Do you know that moment when you get the brilliant idea to drive from Denmark all the way down to Valensole in Provence to photograph those vast, colourful, violet lavender fields in full bloom? And after 1,700 km, you arrive to find a green, barren, freshly shaved field—and watch the very last row of lavender disappear onto the back of a harvest truck?
We do.
In 2019, we had a late summer holiday and hadn’t really decided what to do. The year before, our youngest had kindly agreed to join his parents on a slightly ill-fated trip to Norway, lured by promises of fishing around Ål. After a week of catching absolutely nothing, locals casually informed us there hadn’t been fish in those lakes for quite some time. Whether that was the reason—or simply the fact that he was approaching 18—we strongly suspected this holiday would be without him.
Why we chose to drive to Provence to photograph lavender fields is a little hazy, but at the time it sounded like an excellent idea—and we didn’t have any images of violet lavender fields in the shop.
According to various websites, the timing looked perfect. A touch late, perhaps, but not too late to catch the fields in full bloom. And Valensole seemed a solid bet: wide, open landscapes where row after row of lavender stretches as far as the eye can see.
So we packed the car and headed south, cameras in hand and expectations set reassuringly high.
When we drive south—which we tend to do quite often these days, heading for our apartment in Ospedaletti—we always break the journey with an overnight stay. For us, the holiday begins the moment we leave home, so coffee stops and nights in with breakfast (and now also charging the electric car) are essential parts of the ritual.
This trip, however, was different in more ways than one. After 23 years of travelling with one to three children in the back seat, there was a quiet sense of melancholy in suddenly finding ourselves alone, just the two of us—unaware, of course, that a year later corona would change things again. But that’s another story.
It was also different because we opted for two overnight stops—Göttingen and Grenoble, if memory serves—so we could arrive in Valensole around midday, with the sun high over a glowing violet landscape. On paper, a perfectly reasonable plan.
I don’t think we’d been to Grenoble before, and we haven’t returned since, but our expectations that morning were considerable.
It was hot—properly hot—and the scent of lavender hung in the air, filling the car once we left the motorway and could roll the windows down. Small purple patches dotted the landscape everywhere, though of course they were nothing compared to what we believed awaited us.
The great plateau of lavender fields—stretching to the horizon—lies north of Valensole. The road approaches from a lower elevation, so you don’t actually see the fields until you’re almost in the town, where you take a left turn and shortly after arrive at—well, in our case—a completely shaved, desolate landscape.
Reality
In the distance, we can just make out the final tractor, as the very last row of lavender is being loaded up. Dust everywhere, relentless heat, no shade—and a dense perfume of lavender hanging stubbornly in the air.
At that moment, the disappointment was, naturally, immense. 1,700 km over 48 hours, all in anticipation of a series of images filled with violet fields—and there we stood, sweat trickling, facing a dry, brown landscape.
“Schwamm drüber,” as they say in Germany—or no use crying over spilt milk.
We spent the next few hours driving around in the hope of finding something—anything—that resembled a purple field. A bit into Valensole, which is as picturesque as most towns in that region, then out past the barren fields and back again. It all became rather aimless, until we accepted the obvious: we were simply too late.
Street scene from Valensole
Fortunately, the story doesn’t end there. We did manage to capture a strong—and rather popular—street scene in Valensole. And since we still had time, we continued to Apt, where we stayed for about a week, venturing out to experience the outrageously beautiful landscapes filled with vast sunflower fields—like van Gogh, though without comparison—and towns such as Aix-en-Provence, Marseille (the old quarter), Arles, and Gordes.
We returned home a little wiser, with a new sense of how the coming years—without children in the back seat—might unfold. And we were reminded that even when things go wrong, repeatedly and with commitment, they can still be turned into something worthwhile.
We still don’t have any images of violet lavender fields in the shop.
If you’d like to see our gallery of images from Provence, click here.
