I went to Provence because of Paul Cézanne and his Provençal landscapes of gnarled olive trees and lavender terraces. I went to meet the wonderful, warm, and sometimes-irascible characters in Peter Mayle’s books. I went lured by the photogenic promise of rolling vineyards and orchards, picturesque hill towns and honey-colored stone farmhouses.
And, I went to walk, to experience, on foot, a Provence that I could see, taste, smell, touch, and hear. Or so I hoped and The Wayfarers’ brochure promised.
Now, after a week of rambling through Impressionist landscapes infused with the perfume of flowering broom and aromatic herbs, lingering over café lunches in pretty villages tumbling down hillsides and attuning my ear to the melodious lilt of Provencal French, I’m hooked.
I realize, of course, that falling in love with Provence is beyond cliché. The region’s legendary charms have seduced and enchanted generations of artists and foreigners. It’s the kind of place where visitors arrive for a week and stay a lifetime. I was prepared to fall for Provence’s culture, character and cuisine. That was a no-brainer. What I was not prepared for was to fall head-over-hiking-boots in love with the pleasures of a walking vacation. The camaraderie. The knowledgeable guides. The exercise.
If you’re picturing grueling marches weighted down by heavy backpacks and Spartan hostel-style lodgings, think again. A walk with The Wayfarers falls into the category of “luxury adventure.” Which is to say, after a day spent wandering along sleepy rural tracks, shaded forest trails, and ancient village streets, and chatting with friendly farmers and villagers, you get to take a long hot bath, eat a gourmet dinner, drink fine French wine, and sleep in the comfort of a luxury hotel. Now, I can’t imagine any other way to discover the flavors, fragrances, scenery, culture, and food of Provence.
There were eight of us: an affable group of outdoorsy, inquisitive Americans. Allan, a genial, retired judge in his sixties, asked me if I’d traveled with The Wayfarers previously. “My first,” I replied. “Our seventh,” he calculated. Allan wasn’t the exception. More than half my fellow hikers, a mix of baby boomer professionals, one mother-daughter duo, a young active woman traveling solo and a pair of fifty-something college roommates, had walked with The Wayfarers before.
