Cycling the Vineyards in the South of France

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Outside Magazine October 2004

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A Jug of Wine (More Jugs of Wine) et Moi
Can extreme pleasure and adventure coexist? Yeah, baby! Hop on a bike for a long, winding tour through the gourmet sweet spots of southern France.

By Bill Vaughn


	"A Bike Ride in Heaven": Abbaye de Senanque's lavender fields; right, outside the town of Gordes (Elizabeth Zeschin)

THE MONTANAN HAS LOST HIS WAY. This is not to say I'm lost. I know exactly where I am—sort of. Gasping for air, I'm crouched beside my bicycle after pedaling up a country lane to the crest of a hill above the Ouvéze River in Provence, the former Roman colony in southeastern France famous for its golden light. The 17 other guests on this luxurious Butterfield & Robinson cycling tour aren't anywhere in sight—they've

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finally discovered that although my sense of direction is rarely in doubt, it's usually wrong, and are no longer eager to ride with me. Whatever. I'll eventually find the elegant Château de Massillan, where B&R has booked us to spend the final two nights of our extravagant moveable feast. But what's the rush? The point of doing anything in France is to kill time until the next meal.

Below me, vineyards, olive groves, and fields of lavender shudder in the mistral, the north wind that blows relentlessly for spells of three, six, or nine days, then evaporates. Towering a mile above is the luminous white limestone spine of Mont Ventoux, as startling and improbable a landform in this domesticated geography as is Ayers Rock in Australia or Devils Tower in Wyoming.

I'm pleased to see all this produce growing fat under the gauzy June sun. Over the past week, the bounty of northern Provence has supplied me with a dozen meals so lush with flavor and texture I've been brought more than once to the verge of tears. The most recent of these grand gluttonies was a lunch concluded an hour ago on the terrace of the Domaine de Cabasse, a hotel restaurant under the medieval hillside village of Séguret.

Dining for two hours to the melody of frogs chirping in the courtyard pools, I started with a salade mélangée from the restaurant's garden, laced with fresh red currants, then a diaphanous asparagus soup, a small rack of lamb, and a succulent breast of guinea hen, followed by a plate of cheeses, including a banon frais and a pélardon, made from goat's milk. The finale was a sweet biscuit drenched in chocolate and drizzled with a raspberry confection. Each course was complemented by a blossomy-tasting white wine called Les Primavères, made from grapes harvested in the fields next to our long table, and further larded by slices of baguette we dipped in a green sauce called anchoïade, made from anchovies, basil, and olive oil.

Now, my legs still burning from the climb up this hill, my face glowing from sun and wind, I decide that a little nap is just what the doctor ordered. Easing back into a bed of wild red poppies, I press my fingers against my happy, swollen belly and belch.

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