A sign warns. Just don't venture too far. There is a risk of falling rocks, the ground is slippery, and the risk of falling is considerable. And yet many climb up to get an overview. And it has it all: a rock face grows steeply towards the sky, while a dark throat opens at its foot. Noise can be heard, a blaze. Water pushes out from inside the mountain and collects in a turquoise-blue lake. It comes from the Ventoux and the Monts de Vaucluse, seeped into the Karst and flowed through countless passages, cavities and chambers to a cave. At the mouth of the river, the furious raging of white tides that rush out of the stone: It is the source of the Sorgue at Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, a good thirty kilometers east of Avignon.
The spectacle is really impressive in the weeks when the snow melts or after heavy rainfall.
The mountain seems to be bursting: The Sorgue shows what it can do.
But soon afterwards to lie down in her bed and leisurely move south, down to the village of Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, the legendary summer retreat of the humanist poet and scholar Francesco Petrarca, and further west.
You lived with the river
We follow the river by bike. Souvenir shops line the way. You are ready for the rush of tourists, postcards, fragrant lavender bags and soaps are draped to promote sales. For the time being, however, it remains calm. At Whitsun, whole hordes of Parisians poured into Provence with noisy noise and then disappeared again after three days. We hear that vacationers from abroad are still afraid of the pandemic. Such sentences resonate with worries: Would it be possible to build on the pre-Corona times this summer? Now the easing of the measures should finally take effect. Which is why the hoteliers are only gradually unlocking their houses.
What doesn't bother us, on the contrary: there is less traffic. We cycle comfortably there, past holiday settlements, kayak depots and orchards. In the town of L'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, the river seems tamed. The water rolls lazily through the canals and locks, runs over weirs, collects in bays and brushes against water wheels that have long been standing still. Algae crawl over the rods, eat their way into wood and rust. Thick growths in green and black bend in the current. The history of the city is hidden in the mud.
Anglers used to settle here on an island in the middle of the swamp. A small community grew out of the morass, the Venice of Provence. You lived with the river. As early as the Middle Ages, the banks were fortified in order to build grain, oil and paper mills, tanneries and spinning mills for wool and silk. But that is a long time ago. The mills and factories have been abandoned, and antique dealers have taken over the old warehouses. They have everything available that neo-owners of castles and estates need: faience, chests of drawers and paintings, chandeliers and wrought-iron armchairs for gardens and terraces. In front of the city gates, huge areas with the remains of valuable demolition objects: Renaissance portals and Gothic window frames made of sandstone and granite, chimneys made of marble, floor slabs and wells.