Start in Avignon, where the Rhône curves like a brushstroke and the Palais des Papes still stands in ecclesiastical defiance. Its Gothic arches, echoing courtyards, and panoramic terraces tell of centuries when popes ruled from here — not Rome. But wander beyond the walls and you’ll find shade-dappled cafés, quiet fountains, and streets that smell of soap and almond pastry.

Then move east, into Luberon, where villages perch like nests on cliffs and sunlight slides across limestone like silk. In Gordes, dry stone buildings rise out of the hill itself. In Roussillon, ochre glows from the earth — red, gold, burnt orange — as if fire once kissed this land and left color behind.

Here, every village is a still life: Lourmarin, with its Renaissance château and art galleries. Ménerbes, sleepy and serene, still echoing the footsteps of Peter Mayle. Bonnieux, rising in tiers, each level a new view, a new reason to pause.

And everywhere, the scent of lavender. In June and July, the fields of Valensole Plateau burst into violet flame — row upon row of blooms humming with bees and the scent of summer. It’s not just beautiful. It’s overwhelming. The kind of beauty that reaches the back of your throat.

But Provence is more than lavender and legend.

Drive toward Les Alpilles, and find Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, where Van Gogh painted madness and stars. Or stop in Arles, where Roman arenas still host bullfights and modern photography exhibitions in equal measure. The contrast — of old and new, wild and calm — is part of Provence’s soul.

And then, the markets.

Aix-en-Provence, where fountains whisper beneath plane trees and vendors call out over pyramids of peaches, olives, and herbs. L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, where antiques spill across bridges and brocante dreams shimmer in the morning sun. Buy too much. Talk to everyone. Eat on the steps.

Speaking of which — the food. It’s sunlight on a plate. Ratatouille slow-cooked with garden vegetables. Tapenade smeared thick on bread. Goat cheese warm from the hill. Figs, rosé, grilled fish, olive oil with depth. Every meal in Provence is both memory and ritual.

And the light — oh, the light. It is not simply bright. It is alive. It moves with purpose. Painters came here not for what they saw, but how they saw it — more clearly, more softly, more truly. And you will, too.

At Viewpoint Horizons, we lead you through Provence like a story — not a tour. Mornings in secret lavender fields before the buses arrive. Afternoons at vineyards where winemakers pour from the same bottle they drink from. Picnics beside Roman ruins. Dinners that begin in daylight and end in stars.

Because Provence is not a place to go. It’s a place to stay. Even if only in your heart.

Travel Provence with Viewpoint Horizons — and discover the art of living quietly, beautifully, and deeply.