Fontaine-de-Vaucluse

Sometimes the most magical journeys don't happen between grand capitals or on repeated postcards. Sometimes, wonder appears around a bend, as if it's been waiting for you. It was just that: a revelation hidden among hills, lavender 🪻, and whispers of water.

We arrived looking for little and found an abyss.

At the end of the village, after passing through narrow cobblestone streets and fragrant workshops, we come across a kind of natural altar: the Sorgue spring. At first glance, it looks like a well, a dark hollow that could be the entrance to another dimension. But it's much more.

What is this well?
It's the most powerful spring in France and one of the largest in the world. It's not an artificial well, but a geological phenomenon: the water springs from an immense underground cavern, after traveling for miles beneath the Vaucluse mountain range.

So much mystery sparked obsession: in 1946, Jacques Cousteau attempted to descend to explore it… but his divers suffered an accident with their oxygen tanks, and the attempt was abandoned. It wasn't until the 21st century, with the help of robots and modern technology, that part of the system was mapped. The curious thing is that it's still not known for sure where all the water comes from.
Yes, you read that right. There are still secrets on Earth.

Bajamos hasta el borde, y el silencio era denso. El agua, oscura como tinta de noche, parecía respirar. No corría, no saltaba, emanaba. Casi se podía escuchar su canto grave, como si el fondo escondiera voces de piedra. Me quedé quieta un rato, sin pensar nada útil. Simplemente sintiendo que algo profundo estaba pasando.

Then we returned to the village, as one returns from a dream.

We strolled leisurely among artisanal stalls smelling of lavender 🪻, honey, and clean linen. At a fair, I found towels embroidered with bees 🐝 and violet bouquets: the perfect souvenir somewhere between the useful and the poetic.
The town looked like a watercolor painting, with every corner painted in soft shades of lavender, honey, and ancient stone.

And in a quiet corner, we discover the house where Petrarch lived between 1337 and 1353. There he wrote, loved, doubted, and contemplated. One can't help but wonder if he, too, sat by the spring, listened to the same silence, let the same subterranean heartbeat flow.

Afterwards, we headed to the restaurant on the Sorgue—not a large river, but rather a powerful, crystal-clear stream—where a wooden platform floated gently on the water. The murmur of the river and the aroma of freshly baked bread accompanied a simple, almost childlike lunch, as if the world were reduced to good bread, local wine, and the certainty of being in a place that won't let you go so easily.