Provence

Provence is the country the light invented: a wedge of France between the Rhône and the Alps where the mistral scrubs the sky, the cicadas keep the tempo, and every hill has a village of ochre stone on top of it. Avignon kept the popes for most of a century and their palace still; Aix keeps Cézanne's mountain at the end of its plane-tree boulevard; the Luberon keeps Gordes, Roussillon and Bonnieux on their perches; the plateau of Valensole keeps the lavender in furrows that turn purple for three weeks a year; and the whole province keeps the noon ritual of a market, a pastis and a long lunch under the trees.

The traveller makes a base and radiates: Avignon for the Palais des Papes and the bridge that stops halfway; Aix for the Cours Mirabeau, the markets and Cézanne's studio; the Luberon by car, village to village, with a stop at every viewpoint; Valensole in early July for the lavender at dawn, before the buses; the Gorges du Verdon by kayak on turquoise water; Arles for the Roman arena and Van Gogh's light, and the Camargue beyond it for white horses, black bulls and flamingos; and, one afternoon, the calanques between Marseille and Cassis for the sea.

The Guide's honesty: Provence in July and August is beautiful and full — book beds and tables early, drive at dawn, and love the villages before ten or after five —; the lavender's calendar is short and weather-shifted, and the fields are farms, not parks, so walk their edges; a car is nearly essential and the parking in hill villages is a daily negotiation; the mistral can blow for three days and cancel a picnic; and the pastis is stronger than the sunshine suggests, which is why the lunch is long.