Senanque: Lavendermania

Lavendermania

Ahhh... the Provence! The word alone conjures up images of vivid pinks, reds and oranges under a blue sky, of cream-coloured houses with red rooftiles, grey olive trees, and more than anything: lavender fields. Purple stripes in the landscape, with their intoxicating fragrance, and the constant hum of bees around them.

And yes, if you do happen to visit the Provence, you will find it is all there. The quaint villages with their lovely fountains and little cafés, the vineyards with plump grapes ripening under a scorching sun. The swallows that screech as they chase insects, the chirping crickets... and the lavender fields that never seem to be far away.

Of course, on closer inspection, things are not what they seem. The Provence has slowly but surely been bleeding dry, many youngsters abandoning the villages for life in the cities. There just isn't enough employment. So gradually, the villages die. More and more homes close their shutters permanently, many shops follow. And when the local café closes down, that basically means curtains for the village. All that can happen now is the arrival of rich Parisians or foreigners, who buy up the crumbling old homes, and restore the buildings.

Good news? It depends on how you look at it. It is very nice to visit a village, where all the homes look lovely, where there are lively shops, and where wildflowers grow in pots and baskets. But then it turns out that there is no bakery, no butcher, no greengrocer. Yet you can buy ceramics, tablecloths and lavender soap in almost every shop. The picturesque village café turns out to be a gastro-pub, owned by Brits, who serve Australian beer and mojito's. But no Dubonnet or Pineau des Charentes, and no crunchy sandwich with rosette de Lyon or rillettes cornichons.

I have been to villages like this, and as cute as they are, they make me sad. They're a Disney version of real Provence, one step away from opening a Starbucks. And the worst thing about these zombie villages (they have died but came to life again in a creepy manner!) are the artists that live there and inflict their 'art' onto the public in countless galleries and shop windows.

Nine out of ten paintings feature lavender, sunflowers or both of them. To me, it seems as if the Provence air not only awakens a deep desire to create art in some people, but also to go slightly insane. Just like that archetypical Provencal painting hero: Vincent van Gogh.

When I first visited the stunning abbey of Sénanque, that adorable squat building at the bottom of a lavender-filled valley, I was completely bemused. The air was heavy with the fragrance of the flowering herb, and the buzzing of a million bees greeted me as I walked from the parking towards the Cistercian abbey.

Evenly spaced at 20 meter intervals, were people painting the stunning scenery. Invariably, they wore blue billowing smocks and a choice of odd headgear. Barets and enormous straw hats seemed to be the fashion. Of course they were English, what else could these amateur Van Goghs be? All of them were frantically trying to fill their canvas with symmetric purple bands. I am sure it must be nice to sit there in that valley, and paint, but just as not everyone who sings should perform on a stage, not everyone who enjoys painting should show his work to anyone but himself. There really wasn't a single painting that was not hideous.

Perhaps it was time for those talentless amateur painters to take their Provence experience to the next level. Which was to cut off their left ear, and have themselves committed into an asylum.