May in Provence: What Caught Our Eye – and Might Catch Yours Too

Exclusively for paying subscribers — a deeply personal travel story through Provence in May, from dusty paths and ancient stones to strawberries and slow afternoons.

This story is close to my heart, and I’ve chosen to share it with my paying subscribers — those who support my writing in a very real way.

If you'd like to join them and read the full piece, I’d be honoured to welcome you as a paying member.

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It’s strange how some memories resist the passing of time.

May 2019. Six years ago now—almost to the day, actually.

And yet I can still feel the warmth of the sun on my arms, the rustle of plane trees in the square, the scent of crushed thyme carried by the wind.

That light, too—so bright and clean it seemed to cut the world into pieces.

We had already given up our chalet in the French Alps and were in that strange in-between phase, waiting for our move to England to become real.

No fixed home, just a few bags, a car, and a bit of time left.

And yet… we needed this. One last breath of France. A farewell of sorts.

We could have gone anywhere, really, but somehow the Vaucluse called to us.

Not the Luberon—we knew it too well. Not the crowded, postcard-perfect Alpilles either.

No, we wanted something a little less polished. A little less famous.

And so we set our sights on Bédoin, a village we’d never stayed in before, tucked at the foot of the Mont Ventoux.

For two weeks, from the 11th to the 25th of May, we set out every day—just the three of us. My wife Rachel, our daughter Aimée (she was nearly six at the time), and me.

We criss-crossed the Vaucluse, camera in hand, child in the back seat (usually asking if there would be ruins), picnic bag rattling somewhere behind.

Road directions. All photos © French Moments

We didn’t have a plan, not really. We just had a list of names, a few old guidebooks, and the quiet determination to soak in as much of Provence as we could before we had to say goodbye to France.

It wasn’t lavender season yet—though everyone always asks. That comes later, in June and July.

But that turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

There were fewer visitors at the big sites, and the roads were wonderfully quiet. We had the villages almost to ourselves.

And the weather? Glorious. Sunny, dry, warm—but not too warm. Just right for wandering through cobbled streets or sitting out on the terrace with a chilled glass of rosé and a handful of olives.

I still remember the strawberries from Carpentras. Sweet, red, ridiculously fragrant. And the baguettes… well, don’t get me started on the baguettes.

We stayed in a gîte surrounded by vines. There was a pool, a terrace, and a view towards the hills.

In the mornings, we walked to the Bédoin market for bread and pastries. In the evenings, we returned dusty and content, the car covered in the fine ochre dust of Provence.

We were always tired, but never quite enough to skip the apéritif.

This wasn’t a relaxing holiday—not in the usual sense. We covered a lot of ground. Grignan, Gordes, Gigondas, the Pont du Gard, the Nesque gorges, and a dozen villages whose names still make me smile.

But it was a meaningful journey.

For us, and especially for our daughter, who fell in love with Roman ruins and dusty stones. Orange and Vaison-la-Romaine were her favourites. Well, no—actually, the Pont du Gard won in the end. The sheer size of it. The sky above it.

I took thousands of photos during those two weeks. Too many, probably. But I wanted to capture it all—not just the places, but the feeling.

That fleeting blend of beauty, silence, sun, and something I can’t quite name.

And now, looking back, I want to share it with you—not as a guidebook, not as a checklist, but as a story.

Our story, yes, but also, I hope, a helpful one. Something to inspire your own explorations, should you find yourself in the Vaucluse one spring day, wondering where to begin.