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Published on January 12, 2008

As soon as I stepped outside the Avignon train station I was greeted by the mistral, the violent wind that rages over Provence in southeast France, and was almost blown away.

The wind's name is the Provencal word for "master", and that's certainly what it is when it knocks you off your feet.

It's been said that the wind can be so cold and cruel that some local residents have taken their own lives to escape it. The tale, if true, is all the more tragic because those citizens would have been saying adieu to a place as beautiful as it is historic.

Braving the gusts, I started to explore Provence, a geographical holdover from ancient Roman times, bordered on the west by the Rhone River and on the east by Italy.

I wandered around the old part of Avignon intra muros - within the mediaeval walls where the tourist attractions cluster.

The Palais des Papes - the magnificent palace of the popes - stands majestically at one end. The world's largest gothic edifice was home from 1305 to 1403 to one of two concurrent claimants to the papacy, built as a mighty symbol of the church's power.

The palace has more than 25 rooms - those for ceremonies and audiences, chapels and the pope's private chambers, all adorned with fabulous frescoes. Unlike the Vatican, where the rival pope remained, most of the rooms here were stripped bare during the French Revolution and the Third Republic, when the clergy was reviled.

The queue for the palace is long, but a visit is simply a must.

Further along toward the Rhone is the ruined Pont Saint-Benezet, also known as Pont d'Avignon, which tourists crowd all day until sunset.

Built in the Middle Ages, the bridge originally had 22 arches, but a catastrophic flood in 1668 swept away much of the structure, leaving only four arches today.

Legend has it that a local shepherd boy named Benezet was inspired by angels to build the bridge and was able to hoist a huge stone into place to begin its foundation. His feat persuaded the local merchants to finance the bridge's construction.

The next day I took a local train to Arles, a city filled with evidence of Roman times. There is the famous forum, still used for bullfights, a vast amphitheatre, and the public baths known as the Constantine Thermes.

In Arles I walked in the footsteps of Vincent Van Gogh, who lived here for more than a year and painted some 200 works, none of which, unfortunately, is on view in Arles. The compensation is in seeing the buildings and public squares he depicted in his well-known canvases.

At Place du Forum is the Cafe Van Gogh, so much quieter than it appears in his ebullient painting "The Night Cafe". Today the Espace Van Gogh occupies the hospital called Hotel Dieu where Vincent was treated in 1888 after he lopped off part of an ear following a row with his friend Paul Gauguin.

This is the facility that appears in the painting "The Garden of the Hotel Dieu", and the French-style garden in the central courtyard has been restored as it was in Van Gogh's time. Purple, red and orange flowers were blooming, vying for attention with a replica of Vincent's painting on display there.

I spent my final day exploring small villages in the Luberon region. The village of Roussillon rests in the heart of one of the world's biggest deposits of ochre, magnificent red cliffs of which tower above it. The red, yellow and brown shades form a striking contrast with the lush green pine trees.

Ochre spills from the quarries of Roussillon and rouges the facades of its houses, giving the community a reputation as one of the most picturesque villages in France. Strolling down the winding alleys and small squares is like walking through a gallery, with shades varying finely from light yellow to dark red. Doors and windows are decorated in contrasting hues and colourful flowers, and walls are dressed in creeping vines.

In this village known as "Red Town", there is a legend about a princess who fell in love with a troubadour. Her husband found out and killed the minstrel and served his heart at dinner to his unsuspecting wife.

When he told her afterward what she had eaten, she leaped in distress from the cliffs, giving them their crimson shade.

Eight kilometres west of Roussillon is Gordes, another beautiful village and known as one of the country's most expensive places to live. It's a well-known summer destination for artists, businessmen and politicians, and tourists as well are dazzled by the stone houses rising in a spiral around a hill capped by a church and a castle.

I was amazed at the cliff-top perch, chosen deliberately for its security against invasion.

The cold wind took a final lash as I boarded a van to move on. The chill was temporary, but the beauty of Provence will warm me forever.

Jintana Panyaarvudh

The Nation 

Provence, France