Mérindol; Portrait of a Provençal Village

It is a little-known fib that John Denver’s ‘Annie’s Song’ is actually a well-disguised homage to a small, relatively unknown village in Provence. It jumps into my mind every time I think of Mérindol – a lyric from a song that I would never dream of playing but that I caught myself humming as I pushed the buggy, and it dawned on me. I blame the sentimentality that fatherhood brings.

I remember the view from the terrace in the Rue de Moulin á Huile; looking across the rooftops of lower Mérindol to the Durance valley and the hills beyond. I also see an early morning rainbow; its crock of gold concealed within the ruined walls of the old village on the hill.

Mérindol leaves you with ringing in the ears. The bells chime the hours twice; once to catch your attention and a second time just to make sure. I hear my wife shift effortlessly into fluent French and exchange compliments and baby tips in the cafes and shops.

I ran my hands over the crumbling stone of Vieux Mérindol and pondered the fate of the Vaudois; the village’s sixteenth-century martyrs caught up in the fervour of Inquisition.

What Provençal village is complete without its market and food shops? You can easily saturate your senses in one mighty overdose but for me it’s the smell that is the principal memory; the doughy pungency of the boulangerie that lingers longest. And what is more reminiscent of Provence than the aroma of lavender? You can’t wander far without catching its distinctive scent.

And the taste of Mérindol? How can you possibly choose when the palate has been so generously spoilt? Could it be the goat’s cheese or saucisson driven back from the market with the windows rolled down and a quizzical look on our son’s face that seems to say ‘you thought I smelt bad?’ Is it freshly baked baguette a l’ancien? Non, non and thrice non. Pour moi, it has to be the taste of the south: that first evening's mouthful of pastis.

So JD – I know who, or rather where, ‘Annie’ is. And you were right, she does indeed ‘fill up my senses’, and the sooner she ‘come fill me again’, the better.

Quick Tips:

Despite having a permanent population well under 2,000, Mérindol is typical of Provençal villages in having a multitude of shops supplying all your basic needs. There are two epiceries (grocers), two boucheries (butchers), three boulangeries (bakers), tabacs, hairdressers, a pharmacy, bars, restaurants, and a funny little shop on the market square that sells all manner of peculiar stuff, ranging from crockery and glassware to toys and a limited range of clothing. And, of course, there is the Wednesday market in the shady Place du Mairie. The shops all close between 12 to 12:30pm and 4pm, opening then until around 7pm. Individual shops may close one day a week, but the French love of fresh food ensures that there will always be some way of getting your fresh bread and produce every day of the week.

It goes without saying that learning a smattering of ‘shop French’ will make life much easier - Mérindol seems less used to foreign tourists than many villages, and I have never had anyone resort to English when torturing them with my painful French.

Best Way To Get Around:

Mérindol lies on the southern edge of the départment Vaucluse, where the Durance River separates it from the Bouche de Rhone. The D973 Cavaillon-Pertuis road, which constitutes the main highway in these parts, runs past the village’s southern edge. We have always driven to Mérindol; a two day journey made considerably easier by the excellent French autoroute system. The A7 Route de Soleil comes within 10km of the village (exit at Senas). If we had any sense then flying to Marseilles would leave a 1-hour drive up the A7 while the airports at Lyons and Nimes are also relatively close.

There is something of a bus service in the region, although it is pretty infrequent and would turn leisurely exploration into a frenzied scheduling nightmare. Reliance on a car is the order of the day unless you are a keen cyclist. Driving around the village itself is something of a challenge; expect to meet oncoming traffic down narrow alleys, and be prepared to wait patiently while drivers stop outside bars for prolonged chats with friends.

It was in Mérindol that Tomatito discovered mobility. Unfortunately for him, it didn’t always work out quite the way he expected. Through a series of moves best described as semi-controlled falling, he would adopt a crawling stance and start rocking. His purposeful gaze would set on something shiny; a pretty candleholder, maybe, or the sparkly DVD player. Then he would start to move, and the object of his desires would recede into the distance as he shuffled backward under a coffee table or into a plant pot. Being 8 months old is a frustrating business.

The 18th-century, three-story house may well be a harmonious mix of period features and modern luxuries for the average adult; for our son, it was a world of new stuff to be grabbed at, shaken a bit, and dropped. The lounge and the ground-floor bedroom have evocative vaulted ceilings, but you don’t get to enjoy their impact when you’re mostly on the floor.

What made staying here so special? I could wax lyrical about the tasteful décor. I could tell you that there would be few arguments about who gets the best room (the three generous doubles all have en suite showers). I might highlight the presence of two fully equipped kitchens – one, the newly fitted ‘summer’ kitchen, sits at patio level to service long barbecue evenings poolside. But, of course, the special memories don’t come from the building they come from the people you share it with. But a place riddled with charm and character sure does help.

On this occasion, we spent two glorious weeks watching spring arrive in the south Luberon. The chilly evenings at the start of the stay were spent beside a log fire set in the grand lounge fireplace. By the end of the fortnight we could watch the sun set in comfort from the terrace with a carafe of vin rouge and a sturdy baguette for sustenance. The south-facing patio and terrace can get oppressively warm during the summer months (hey, this is the south of France), but there’s plenty of shade and a pool in the private courtyard just perfect for cooling off.

Its simple, yet classy; the half-metre-thick stone walls, vaulted ceilings, and low doorways all speak of the building’s and the village’s history. The building next door that now serves as a garage has served time as a silkworm farm (there used to be another where the pool now stands). There used to be so many silkworms here that you could hear them munching.

The silkworms are gone now; bursts of noise from the schoolchildren and the hourly chimes are all there is to break the soporific village peace.

We love this place; you will too.


House website

€1250/week in July and August, €1150 all other times

In a cunning move clearly designed to reinforce our attachment to their humble village, the wily folk of Mérindol had positioned an excellent pizzeria directly over our favourite bar. We made our first visit on a dank, wet day, arriving in a soggy whirl of offensively bright waterproofs, half-folded pushchairs, and a slightly damp baby. The eponymous patio was understandably closed, so we were shown to one of the 10 or so tables crowded into the small dining room. Murals supplement the impression of terrace dining; arches open out to reveal fields of lavender, vines, and distant mountains, while the vaulted ceiling speaks of the stone building’s heritage.

Installed in his high chair, the little tomato began to survey the restaurant for his next victim while we perused the menu. Pizzerias are pretty common in Provence, although few restrict themselves to Italian cuisine alone. Le Patio is no exception; in addition to the range of 20 or so pizzas (priced between €8 and €11), there are a small number of more typically French dishes.

Le Patio was recommended to us on the strength of its pizzas, and they are excellent: thin, tasty crust with a veritable mound of toppings. It may be that we received preferential treatment because of the chef’s soft spot for the Tomato, but I think not. In the course of our two visits, we were never disappointed with the food; the ‘Andalouse’ was a particular favourite of mine, featuring spicy merguez, while the Blonde recommends the ‘Blanche’. There’s a short wine list featuring local vineyards quite heavily – we made a visit to one based on a half-bottle we tried there. Wine can also be bought by the carafe; a half-litre comes in at €4, a price that’s virtually impossible to refuse. No self-respecting French restaurant would degrade itself by serving ropey house wine, so it’s a good investment for the economically minded.

Having a smiley little critter in tow seems to melt the hardest of waitress hearts, and the young woman at the Vallon was no exception. Neither was the pizza chef. Or any of the other diners, for that matter. If he lost their attention for any reason, a subtle combination of shouts and ‘gravity experiments’ reined them back in. We’re thinking of renting him out for restaurant openings and bar mitzvahs, convivial atmosphere guaranteed.

Despite my best attempts at diligent note-taking, my memories of French desserts have all blurred into one big crème brulée; I initially tried to compare them but realised I was very forgiving where this king of desserts is concerned. As long as the top makes a satisfying crunch when the spoon comes down, I’m happy.

The deep bond formed between chef and baby meant that leaving was never going to be easy. We lingered long over coffees and ‘coo-coos’ before heading back out into the rainy afternoon, sated and ready for the afternoon nap that was never going to happen.

Precipitous hilltop locations are the norm for settlements in these parts and Mérindol used to be no exception. It is some 450 years since the villagers started the somewhat extreme activity of relocation, abandoning what is now known as Vieux Mérindol in favour of its current site on the edge of the Durance river plain.

Looking north of the village toward the limestone lump of the Petit Luberon, the minimal remains of the old castrum forms a sorrowful crown on one of its foothills. These ruins have now been adopted as a memorial and serves as a poignant focal point for the remembrance of the events that initiated the village’s inexorable slide down the mountain.

There are two main routes up to the old town; the first is a rubble footpath signposted from outside the small, infrequently manned museum at the top of the Rue de la Musé while the second follows the winding road up to a number of villas that sit amongst the lower ruins. Filled with good intentions before the trip, I had invested in some rather smart walking shoes and a sporty backpack in which to store your offspring when doing energetic things (assuming the number of offspring is fairly low of course). This was the perfect opportunity to justify the expense and the Blonde decided to tag along, mainly because she found the sight of my ‘mini-me’ on my back endlessly amusing, particularly when he sneezed or chose to use my ears as safety handles. I badgered the Blonde into translating the plaques that peppered our journey and whetted my appetite to discover more of the village’s place in history.

The tragic story of Vieux Mérindol’s demise began nearly 400 years before in the fateful spring of 1545 in Lyons when a man known variously as Waldo, Valdes or Vaudes became rather influenced by a line in the gospel of Matthew:

If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell what thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me

He and his followers began preaching a literal interpretation of the Bible to the people of Lyons and adopted a life of genuine poverty. This placed them in stark contrast to the Catholic clergy of the day who tended toward a life of indolent luxury and seemed to revel in confusing their parishioners with Biblical interpretations loaded with tangled logic and delivered in impenetrable Latin. Documents Vaudes wrote suggest that parting from the Catholic Church was the last thing on his mind; he simply wanted the church to return to the simple ways of Christ as described in the gospels. But the Church didn’t quite see it that way. Ex-communication for heresy and Inquisition was their chosen riposte - persecution became the order of the day for the ‘Poor of Lyons’ as they referred to themselves. Preaching in urban areas soon became a dangerous business and the group scattered to rural regions across southern and eastern France, northern Italy and further where they continued to live, and quietly practise their faith. Expanding the movement through conversion became less of a priority than simply surviving.

The Provence of the 15th century was remote and, thanks to the odd burst of plague, pretty empty. Landowners, keen to see fertile land tilled and profitable, signed over deeds of occupancy to those willing to move in. Mérindol, Lourmarin, Joucas and Lacoste were among a dozen villages populated by Vaudois, or Waldensian (as ‘the Poor of Lyons’ came to be known to others), communities. This was against the backdrop of continued Inquisition; the life of rural normality punctuated with the odd burst of light persecution.

The arrival of a new Inquisitor in Apt in 1530, a certain Jean de Roma, saw the intolerance cranked up a notch. Trials and executions of community elders led, not unsurprisingly, to reprisals by the Vaudois which, in turn, led to the ‘Decree of Mérindol’ in 1540; a decree that promised that those found guilty of heresy would be burnt alive. It took a further five years before a seemingly reluctant King signed the decree and opened the way for the less-than-charming Baron of Oppède to execute the decree with a zealousness that meant tragedy for the Vaudois.

In one short week 11 villages across the Luberon were lain waste. It is estimated that 2-3,000 lost their lives; many in hideous circumstances. Mérindol itself lost ‘only’ a dozen, the majority making their escape into the Petit Luberon and from there to the haven of Switzerland where the eventful story of the Vaudois, punctuated with many other atrocities, continued until the present day.

One is reminded of the threads of history in the most unexpected of places. The themes of religious intolerance, persecution, exile and brutality in the name of faith are all too familiar to us all; the fact that it has been going on for thousands of years in every corner man has inhabited only serves to exacerbate the sense of futility.

We reached the lower ruins in no time. Remains abut newly built homes and in some cases use parts of them for support. The final short ascent winds between walls overgrown with grass and climbing plants before we emergde at the site of the old village centre. The monument in Vieux Mérindol is beautifully simple; the crumbling remains of the old castrum reminds us of what once was, a panorama of the valley below describes the beauty that remains.

A sprightly spring breeze whipped around us as we gazed across the Durance and Tomatito reminded me of his presence with a sticky sneeze. We took the easy route back down to the village and gently kidded ourselves that we lived in happier, more civilised times.

For more about the Vaudois/Waldensians:
A brief sketch of Waldensian history
The Massacre in Mérindol

Days tumble into a relaxing rhythm in the Rue du Moulin á Huile. Vague plans for exploration are sluggishly formed over the first or second coffee of the day. Curtains are cautiously parted and amateurish predictions made about the quality of sunlight and direction of clouds over the Durance valley. The little one, displaying wisdom beyond his months, prefers to explore the floor although his newly discovered ability to crawl backwards means we have to occasionally venture out of bed to extricate him from items of furniture.

Thoughts drift breakfast-wards, and I would manfully volunteer to wander the fifty or so yards to the boulangerie. The Blonde tells me that I have quite an impressive French accent; I actually sound reasonably fluent when ordering croissants and baguettes. This, when accompanied by a cherubic charmeur with an indiscriminate gummy grin, tends to get me embroiled in conversations I just can’t consummate. Still, a glow of paternal pride crosses the language barrier quite successfully and I’m pretty sure that saying ‘merci’ to what sounded like a string of compliments and blessings for the chubby-cheeked one didn’t make me appear too simple.

Evenings developed their own rituals, centred around an important component of Provençal life. En famille we would take to the lanes, exploring a little further afield. We would climb the gentle slope of the Rue des Vaudois to the village museum (open for a few hours on Saturday mornings) where I would badger the Blonde into translating the large plaques commemorating the massacre of 1545 ("We’ll come back when you’ve learnt French!").

We might then turn down the Rue de l’Eyrette and into the pretty, tiny Place de l’Eyrette where the first geraniums of spring were making appearances on doorsteps and terraces. Our list of required features for our dream Provence property would be refined as we walked; "A cave?"
- "Bien sur"
- "Terrace?"
- "At least two"
- "Arcade?"
- "Now you’re showing off"

Back through the Place de la Mairie and the irregular cobbles test the limits of the Tomato’s stoicism in his suspension-free pushchair. Up the shady Rue de l’Eglise and our inevitable target was in sight. It may not be the classiest joint in the Luberon but the Bar Cui-Cui serves its purpose. For it is pastis time.

But then, in Provençal bars, any time is pastis time .

Originating in Marseilles as a replacement for the forbidden absinth, the aniseed flavoured liquor is an institution in these parts. It usually arrives at the table in kit form; the branded glasses containing the spirit accompanied by the water jug. When I think of Provence I think of this moment: the pouring of the water and the liquid transformation from golden brown to cloudy green. Its one of those drinks that you’re always tempted to recreate at home; to recapture that elusive holiday moment in the dappled sunshine. With pastis it just doesn’t seem to work. In England I end up remembering that I hate the taste of aniseed – but in a pavement bar in Mérindol it all seems to fit.

Each evening brings the inevitable reworking of The Escape Plan. The imponderables are raked over; time taken for me to learn sufficient French, how much we might need to save and the inevitable ‘but what would we do….?’ All the while the Tomato is trying to attract the attention of other patrons; leaning out of his chair in a drunken fashion his babble and leer seem to take on a French accent.

Later, with the boy safely tucked up in bed, we retire to the terrace with a carafe and assorted goods purloined from the day’s market visit. The village is silent save for the hourly chimes and, as the light fades, we realise that we don’t need much more than this.

As the lazy weeks in Mérindol drew to a close, an urge for a little light adventure grew within me. Or, more specifically, grew around me. My relentless researching for the future bestseller ‘Crème brulées of the Vaucluse’ was having the anticipated side effect and I was stirred into activity. I decided that the boy shared my enthusiasm and, with appropriate reminders about sunhats and factor 50, we headed for ‘the Gorge’.

The Gorges du Regalon lies 2-3km west of Mérindol, signposted from the D973. It has been described by some of the more imaginative tourist guides as ‘the Grand Canyon of Europe’ which is one of the most shameless exaggerations I’ve seen in print for many a year. If you wish to visit it may be wise to scale down your expectations. It’s good, but not that good.

A car park lies some 200 metres or so from the main road. Assorted signs say you have to pay and a well-graffitied hut suggests that, in peak season, there may be someone around to hand your euros to. Such matters are a little less formal in April and there appears to be occasional visits from a roving warden who collects if your paths happen to cross (€3.25 all day). A few picnic tables, a notice board or two and what appears to be a concession stand (closed) made up what amounted to the Gorge’s facilities. That and a single lonely sign pointing in the direction of the mountains and the Gorge. With Tomatito safely strapped in to his backpack like a veritable mahout we headed off.

The path to the gorge took us into a belt of woodland that stretches up onto the lower slopes of the mountain. The trees quickly hid our target from sight and, coupled with fairly frequent forks in the path and a laissez faire approach to directional markings, I became a little less optimistic about my ability to find the bloody thing. Luckily, mountains being quite big and all, our goal reared into view quite quickly. I’m no expert on gorges but a sharp crack in the wall of limestone seemed like a pretty big clue to me. With Tomatito’s excitement growing (at least that’s how I interpreted his incessant bouncing), we entered the Gorge.

While it may not be the biggest gorge in the world, the Gorges du Regalon has its charm. The limestone walls rear up either side of you and you can run your hands along both smooth faces as you walk. Pockets of vegetation fill openings where light reaches the floor for a few hours a day. Caves can be found, explored and ‘oooohed’ in and a sense of the primeval creeps in.

There is a certain degree of clambering needed where slippery boulders block your path and one of these eventually put paid to our expedition. I didn’t fancy explaining any baby ‘spillage’ to the Blonde so I turned back after 500 metres or so. The absence of adequate signposting quickly becomes an issue once you leave the gorge itself; returning through the woodland and orchards to the car park is not that straightforward so take note of landmarks on the way in if you don’t want to make as many wrong turns as me.

The Gorges du Regalon makes an interesting change to all those wide vistas and can be incorporated into longer walks around the lower slopes of the Montagne de Luberon or even over it.