It was just after dawn, and I was awake and hobbling around barefoot in our old stone house in Bonnieux—where lavender grows like weeds, the air smells like pine and sun-warmed stone, and the sound of church bells tolling from the medieval tower seems to happen on the hour, every hour, whether you want it to or not.

Commonly, this house would be shared with my wife, who has impeccable taste, a natural ability to detect the faintest floral notes in wine, and who generally ensures I don’t spend all day wandering the countryside taking photos of things I’ve already photographed a dozen times. But today, and for the foreseeable future, I am alone—a temporary bachelor as my wife has returned to Canada for work, leaving me free to engage in the life of a slightly unmoored expat. Which, if I’m honest, mostly means staring at the Provençal sky and trying to convince myself that I know what I’m doing and that my French language skills are good enough.

Today’s destination was Reillanne, a village about 30 kilometres away that I’d been meaning to visit for a while now. Reillanne, according to various guidebooks and travel blogs written by people with suspiciously large Instagram followings, is a “hidden gem” in the Luberon Valley. Of course, “hidden gem” in Provence usually translates to “small village where you’ll be the only tourist for about fifteen minutes before a busload of them shows up.” But it was a Monday, so I figured I had a decent chance of beating the crowds or finding a quiet corner to pretend I wasn’t one of them.

I had intentionally chosen to visit Reillanne today because our village hosted its annual Brocante yesterday—a kind of French flea market where people bring “antiques,” or what the rest of us might call “junk.” For the sake of matrimonial harmony, I spent most of yesterday wandering the Bonnieux Brocante with a strained expression of interest, snapping photos of rusted farm tools, chipped pottery, and the occasional creepy doll that looked like it might have been cursed. It was one of those events where you could buy a genuine old iron key for no discernible purpose or a wine barrel you had absolutely no room for back home.

One particularly memorable vendor had at least 100 African wooden masks for sale. Now, I’m reasonably confident these masks had never seen the African continent, nor were they old. If I had to guess, they were probably carved by a guy named Gérard in his workshop somewhere near Marseille. But I dutifully perused his collection, pretending to be fascinated by their “authenticity,” lest I fail to provide an accurate report back to my Canadian HQ. She who must be obeyed would no doubt expect a full debriefing upon her return, complete with photographic evidence that I had, indeed, participated in the culturally enriching experience that is the French Brocante.

But that was yesterday, and today was all about Reillanne itself. I set off from Bonnieux in the cool morning air, winding my way through the hills, the scent of wild thyme and rosemary drifting in through the car windows. The road twisted and turned, offering up views of vineyards, olive groves, and the occasional medieval tower peeking out from the landscape like some stone relic from a time when people thought castles were a good idea. Provence does this to you—it lulls you into a sense of timelessness, where the modern world feels like an afterthought, and you start to wonder whether Wi-Fi is all that necessary.

I arrived in Reillanne just as the sun lit up the village in that perfect shade of gold that makes everything look like it’s been touched by magic. The village sits perched on a hill, which, in classic Provençal fashion, means that nothing is where you expect it to be. The streets twist and turn at strange angles, looping back on themselves as if the original builders were engaged in some elaborate practical joke on future generations of tourists.

Reillanne immediately struck me as one of those places that hasn’t bothered to update itself in about 500 years. It’s a quintessential Provençal village—narrow streets, stone houses that seem to grow organically out of the hillside, and, of course, the shutters. Every home in Reillanne has shutters, and these aren’t the pristine, well-maintained sort you find in some over-touristed villages. No, these were gloriously worn—painted in faded blues and greens, their colours softened by decades of sun and gentle neglect. They give the houses a ragged elegance as if the village collectively decided that trying too hard would be unbecoming.

As I wandered deeper into the village, I realized I was the only person awake. This isn’t unusual for small French villages, which seem to exist in a perpetual state of early morning calm. It was just after 8 a.m., and Reillanne felt like it had been abandoned. The streets were empty, the cafés closed, and the only sounds were the occasional cooing of pigeons and the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. I passed a small group of elderly locals gathered near a fountain. They looked up as I approached, eyeing me with mild suspicion that suggested they didn’t get many new faces around here on a Monday. I nodded, they nodded back, and we all went about our respective business—mine being the serious task of taking photographs of the shutters as mentioned earlier, and theirs being whatever it is that elderly French villagers do when they’re not sizing up tourists.

Reillanne, like so many villages in the Luberon, is impossibly old. Its history stretches back to Roman times, though what remains today is primarily medieval—stone houses, winding streets, and a church that looks like it’s been standing there for centuries because, well, it has. The village church is dedicated to Saint-Denis, a martyr famous for carrying his head after being decapitated. Reillanne, like Saint-Denis, seems to have a certain tenacity about it—a quiet resilience that has seen it through centuries of upheaval, wars, and revolutions, all without losing its essential charm.

I wandered into the church, which was exactly what you’d expect from a small Provençal church—cool, dark, and heavy with the weight of centuries of whispered prayers. A few candles were flickering in front of statues of saints, and the air smelled faintly of incense. I considered lighting a candle for safe travels or perhaps for the continued functioning of my aging espresso machine back in Bonnieux but thought better of it. It is best not to bother the saints with such trivialities.

Outside the church, I made my way up to the remains of the old castle. “Castle” might be a bit of an exaggeration at this point—it’s more of a collection of crumbling walls and stones that were once, presumably, a formidable fortress. But what it lacks in grandeur, it makes up for in views. From the top of the hill, the entire Luberon spreads out before you—rolling hills, vineyards, and the occasional patch of forest, all bathed in the soft morning light. It’s the kind of view that makes you want to take a deep breath and never leave, though, being pragmatic, I knew I would eventually have to head back down to the village in search of coffee.

Reillanne is a village that doesn’t need to try hard to be charming—it just is. The streets, the stone houses, the faded shutters, the faint hum of bees in the flowers—it all conspires to make you feel like you’ve stumbled into a postcard. And yet, there’s nothing saccharine about it. Reillanne feels lived in, worn in all the right places, like a comfortable old sweater that’s seen you through a few winters and still fits just right.

By the time I’d made my way down from the castle, the village was starting to wake up. A few doors had opened, and I could hear the clatter of breakfast dishes inside some houses. I wandered the streets a bit more, capturing a few last photos of the village before the light changed, and it lost that golden hue that makes everything look just a little bit more romantic than it is.

Now, if I hadn’t stopped inhaling carbs for the foreseeable future three days ago, the following two sentences would have been true. I stopped at a small boulangerie for a baguette to take back to Bonnieux. The smell of freshly baked bread was too much to resist, and there’s something deeply satisfying about walking through a French village with a baguette under your arm. It makes you feel like you’ve finally figured out how to do life properly.

As I made my way back to the car, nibbling on the warm crust, I couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all. Provence makes even the simplest things—shutters, bread, crumbling stone walls—seem like art. And while I still had no idea if I was living the dream or wandering aimlessly through it, I was content either way. After all, there are worse places to be temporarily abandoned than in the heart of Provence, with nothing but a camera, a baguette, and the whole day ahead of you.

I hope you enjoy today’s post and that it transports your imagination here for at least a few short minutes. As always, I love to hear from you in the comments, and I trust you will subscribe for more and suggest this site to others who may have a passing interest.

All the best for now!

Live Well!

M.