Location

The hotel sits atop the tiny hill village of Crillon le Brave in the Provence region of southeastern France.

Crillon le Brave is 40 kilometres (25 miles) northeast of Avignon, at the foot of the 6000 ft-high Mont Ventoux.

History

The origins of the village of Crillon date back to Roman times when it was known as Crillonium. The village's modern history dates to the 14th-century when a leading Avignon family acquired the feudal rights to the village. A long line of dukes ruled Crillon throughout the period leading up to the Revolution but it drew its full name from the most legendary of its dukes. Le Brave Crillon (1541-1615) was one of Henri IV's fiercest generals during the wars of religion that swept through France in the late 16th century. The same Crillon family also gave its name to the famous Hôtel Crillon on Paris's Place de la Concorde. Click here to continue reading about the history...

Like most of the houses surrounding the church in the old part of the village, the houses which form the core of the hotel have their origins in the 16th and 17th centuries. The large house which houses the sitting rooms, bar and restaurant was originally the "presbytère" - the priest's home as well as the local school. Elderly neighbours still recall their parents' tales of going to school in the building that now welcomes guests from around the world.

The village church has occupied this site since the 13th century, although no traces remain of the original church and the cemetery that surrounded it. The current church was built in 1844. The interior of the church is simple but attractive. Although it has few truly distinctive features, there is an interesting altar carved in wood and an 18th century confessional. Also, there is a large plaque in memory of le Brave Crillon. King Henry IV of France called him "the greatest general in the world", and his epitaph reads, "Henry IV loved him, the people mourned him". These are grand tributes for a man who in his youth was known as a disagreeable and bellicose character. Yet by the time of his death at age 74, Louis de Berton Balbe had become a renowned general and had earned the nom de guerre of le Brave Crillon.

Louis de Berton Balbe was born in 1541 in the village of Murs, about 30km southeast of Crillon le Brave. He lived with his family in Avignon, but at about age 15 (around the time that his father bought the fiefdom of Crillon) he headed off to war to escape capital punishment for killing a rival. Crillon turned out to be a courageous warrior and valiantly served 5 kings in campaigns in Italy, Spain, and France.

After the death of Henry III in 1589, Crillon declared his loyalty to Henry IV, the Protestant King. He served Henry with great devotion and became known not only as a brave soldier but also as a man of great compassion and generosity. After the peace of Vervins he returned home to an enthusiastic welcome from the people of Avignon. A writer of the time noted that the roofs of the houses sagged under the weight of people anxious to get a look at the returning hero.

Crillon's great patron, Henry IV was assassinated in 1610, leaving the old soldier filled with sadness. He himself died 5 years later; unfortunately, he was a sick and unhappy man for his last few years. The body of le Brave Crillon is buried in the Metropole des Doms in Avignon.

Activities In and Around Crillon le Brave

Wine-tasting and visits from Ventoux to Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

Isle-sur-la-sorgue antique market (sat & sun only)

Go exploring!

Mont Ventoux by bicycle

An hour of pampering.

Village walk.

A bit of "soft" adventure.

Click here to read an adjective-laden appreciation by Molly O'Neill

Extending the Olive Branch

On the shady side of the mountains where the Romans advanced in their conquest of Provence, the vivid colors of van Gogh are replaced by Cezanne greens and russet hues. The ambient smell of brine and garlic fades, supplanted by a subtler, more herbaceous aroma. As Waverley Root wrote in "The Food of France," inland Provence is not a place you fall in love with at first sight. Rather, once you've been there a while, your affection becomes "unshakable."

Perhaps that is why we headed there last spring, driving north from the coast. Ours had not been love at first sight (more like second or third), and we were still scaling the ladder between romance and domesticity.

Between Carpentras and Nyons, we were greeted by the smell of pine and rosemary, lavender and thyme; by the sweet scent of flowering fruit trees -- cherry, peach, apricot, plum; by the subtle gradations in the color green, from pale asparagus and artichoke to deep evergreen. But it was not an overwhelming welcome, the way, say, maritime Provence blasts you hello. Rather, the subtler scents and sights of interior Provence seep into the soul, slowly kindling a quiet contentment.

In May the almonds trees are in bloom. And though the groves of gnarled olive trees look like so many grim reapers, the tiny purple olive of Nyons bursts sweetly in the mouth, a pleasant reminder that even a tough life has its juicy moments.

From a distance, the squat stone farmhouses seem more a part of the sun-baked land than an article of architecture. The same for the ancient, often abandoned walled towns that crown the region's hillsides.

Crillon le Brave was one of those ghost towns until the medieval houses and shops were joined by an archway to create a rambling hotel, where we stayed for a week, getting to know each other, as well as Provence. One window overlooked the square where the slant of the sun intersected with the shadow of the church. From the other, we could see a rolling patchwork of green and brown that seemed to change, like the sea, from moment to moment.

The sun, of course, is an integral part of Provence. And in spring it seems paler, more like the center of a daisy than a glowing sunflower. It burned hot and mean in the morning when we pedaled from Crillon le Brave to Chateauneuf-du-Pape, where the syrah and grenache vines grow. But huffing up the next wooded ridge, we needed sweaters again, and lunch: thin-crusted pizza with tomatoes and olives, blistered in the wood-burning oven of a panel truck parked by the road. And fat juicy purple plums, and tart green ones, acquired at the market in Nyons.

We spent the next day staring out the windows, talking, reading and nibbling from a platter of crudites -- baby fennel, young beans, carrots -- dipped into a ferocious aioli. Only when the light slipped from yellow to violet did we venture out for a dinner that seemed wrung from the landscape.

Flanking a mountain of tender young chicory tossed with green olives, garlic, lemon and olive oil were steamed, slender asparagus, tiny artichokes, roasted peppers and zucchini. Trout, caught in a nearby stream, was pan-fried with rosemary, lemon and capers. There was picodon, the firm, tart goat cheese from the area's mountain farms. The flavors were young and understated and so typical of this shy, retiring corner of France.

Our appreciation deepened as we hiked a five-mile ridge, which, when viewed from our window, seemed the end of the horizon. But in a scruffy meadow at the top, sharing cheese and olives, tomatoes and bread, we saw that the ridge was merely a prelude to a series of earthly waves.

We decided not to climb any more. We knew that the mountain-size hills would be there when our legs were willing. We were beginning to understand constancy, its challenges, its calm. Which isn't to say that on our last night in Provence we weren't giddy enough to drive toward the sunset and find an unnamed restaurant where dinner was an intensely perfumed lamb with caldrons of braised artichokes, leeks and spinach.

Afterwards, we sipped Chateau d'Yquem, marveling at how the feared "noble rot," with its potential to destroy, also has the capacity to sweeten. It was an evening of wistful lavender and thyme. Buffeted by the breeze that drifted through the casement window, and by the singsong Provencal dialect that ebbed around us, we were a quiet island of two, wordlessly making plans.