exotic lands where they coming from? I wished them well on the rest of their journey and thanked them, for if that isn’t the official announcement of the sunny times ahead, then I don’t know what is. Ben, our Golden, turned his nose upstream and followed their scent long after they had flown towards the sun.

A darker shade entirely hangs over the back-streets of Roquemaure. I am assuming that this was once a wealthy wine town, based on the architecture of the abandoned storehouses. Despite having lived in the South of France for over five years, I am still surprised when a town declines the role that is expected of it in Provence. No posturing, no postcards. I won’t say that it lacked charm, for that would be far from the case. A quiet life is lead here, with old mixing into new, tv antennas attached atop medieval walls like victory flags.

Sometimes detours can be a blessing, certainly when you are not rushed and we weren’t, for once. After coming to a stop at a route barrée, we followed the signs of the dérivation through the vineyards of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. That the vines themselves are clearly as pampered as babies or divas says much about its well-deserved reputation. Rocks, loam and herbs are carefully arranged under a golden sun, storing energy for the grapes that will start to push into being in several months. But even though we were tantalizing close, a wine tasting was not to be. Our detour blocked us from from the center of town, curving swiftly back towards the our side of the Rhone, towards our Alpilles.

I am crazy for the moon, would look up searching for it on all of those lonely nights in New York City when I needed a friend. Unfortunately, I have one of those personalities that are highly effected by its waxes and wanes. I have never known why. So it was with both trepidation and excitement that I announced to Remi that Saturday would bring on the giantest full moon in eighteen years–a fact that had somehow gone unremarked upon in the French press. What photographer can resist such an opportunity? Remi chose well and I was equally thrilled as he headed towards the Chapel Saint-Sixte in Eygalières. As with so many of the most amazing religious sites that we have known in Provence, the chapel was originally built around a sacred spring in Roman times, it’s waters running where? To Arles. 

The wind seemed to pick up speed as the evening came on, pushing my already shaky hands into a blur of images. And can you believe that the orange fire on the horizon is the moon? When it first peaked over the hill I clapped my hands and jumped up and down. I couldn’t help it. It deserved the acclamations. So bright, such light, it could have been mistaken for the sun. Turning the world upside down. But since it has already been this week, perhaps it turned it the right side up again. I can only hope.

The Abbaye de Montmajour lies just on the outskirts of Arles, rising above the fields where Vincent Van Gogh loved to paint. Founded in the 10th century, the abbey has a long history of hardships. It has been blasted by wars, political manoeuvers and plagues. While briefly enjoying a period of success during the 13th century, when it housed sixty resident monks and sponsored parishes as far away as Grenoble, it fell into disarray while under the control of the Maurists monks in the 17th century, who were reportedly known more for their acts of greed than good. In 1786, the Cardinal Louis de Rohan, in keeping with the shoddy behavior that later ruined him during the scandalous “Affair of the Necklace” involving Marie Antoinette, stopped paying for the maintenance of the abbey. When the French Revolution arrived, only nine monks roamed its crumbling halls. The churches of the abbey were sold to local farmers and later turned into an armory by the German army during World War II. Fortunately Prosper Merimée had the insight to add Montmajor to his list of monuments to be preserved in France. Its slow restoration began and continues to this day. 

We see the abbey constantly in our comings and goings, the tower and filigreed remains a beacon that we are close to home. I don’t know what possessed Remi to turn onto the tiny dirt path that we had driven by so many times but it led to a wonderful perspective not only on the abbey but Vincent’s countryside as well. Despite the deceptive green in the fields, the day was bitterly cold and my skin drew tight across my cheeks, slightly frozen. Soon, even Ben was ready to head home to a spot in front of the fire.