Provence, until the end of the 15th cen-tury, was made up of a group of states separate from France, and in many ways it still is. Although it no longer uses its own language-Provençal-or maintains its own government, this earthy, fertile, sun-baked region of southern France has a character and style so unique, traditions so deeply rooted, and a joie de vivre so contagious, that it stands alone, a principality in spirit if not in fact.
To find yourself in Provence is to be overwhelmed by an immediate and intoxicating assault on the senses. The air is heady with the powerful, aromatic fragrances of rosemary, thyme, and lavender; the radiant sun, huge and white, is so strong it seems to pulsate; the winds, from the gentle breezes to the relentless mistral, cool the brow and cleanse the air; and the chirping of the cicadas rings long after the actual song is over. Provence is a land apart, timeless, dreamlike. There is a quality of light here-the suffused, pure light that bewitched Paul Cézanne and Vincent van Gogh-that exists nowhere else, and a harmony of land, architecture, and people that is unforgettable.
There are few places more perfect.