Road Trip in France

France Riviera and Provence

We left Patras as the sun slid sideways across the hood of Dragmor, our old, rugged, relentless Land Cruiser. On the ferry to Venice, we lay next to the trunk, surrounded by spare tires, jet-powered kettles, folding chairs, and hand-drawn maps. We knew only one thing: we were heading toward the South of France, to get lost among the villages, to drink wine beside stone walls, to sleep beneath olive trees, to swim in waters unmarked by travel guides.

We disembarked in Italy slowly, almost ceremonially. The first hours on the road were filled with the purr of the engine and that quiet confidence that comes when everything still lies ahead.

Crossing the Italian Alps, we drove through Piedmont and Liguria until the sign “Bienvenue en France” welcomed us in silence. We skipped the highway—Dragmor had other plans. Instead, we took the small provincial road D4085, better known as the Route Napoléon, and began descending into the heart of Provence.

The Route Napoléon unfurled before us with ridgelines, gorges, and villages rising from the stone-colored trees. We stopped in Castellane, where a towering cliff loomed over the main square, and then continued to Sisteron, where the river carved through the rock like patience itself.

In the heart of Provence, the world softened. The hills dripped light, and fields gave way to vineyards, lavender, tomatoes, and wild herbs. We arrived in Lourmarin by late afternoon. The village felt like a painting: wooden shutters, cobbled alleys, and the scent of fresh bread drifting through the air. An old woman pointed us toward a small stone doorstep with a rusted iron chair. No sign, just a little table and wine in an unlabeled bottle.

“My husband’s,” she said. The bread had a thick crust, and the cheese she brought was still warm from her kitchen.

At a local market in Lourmarin, we bought fresh lavender soap from a man who had lived ten years on Paros. Dragmor was parked by an old fence, wrapped in the scents of sage and smoke.

On the road to Gordes, we climbed a hill with a view over a valley that looked like a Ridley Scott film set. Dragmor hugged the curves in silence, as if it knew the way. The village clung to a cliff, its houses worn smooth by time. From a small stone terrace, we watched the sun set over a valley where the vineyards vanished into dust. The only sounds were cicadas and the cooling breath of the engine.

In Roussillon, the ochre earth painted the soil and walls. We walked along a trail that seemed to end in a dream.

Provence holds a deep, resonant silence. In Cucuron, we sat by an old mill with our feet in the water and our words slowing down. Heading toward Bonnieux, we passed freshly pruned vineyards, and among them, a herd of goats rushed by. The air wrapped around us like a scarf—thyme, basil, ripe tomato.

One night near Ménerbes, we slept with the windows open, the cicadas' song our lullaby.

Descending toward the sea, Dragmor took us down roads absent from GPS. Between hills and woods, we found Plage de la Briande—an isolated beach south of Ramatuelle, far from the glitz of Saint-Tropez. We left the car behind, shouldered our backpacks, and descended through bushes and sand.

The water there was crystalline. Beneath a rock, we changed clothes in an abandoned wooden shack—an old fishermen’s hut. Not a soul around. Only air, sun, and a plunge into a universe of water.

We entered Saint-Tropez through a quiet backroad, avoiding the crowds. We walked to the Sentier du Littoral, sea salt clinging to our skin, palm trees bowing over the bay. An old wooden changing hut stood forgotten at the beach's edge. There we laughed, changed, took our first swims. The luxury yachts seemed distant. In truth, it was just us—and the waves.

Nice welcomed us in orange light. We wandered through Vieux Nice, surrounded by scents of lavender soaps and stalls of sun-kissed fruit. At Cours Saleya, we ate hot, simple socca made of chickpea flour. At Coco Beach, we sat on the rocks and listened to the water break, while a guitar played softly somewhere nearby.

In Cannes, we searched for Plage de la Batterie. Empty, quiet, nearly forgotten. We opened a bottle of Bandol and let the sea tell us what time it was. The light faded slowly, and the first stars appeared in a sky turning violet.

From Menton, we took the Corniche Moyenne, the road climbing into hills with staggering views. In Villefranche-sur-Mer, we found a small, nameless tavern above the waves. An elderly man in an old-fashioned apron served us grilled fish, a few potatoes, and wine from an ancient carafe. No one spoke—everything was just as it should be.

Carcassonne emerged like a movie set—walls, towers, and stones that whispered stories. We slept outside the city, beneath pine trees. Dragmor tucked in. Us, wrapped in blankets and memories. At breakfast, a baker handed us warm bread and told us about his wife—how she came from Marseille for a visit and never left.

Leaving the Mediterranean behind, we entered the Pyrenees. Dragmor climbed steadily, tirelessly—through forests, past old fortresses, across stone bridges. We walked the walls of Carcassonne at night, lanterns flickering, silence humming.

At Ax-les-Thermes, we dipped our feet in hot spring water, seated by the roadside. Steam rose like breath, and our skin exhaled. The grocery store at the corner of the square had local cheeses and beers that cooled the tongue like a mountain spring.

Andorra came in quietly, cloaked in low fog. In Ordino, everything was stone—roads, houses, time. At El Serrat, Dragmor climbed as far as it could go. There, we sat on the roof, overlooking a ravine that seemed bottomless. Goat bells, swirling wind, and the sound of nothing else.

Dragmor was now covered in dust, pine needles, scratches from branches, and the shadows of stars. But its engine still spoke.

We had seen France differently. Not through a guidebook, but through instinct. Not by checklists, but by scents, turns, and traces we left on the asphalt.

And now, we had a choice:

To return.

Or to continue—toward Spain. Toward Basque Country.

Toward Portugal.

As for Dragmor—he had no doubt. He already knew where he was taking us next.