No one who writes about Provence fails to mention the mistral. ‘There is something of Olympian Zeus about the way it roars and rages down from Mont Ventoux, always unexpectedly and always at full force, rolling boulders and dust ahead of it and whistling down the river valleys like a herd of mad bulls,’ writes Laurence Durrell. ‘It is upon you at a moment’s notice, cramming the words back into your throat, sending the dust-devils spinning and whirling like so many dervishes among the vineyards.’
For the first couple of weeks at Caromb, it’s an idyllic existence in this most privileged part of France. The days are warm in April, and I sit on the windowsill after lunch in shorts and t-shirt, soaking up the sun as I read. When the children wake from their afternoon nap we go for a walk along lanes and between fields. One day we decide to take the direction toward the cave co-op. In Madame’s yard there is hardly any wind, but we start to feel it hitting our backs as we walk southwards. It’s a chill wind, but most winds blow cold. It’s only when we turn around to head home, when it takes all our effort to battle against its brutal force, that we realise that this wind is exceptional.
Never having experienced one, we don’t know it’s a mistral at first. It’s simply a cold wind from the north, but it builds up with a violent fury, whistling around the house and threatening to blow the children’s clothes all the way from Madame’s clothesline to the Mediterranean. I remember the stories Archibald Lyall tells in The Companion Guide to the South of France, about the engine-less train that was pushed backwards from Arles to Port Saint-Louis by the mistral; about the mistral that blew down the bridge between Tarascon and Beaucaire; about the three shepherds and 800 sheep that perished in a January mistral in 1786. Surely hyperbole, I persuade myself, exaggerations to persuade simple and superstitious peasants. It might be strong, but not that strong.
That evening the news on the radio confirms that this bitterly cold and powerful wind is a genuine mistral. But we are innocent of its ways, and see no reason to modify our plans to drive to Marseille the next day to collect some friends arriving at the station. I have broached with Madame the possibility of them staying with us; they can have the children’s bed, I propose. For a couple of days the children can sleep with us. Madame is adamant, perhaps envisaging invasion by a tribe of gypsies, and firmly says no. Instead, we’ve booked them into the Auberge Saint-Roch at Beaumes-de-Venise, where we stayed earlier, and look forward to showing them around our new home.
I start to worry when road signs between Caromb and Carpentras warn to look out for falling branches because of the high winds. At the entrance to the autoroute we see a more dire notice: Attention—vent violent. The DS is a solid, heavy, well-balanced car and we don’t feel any wind but I see the odd branch and other debris by the road, and begin to think that Archibald Lyall’s stories are not so melodramatic after all.
This time we have no trouble finding our way in Marseille and manage to park close to the station. Our friends have forgotten to specify a time, so we wait for several trains to arrive from Nice before we spot them. They’ve also forgotten to tell us that they have rented their own car, although a delay with their luggage means they need to stay in Marseille for a few hours until it arrives on the next train. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later, as they are coming to our place for dinner that evening. We give them instructions and a mud map so they can find us in Caromb.
With boldness born of limited experience, we offer to take them sightseeing in the city before we return home. Planning to show them the vieux port and the rugged Mediterranean coast, we drive around the Corniche until we come to a seafront viewing area, which looks out across the sea to the sinister fortress where the Count of Monte Christo was imprisoned. Here the ruthless mistral reaches the full intensity of its rage and whips the sea into a matching turmoil. White-tipped grey waves splash over the low stone wall and on to the road. It is impossible not to be in awe and admiration of this force of nature.
From the comfort of the car we don’t appreciate the power of the mistral. Wanting to take a photo, John winds down the window and opens the door a chink to lean out with the camera. This is just enough invitation for a wild gust to grab the door and smash it against the car parked next to us. No damage to either car, but the side window is completely shattered. It’s a long, slow drive home on small roads instead of the autoroute, the cold air curling around us and reminding us of our folly. On our return we light, for the first time, the big oil heater that does double duty as stove, its warmth safeguarding us from the savagery outside.
The mistral has made sure we know who is boss but we get off lightly, finding a second-hand window in Carpentras for only 30 francs. For only a few francs more the man at the local garage installs it, and everything is back as it was. Except that now I know why the mistral inspires so much folklore. It might be a wild, intolerant, malevolent spirit but the mistral also has a certain majesty, as absolute a ruler as Louis XIV in the 17th century. It is relentless, pitiless; while other winds might pause from time to time to offer a few moments of respite, the mistral scorns such finer feelings. Its authority will not be countermanded.
‘Even Provençal tempers fray after 72 or 96 hours of this constant buffeting’, writes Waverley Root. According to the locals, a mistral always lasts three days—or sometimes six, or nine, one can never tell, but always a multiple of three. By Thursday, exactly six days after we set off on our walk toward the cave co-op, the wind has vanished and the sky is clear and blue.
It might be an ill wind, but it is not totally evil. Le mistral balaye le ciel, says Madame; the mistral sweeps the sky. Mont Ventoux presents a sharp, clear profile, as if having undergone an annual spring clean. The paths among the vineyards sparkle with freshness; with white daisies, yellow buttercups and red poppies dotting the green verges. I have a new respect for nature and peasant wisdom.