Provence
/I lie in my bed on the last night of being in Provence.
I wish that I could show you the beauty of the full moon, and the stars as I see them through my window on this warm summer night. But these visions can only be held in memories. I can hope to capture them with words, but the camera could never convey the “All” of them.
Cotignac is a stunningly beautiful Provençal village that sits among the trees. It is shadowed by an impressive limestone cliff, originally an old waterfall from the Cassole river which was diverted elsewhere in the 10th Century. Many ancient caves within the rock face were used to hide the population and their animals during a period of invasions in the Middle Ages. In the 12th Century, a fortification was built into the cliff face as well as two towers at the top of the rock.
We roll through the winding roads of the Provence. Gangs of chattering blackbirds rise up and we witness a murmuration in azure skies.
I wish that I could share with you how the breeze at Lughnassadh carries the fragrance of lavender, butterscotch, and anise even after the platters at the feet of the Alps have been harvested.
A market pops up like Brigadoon on the plaza just outside our door. The villagers selling their wares, as their ancestors have for centuries before them. There are tables of olives in colorful, ceramic bowls, glass cases of cheeses, rows of fresh vegetables and fruits, breads, soaps, perfumes, jewelry and market baskets. The sounds of laughter and camaraderie carry on the air, in the melodic language of France. Bonjour! Merci!
My Beloved and I sit at a tiny café where the coffee tastes like love. Later, we pull over to admire the terraced hills of grape vines, and the chateaus to whom the vineyards belong, and the olive groves that stretch as far as the eye can see. We picnic on succulent sun ripened strawberries that taste like summer, salted meats, and raspberry tarts.
How can I convey the awe of seeing ancient cliffside dwellings, of feeling the magnificent vibration of a thundering waterfall or walking in the places where the dead rest?
We stumble upon an old fort. The sparkling blue Mediterranean Sea sprays its salty mist into olive trees and on me. I become ageless, timeless, one with all of it - having memories of times, places and faces I’ve not known in this life.
We walk silently through an ancient temple to a goddess long forgotten. The niches that once held statuary or books are empty now, the steps worn smooth by the countless feet that have traveled them.
