A Tranquil Winter’s Day in Provence... or So I Thought

There is a certain charm to the Provençal countryside in winter. The landscape, stripped of its summer crowds and cicada symphonies, takes on an air of noble solitude. It’s a time when villages like Murs—perched on a rocky outcrop in the Vaucluse—revert to their natural state of sleepy beauty, blissfully unaware of the social media hordes that will descend upon them come spring. It was on such a day, a crisp winter Sunday, that I decided to take a leisurely drive through the undulating hills of the Luberon to photograph Murs with my Leica M11 and Q3-43.

Little did I know I would soon be staring death in the face—or rather, the beady, menacing eyes of a local wild boar, tusks at the ready, like some sort of medieval battering ram with an attitude problem.

The Journey to Murs: A Drive Through Time

The drive to Murs is as delightful as the village itself. Winding through valleys and forests, past vineyards taking their winter nap, I navigated roads that have likely existed since Roman times. The route was lined with dry-stone walls, lavender fields now barren, and gnarled vines that looked as if they had been standing sentry since the dawn of civilization. Every so often, I would pass a mas—a traditional Provençal farmhouse—its ochre façade sun-warmed and its shutters painted in soft hues of blue and green, as if chosen to match the changing tones of the sky.

Murs, a village with a population that barely qualifies as a crowd at a football match, has roots stretching back to the medieval era. Its history is deeply intertwined with that of the Vaudois, a persecuted Protestant group who found refuge here in the 16th century. Today, its charm is intact, with stone houses, pastel shutters, and a gentle quietude that reminds one that this is, indeed, the slow lane of life. The air smelled of damp stone, woodsmoke, and the faint trace of rosemary, lingering from a Sunday lunch long since cleared away.

Pulling into the village outskirts, I found the perfect vantage point for my first shot: a roadside composition capturing the rooftops of Murs against the vast Provençal sky. Camera in hand, I stepped off the tarmac and onto the gravelly shoulder, positioning myself near a stand of small trees for the perfect frame.

Enter the Beast: A Battle of Nerves

Now, there are moments in life when time slows, your senses heighten, and you begin to comprehend the fragility of human existence. This was one such moment. As I focused my Leica M11 and 28mm lens, intent on immortalizing the scene before me, I heard a rustling in the undergrowth. A bird, I thought. Perhaps a blackbird or a pheasant. But no—this was no dainty woodland creature.

A second later, a massive wild boar emerged from its camouflaged lair, snorting and looking thoroughly unimpressed by my presence. There are few things in life that truly make your heart attempt an unsanctioned jailbreak, and I can confirm that a tusked, tank-like boar staring you down at close range is one of them. He was the size of a small car, built entirely of muscle, rage, and poor social skills.

Fight or flight? No contest. Flight, for God’s sake.

I let out a muffled roar—part scream, part attempted dominance display, neither of which impressed my newfound adversary. The boar, for his part, seemed entirely undecided about whether to charge or merely continue judging my life choices. The Mexican standoff lasted five agonizing seconds (or possibly years, I lost count), before my primal survival instincts kicked in. I turned and hobbled—gracefully, if one can call it that—back to my car, knee surgery be damned, and launched myself into the driver’s seat, hyperventilating and clutching at my imaginary St. Christopher’s pendant.

I slammed the door shut, half expecting the beast to ram the vehicle, but instead, he gave one final grunt and disappeared back into the thicket, no doubt off to terrorize more unsuspecting souls. I, on the other hand, was left to ponder whether my career in wildlife photography was perhaps best left to birds and vineyards.

Exploring Murs: A Village Frozen in Time

After my nerves settled and I confirmed my continued existence, I ventured into the village proper. Murs is the kind of place that looks as though it has been plucked straight from a medieval tapestry—minus the plague, thankfully.

The village's history is palpable. The Château de Murs, dating back to the 13th century, looms over the town, a silent guardian of centuries past. During the 16th century, Murs became a refuge for the Vaudois, who tragically faced massacre under royal edicts. Today, the village bears few visible scars of this dark history, instead presenting a picture of timeless tranquility.

I wandered through the narrow streets, photographing the aged stone houses adorned with shutters in faded blues and greens. The winter stillness was profound—so quiet, in fact, that you could hear a pin drop. Well, a pin or the occasional echo of rifle fire in the distance. Sunday, as any local will tell you, is hunting day in Provence. The irony was not lost on me: somewhere out there, other wild boars were meeting their fate, while my own personal nemesis roamed free, perhaps plotting his next ambush.

The village’s small square was deserted, save for a handful of cats who regarded me with the same suspicion as the boar had earlier. I passed by a home identifying as a long-since abandoned boulangerie. A single bell swayed on a wrought-iron bracket, casting long shadows over the cobbled streets, which glistened slightly from the damp air. Murs was a place where time seemed to stretch, where one could walk for hours without encountering another soul, and where the quiet made your own footsteps seem almost intrusive.

Seeking refuge from my own imagination, I found solace in the chapel attached to the château’s grounds. It was peaceful, serene, and notably devoid of any tusked inhabitants. It is a perfect place to reflect on my mortality, my luck, and the unlikelihood of wild boars appreciating “fine art photography.” I jest, of course. More like holiday snaps at best!

A Final Thought (and a Quick Exit)

As the afternoon waned and the sun cast its golden glow across the village, I decided it was time to depart before any further encounters with Provence’s less hospitable wildlife. The road back wound through the hills, and I couldn't help but wonder if my massive, tusked acquaintance had made it through the day unscathed. Would he still be out there tomorrow, terrorizing vines and farmers' fields, living his best wild boar life? One can only hope.

Murs had given me more than a lovely afternoon to use my cameras —it had gifted me an adventure, a story, and an appreciation for how quickly a peaceful afternoon can transform into a scene from Conan-Doyle’s Hound of the Baskervilles.

For those considering a Sunday drive in the Luberon, Murs is well worth the visit. Just be sure to keep one eye on your viewfinder and the other on the undergrowth.

If you have a moment, please leave your thoughts or comments in the box below the last image.

Live well!

M.

P.S. You can also find more of my posts as a contributing writer at:

https://www.macfilos.com/2025/02/14/an-istanbul-odyssey/