Les Baux de Provence is perhaps one of the most spectacular and unsettling of nature’s creations. These white washed cliffs, dotted with medieval houses, will stun you with their proportion and their beauty. It has been the site of elegiac poetry—courtly nobles swearing their love to ladies and winning battles. However, it’s also been the site of bloodlust; historically, this has been the place for some of the most treacherous poisonings and executions. And the poet Dante, quite simply, believed that this was the mouth of hell. Should queasiness suddenly overtake you as you stroll Les Baux’s bleached paths, it’s always nice to know that you can retreat to the Oustau de Beaumanière.
You name them, and they’ve slept here—Winston Churchill, Leslie Caron, Albert Camus. Royalty has flocked from every spot on the globe—Elizabeth, Princesses Grace and Caroline, and even Deng Xiaoping, who overcame his populist scruples to spend the night. The Picassos loved it. Nonetheless, the Beaumanière is not spoiled by its reputation as a celebrity haunt. It remains very much the country inn that it was when it opened in 1945.
You stay in farmhouses, some of them dating back to the sixteenth century. With sun splashed facades wreathed with wisteria and wild roses, they are Provencal paradise. Rooms are sparely decorated with furniture whose clean, modern lines enhance the weathered fireplaces and flagstone floors. Leave your windows open in the morning, so that you may soak in the scents of the profuse flowers and herbs outside. Life is simple. There’s homemade jam for breakfast, and perhaps, later, a stroll around the tangled grounds. There’s a pool, but no gym, and certainly no spa.
Beaumanière is a family affair. Jean-Andre Charial took over from his grandfather, founder Raymond Thuillier, and, thus maintained its intimate, homely air. Charial, like his grandfather before him, is first and foremost a chef. Hence, when you are staying here, you must eat. This is, after all, the same kitchen that trained Wolfgang Puck. The dining room, with its cathedral ceilings and wrought iron chandeliers, is austere, but its diners are animated, its waiters are warm, the wine is rich, and the pigeon, stuffed with truffles, sublime. And its windows look directly onto the Baux cliffs. In the evenings, watch them flush red with the setting sun, and then, just as it turns dark, blaze with gold as all the lights in the surrounding houses switch on for the night. We promise, there’s no better way to perch on hell’s edge.
author watson@mouselink.net, source www.tablethotels.com