Roussillon
Most of the hilltop villages overlooking the Luberon Valley in southern France are built of limestone, quarried in the hills and weathered dove grey.
One of the villages is different, however. It’s pink. Roussillon is perched on a hill containing ochre. For centuries, its masons built houses, shops, and the town hall of the local coral-colored stone.
A line of cars and busses threaded the tree-lined road up to Roussillon on the Saturday afternoon we visited. I ordered a crepe from a roadside stand and joined other tourists, who seemed to outnumber the people living in Roussillon. We climbed up winding streets to reach a stone-paved square and the ochre-colored church of St. Michael. Inside, some of us lit votive candles.
What drew us to this place? Were we made so placeless by cell phones, fast cars, and big-box stores that we felt at home touching walls and door posts colored by the earth we stood on?
Driving away, we saw Roussillon in the afternoon sun. A mist rose from the valley of olive trees, wheat fields, and vineyards.
