Lourmarin

My heart came home to itself in Lourmarin.

Every shop. Every gallery. Every eatery. Every home. Every corner and angle. Every person strolling about— especially the two elderly friends sharing conversation in lawn chairs outside their home with open shutters and doors that smiled at me for admiring their village— agreed with my soul. Even the color palate underlining the village was amiable.

Tucked at the edge of winding roads that leaves one dizzy descending the steep cliffs of Bonnieux is sweet, sweet Lourmarin.

I knew this place was special the moment the wheels rolled down the village the street lined with a canopy of birch trees. It seemed a solitary road loops the entirety of the village center. Maybe a mile in circumference. But perhaps it was much bigger. The parts we wandered were quaint and calm. Just my speed.

Without much effort I found keepsake items for our home. A throw pillow sham I could fit into my bulging luggage if I tried hard enough. A piece of artwork Zachary and I agree on at Galerie Marchal.

We were able to shake hands with the local artist, Thierry Marchal. A native Lourmarinian who has managed his gallery for over twenty-five years. With great hope I’d build a small collection of his works. Particularly the oil deceptions of his darling village and foliage.

We ventured on throughout the town before stopping for a sip and bite to eat at Cafe Gabby. It was over too soon. We return to our little corner of Provence to prepare supper and cool off.