When the Good Lord begins to doubt the world, he remembers that he created Provence. — Frederic Mistral It had been a long journey. My wife and I had left London that morning, transferring to the high speed TGV train south, before picking up our rental car and driving across the Luberon valley to this hilltop village we found online, eschewing the more popular Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, Aix-en-Provence, and Orange. We arrived in the village in good time and found our way through the winding streets to the address of the apartment that would be our home base for the next five days before heading to Èze and the coast. Our apartment was built into the ramparts of the village and accessed from the owner’s town house above, or though a private entrance in the wall of the fortress. At one point it had been the private chapel to the bishop to be used when at war with the neighboring Protestant village of Lacoste. The stone walls were cool and comforting with bared windows and views to the nearby forest. Rosemary and laurel wafted through on the summer breeze. It was spacious and cave like and it was perfect.