There’s a certain romance to living in the Luberon. The golden light that Cézanne would have sold his left kidney to paint, the vineyards that practically beg you to abandon all responsibility and sip wine at noon, and of course, the lavender fields, which are the reason half of the world’s mobile phone cameras exist. It’s the stuff of travel brochures and over-edited social media posts, a world where every cobblestone seems to have been arranged by some benevolent, rustic deity who specializes in 'charm.'

But let’s talk about winter. Because nobody ever does. And why would they? In a place famous for its warm breezes and outdoor markets, winter is the Luberon’s dirty little secret.

If the Luberon in summer is a flamboyant host—pouring rosé like an open tap, inviting the world to wander through cobbled streets, and ensuring no boulangerie shelf is ever short on baguettes—then winter is that same host after the guests have left, slumped in an armchair, in need of a week-long nap.

Gone are the tourists in their impractically white linen shirts, ordering a single espresso and occupying a café table for hours. Gone, too, are the cyclists, who only moments ago were valiantly conquering the local hills, seemingly unaware of their own mortality. Now, the roads belong to the mistral, that feral wind with all the subtlety of a drunk uncle at Christmas. It howls, rattles shutters, and occasionally flings an old signpost down the street just for fun.

The Village in Hibernation

With the mistral howling through the Luberon, the villagers—those wise and seasoned in the ways of Provence—do what they have always done: they retreat. Shutters are bolted. Streets, once bustling with laughter and clinking glasses, now lie empty except for the occasional cat, slinking suspiciously from one doorway to another as if it, too, has been left behind.

Shops close for their well-earned 'vacances annuelles,' a period of hibernation that is entirely understandable yet still unnerving when you’re desperate for a fresh baguette. The weekly market shrinks to a handful of determined vendors, bundled up like Arctic explorers, bravely selling their wares to the three people who decided to venture outside.

Even the boulangeries, those beacons of civilization, have their off-days. And by 'off-days,' I mean entire weeks where they’re simply not there. The absence of a morning croissant is a reality check more jarring than the cold itself.

The Vineyards at Rest

And the vineyards? They, too, rest. Those once-bustling rows of vines stand stripped and skeletal, waiting patiently for the sun to return and restore them to their full Bacchic glory. The wineries that once hosted eager tastings and vineyard tours are now eerily silent, their owners wisely taking their own 'hibernation' in a warmer climate. The earth, having been thoroughly harvested, is left to its own devices, occasionally dusted with frost, appearing as though it’s wrapped in a thin blanket, waiting for spring.

For the local winemakers, this is the season of cellar work—blending, bottling, and preparing for the year ahead. For the rest of us, it’s the season of drinking what was so enthusiastically bottled last year, preferably by a fire, with the smug satisfaction that at least someone is still getting some use out of all those grapes.

Photography in the Quiet Season

For a photographer, however, winter in the Luberon is something else entirely. The streets, emptied of their usual crowds, reveal their bones. Shadows stretch longer. The play of light is sharper, harsher, more honest. The golden glow of summer gives way to the deep contrast of winter, with its crisp air and sharp outlines.

This is a time for the Leica M11, its 28mm lens capturing the stillness, the quiet grandeur of a place at rest. Without the distraction of people, the textures of the village come alive—the ancient stone walls, the gnarled tree trunks standing defiantly against the cold, the cobblestones that glisten after the rain. It’s a different kind of beauty, more introspective, more reserved. And perhaps, more real.

There’s something incredibly rewarding about capturing a place when it isn’t trying so hard to be beautiful for visitors. The Luberon in winter is raw and honest, and the Leica, with its ability to render exquisite detail, thrives in these conditions.

Life in the Slow Lane

Daily life takes on a slower rhythm. The absence of tourists means that the locals reclaim their space. Conversations at the café are no longer a spectacle for onlookers but genuine exchanges between neighbors. There’s an unspoken agreement that it’s perfectly acceptable to spend hours nursing a single coffee, watching the occasional brave soul battle against the mistral.

The winter menu shifts, too. Gone are the light salads and delicate seafood platters of summer. In their place, hearty stews, rich with the flavors of slow-cooked meats, root vegetables, and more garlic than seems reasonable. For me, as you may already know, aioli is my kryptonite. It’s food designed to insulate, to warm from within, to fortify against the bitter wind that makes even the shortest walk to the post office feel like an Arctic expedition.

Evenings are a quiet affair. With few places open and the idea of being outside quickly dismissed as insanity, life moves indoors. Fires are lit. Books are read. And wine—well, let’s just say the local vineyards do not suffer from a lack of support during the winter months.

Embracing the Stillness

And so, while the world may forget about Provence when the lavender fields aren’t performing, those of us who live here know the truth. Winter in the Luberon is not about emptiness—it’s about exhaling. It’s about patience. It’s about knowing that soon, the first buds of spring will emerge, the shutters will creak open, and the cafés will fill once more with the sound of clinking glasses and mildly exasperated waiters.

There’s a comfort in knowing that this cycle will repeat. That as surely as the vines will burst into green, as surely as the lavender will bloom again, life in the Luberon will wake from its slumber and welcome the world back with open arms.

Until then, we wait. And, perhaps, pour ourselves another glass of wine.

Please leave your thoughts or comments in the box below the last image.

Live well!

M