Absolutely Do Not Miss Lussan!
Wherever you go, whatever you do, whatever you see…you absolutely must come see Lussan. It’s a must. Not coming would be a crime against nature.
Lussan is a classic Provençal village that is widely—and properly—considered to be one of “les plus beaux villages de France.’ (The Most Beautiful Villages of France.)
This is not hyperbole. Set atop a hill that rises steeply from the valley floor, Lussan’s houses form the defensive wall that made up the ancient ramparts, outlining the mount like a medieval crown.
It is a stunning sight.
Travel photographers Drew and Katja Cain joined us in France the last time, and it didn’t take long for us to bring them to Lussan. The photo of Drew at work illustrates what makes Lussan so beautiful. It’s set high on a mount, which gives far-ranging views of the countryside. Its center is full of beautiful homes. And Lussan’s castle, with an open-to-the-air campanile, and its four rounded corners, sets the village off off perfectly.
It was purely by chance that we ended up in Lussan many years ago. We had been looking to buy a vacation home in France…and nothing had worked out. A stormy day on our last day in France left us scrambling for something to do, and on a whim, we decided to visit Uzes. It was there that we experienced a frustrating encounter with what had to be the most contrary/difficult/contrarian real estate agent in the world, and it was only with the most extreme reluctance that she was willing to divulge that a home we’d seen advertised in her agency window was located in Lussan.
She didn’t give any further information. Provided only the barest information regarding how to make our way to Lussan. And then sent us packing. (Read about it below…)
Lussan, we found, was gorgeous. It offered views to the four compass points, was surrounded with beautiful scenery, and preternaturally quiet. There was only one road, which delineated the limits of the the village, and followed the line of the medieval ramparts. Every now and then we’d spy a side street, more alley than anything, which led to the village’s exterior. We were completely enchanted.
Everyone who comes to Lussan for the first time seems to do the same thing: take a circuit of the village by following the ramparts road.
And then they take one of the smaller—inlets, really—that give way to the maze of beautiful homes that makes up Lussan.
There really isn’t all that much to do in Lussan…other than enjoy the views and the serenity. But isn’t that what a vacation is supposed to be about?
To be fair. There’s a small square at the the center that has a seasonal restaurant. There are homes and gites to rent. And if the castle is open, you can admire the statue of a gallo-roman era nymph that was found in the area.
But that’s not why you’ve come to Lussan.
From the Book
Chapter 5: Dark Clouds, Silver Linings
The countryside soon began to acquire an undulating nature and we dropped into a valley which, Erik was happy to see, contained an ostrich farm. We surmounted another small rise, began to drop into the next valley, and…
“Wow!”
It was Linda who had said it. A thin line of stone houses ringed the top of a medium-sized butte that rose volcano-like from the valley floor dead ahead of us. It was a classic Provençal hilltop village.
“Could that be Lussan?” Linda wondered. “Where the house is?”
A road sign soon confirmed it. We dropped into the valley, and after a fleeting bit of flat, began to climb the hill. At the top, a beautiful castle with an iron campanile open to the elements came into view.
“Really, really pretty,” Linda said and then, with a grin on her face, pointed out Lussan’s “officially designated” visitor parking area: which, in the United States we would refer to as a vacant dirt lot.
We parked, stepped from the car, and as we were beginning to become aware of was normal around here, were greeted by a funereal silence. The village gave the impression of being deserted. There were no street signs to be seen and no one to ask the way, so we opted to follow the road that traced the outer perimeter of the village, which proved to be a good choice, because it was essentially the only road in the village.
The view from there was magnificent. Countryside spread wide to the four compass points, broken up here and there by the geometric shape of a farmhouse, and little tan dots in the fields that were probably sheep.
An insubstantial stone wall on the outer edge of the road was all that would—with optimism strained to the breaking point—prevent inattentive drivers, distracted by the beautiful view, from driving off the cliff edge. Erik, loved heights and demanded to be allowed to walk along the top of the wall, adding that his mother could hold his hand, ”If she wanted to.”
She did, and I ran ahead and took what would end up being a prized family photo: Erik beaming, a steep drop to his left, and his mother, with a death grip on his hand, ready to lunge for him at a moment’s notice.
“Do you like this place?” she asked him.
“Yes!” he shouted, which shouldn’t have surprised us. What little boy wouldn’t? He was walking at the edge of a precipice, there was countryside all around to be explored, and he’d just spotted a playground ahead. Lussan was our little man’s vision of heaven.
And just as will most likely be the case with heaven, there weren’t many people around. It seemed like we had the village to ourselves, and for some reason this seemed to give Linda free license to begin peering over walls to see what lay behind them.
Unlike my shameless wife, I had not been raised by wolves, and objected to her unseemly behavior. But she shushed me and unrepentantly continued clambering up one wall after the other, giving me a running commentary of what she saw: stunning wisteria-filled gardens, swimming pools trimmed with limestone edging, potagers bursting with red tomatoes. She kept it up the entire time it took to walk the circle that was Lussan: me, whining and complaining, and my wife constantly telling me to “relax.”
But then we discovered we had almost completed the circuit of the village without seeing the home that had brought us there, and I wondered if Parakeet Lady had send us off on a wild goose chase.
I turned to ask Linda if she thought it might be possible, but she had seen a wooden bench set at the village’s northwest edge, and was already walking in its direction. Linda loved benches, and Erik and I joined her there.
We sat together without speaking for quite some time. It was quiet and beautiful in Lussan. A mountain range that rose to the west had to be the Cevennes mountains, we guessed. And to the east, another range, higher and sharper in relief, and much farther away, was most likely the Alps.
Every now and then, a car drove along the road in the valley below and broke the silence, the sound carrying a surprisingly far distance. If it was tranquility, country living, and majestic views we were looking for, we couldn’t do much better than Lussan.
“It’s nice here, isn’t it?”Linda said, which was less a question than a statement, and Erik and I nodded in agreement.
More time passed, and Linda eventually rose to her feet. “Let’s go find that house,” she said.
