Tourist Days

  When we first arrived in Vaison-la-Romaine, we looked into hikes around the town. Our guidebook mentioned a three mile hike to the hill town of Crestet. The directions seemed simple enough. We walked across the Roman bridge and around the Old Town which sits on the hill we had climbed a couple of days before. We had to watch out for cars and tractors hauling grapes along the narrow road. 

   As we gained elevation, there were occasional signs that said Crestet, and if we saw any locals we asked them for confirmation. After a mile the road got narrower and turned to gravel. No more cars or locals, just thick woods. 

  We continued to gradually gain altitude and through a break in the trees could see the ancient stone village of Crestet perched on a cliff across the valley. Just one more mile. 

   We had hoped for some refreshments in Crestet but the restaurant was closed. We met some Americans who had driven up and were also disappointed. Their home in eastern Washington sounded like the plains of North Dakota. 

  The sign on the road they drove away on said Vaison-la-Romaine, five miles! We’re not going that way. And we didn’t want to return the way we came. Google maps said there was a small road that could get us back to Vaison in 2.5 miles. 

  I appreciate Google maps, but the little arrowhead showing our location on the map would drift about disconcertingly. There were no helpful roadsigns or locals along our route. When we got to forks in the road, the arrow would show one way, but after a hundred feet it would jump over to the other route. 

   Soon the gravel turned to grass and the road became a steep rutted footpath. This must lead somewhere right?  We certainly didn’t want to climb back up to Crestet. Finally we reached ground level and passed a strange encampment with barking dogs and cars up on cinder blocks. 

  At last we found the highway back into Vaison. There’s not much shoulder on stretches of French highways. When a car whips by, you scrunch up against a wall or try not to slide down a precipice. Fortunately, traffic was light. 

  The next day the Office of Tourism in Vaison gave us a map for a two hour hike south of town to La Colline de Mars (Mars Hill). The woman warned us that even French people lose the trail. “But the directions are in English, so you will be ok,” she said. 

   We headed out and found the narrow gravel road leading to the trailhead. We were told to park by a post. We drove a kilometer, then another. No post. I was happy to meet no other vehicles on this one lane road. We passed a pair of bikers and a winery. After four kilometers we gave up. 

  We turned around and went back, but just before we reached the highway we saw a sign stating this was a forest preserve. There was room for a couple of cars to park and a path led up the hill. Was this the fabled trail to Mars Hill? Let’s find out! Our map said there would be a steep ascent of 350 meters. Puff, puff. Yes, we must be on the right track. 

  The level track above was fairly broad. The map warned to follow the marked path to the left and not to go straight. Well, here’s exactly where even French people go astray. We could find no path on the left. But it was a beautiful day, so with a Gallic shrug we went straight on. 

  There were miniature deer stands along the path. Then a dog walked slowly across our path a hundred feet ahead. He looked neither left nor right, but disappeared into the woods. “We need a stick,” Teresa said. All I saw was twigs and leaves. Teresa went into the woods and found a hefty pine branch/walking stick. 

  We made a further effort to find the Mars Hill trail. At one point the map said “Take a picture of where you are. You will need it to find your way back.” This was getting too Hansel and Grettlish for us and we turned around and headed back to civilization. 

  To compensate ourselves, we decided to have lunch in the little town of Faucon at a restaurant recommended by our landlady. It was a half hour away and when we got there we couldn’t remember the name of the restaurant. Well how many restaurants could there be in a little place like this? I looked up restaurants on Google maps. Two came up and one was a bakery so we went to the other one. It was ok, but expensive. Later we found out the bakery was the correct restaurant. Oh well. 

  Back in town Teresa went shopping while I visited the extensive Roman ruins, but my heart wasn’t in it. All the signs were in French and I was tired. I needed a nap. Instead I went to an ATM for some cash, and the machine ate my card. I went inside the bank and was made to understand I would have to return in the morning. Son of a biscuit. Then I got a message on my phone from the temperature sensor at home that the house temp was dropping. This was just not my day. 

  Steve Reynolds, my invaluable friend, went and checked our furnace. It was fine. Next morning I got my card back. And some cash too. 

   On Monday our car was due back in Orange to the west, but we wanted to move east to Roussillon. A couple of days earlier I had called the office in Orange and asked if they would extend my reservation. Their English was as rough as my French, but they seemed to say ok. When it was time to take off on Monday I had a bad feeling about the car and thought we should return to Orange to confirm our reservation even though it meant backtracking. 

   It’s good we went back, because it would have looked like we stole the car if we hadn’t. They wrote up a new contact for nine more days and off we went to Roussillon. 

   Roussillon was only 43 miles east, but we were in no hurry and took an hour and a half on the back roads. Roussillon is very touristy and we had to pay for parking until our Airbnb was available. Roussillon is famous for the red cliffs the town is built on. Unlike other red cliff places around the world, Roussillon’s cliffs contain ochre which was the main industry of the town until people realized they were asking for trouble by mining under the town. 

  So they switched to tourism. Not an easier life than working in an ochre mine, but it paid the rent. We found a place selling sub sandwiches and sat on a bench and watched the tourists go by. 

  At four pm we drove down a narrow street to find our temporary home. Diane, the proprietor, directed our car into a niche and showed us the the apartment. Diane and her husband were from Vancouver and had been here for seven years. She did watercolors, with which our apartment was liberally decorated.  

  The apartment was a single room with everything we’d need for a four night stay. It was compact, but doable. The couch became a bed. We left it as a bed for the duration and flopped down at our leisure. 

  Here’s how travelers like us with no fixed agenda spend their days. Check out the local sights, the views, the ancient church, the shops. Hike out of town on the three roads that lead into it, taking paths if possible to avoid the whizzing cars. Back to the apartment for a late lunch. Flop onto the inviting sofa bed. Read. Snooze. Wake up and walk around the tourist free streets to build up an appetite. Cook a late supper with locally sourced ingredients. Then read some more until lights out.