We are drawn to the sun-bleached villages of Provence because of their humble beauty. We hope to find stability and peace among their narrow streets, scented with lavender and olives. We come to find tranquility.
The reality can be very different.
In Lacoste, for example, a pair of artists’ eight-year-old daughter threw dog turds at the window of a Breton translator, who had attempted to knock down the walls of a nearby house impeding his view of the valley. A man who called himself the “Count” had so many quarrels with his neighbors that he was called “le merdeaux du village.”
No surprise that the Marquis de Sade lived here.
Quarreling and beauty are among Lacoste’s principal attributes. In some ways it is a prison–beautiful, yes, but confining. Where once Lacostois were indentured to the Marquis, they are now imprisoned by nostalgia and preservation.
Yet we admire the village on a rock, the scale of its buildings and handmade pavements, the view of the valley on a cold dark morning, and the inventiveness of dwellings tucked into the hillside.
Life is good in Lacoste. Just watch out for what people throw at your window.
Read more of Frank Harmon's Native Places.
