Pause and Wander

Date: August 26–29, 2025

Places: Les Baux de Provence, Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, Saint-Cirq-Lapopie, Pau, and Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France

After days of salt air and ease in Sainte-Maxime, we packed the car and pointed it inland. The next stretch of our family gap year wasn’t just about getting from one place to another—it was about shifting gears, trading the comfort of the coast for the winding roads, medieval villages, and little surprises that pull you deeper into the heart of France.

We left Sainte-Maxime on August 26, leaving the calm rhythm of the coast for long hours on the road. Four and a half hours in the car needed a bright spot, and we found it at Carrières des Lumières near Les Baux de Provence. Once a vast limestone quarry, it had been transformed into an immersive art space where Monet and Rousseau spilled across soaring stone walls. Walking through the cool, cavernous galleries, it felt as if the paintings rose around us like living landscapes. Even the winding road out of the Val d’Enfer felt touched by magic, cliffs and spires twisting through pine and scrub.

By evening we reached Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, a medieval village that looked as if it had been lifted from a storybook and set in a canyon. Our attic room was stifling, closer to a sauna than a bedroom, but laughter carried us through the night. In the morning we wandered lanes no wider than our arm spans and watched a clear stream thread its way through town before moving on.

The next stop was Saint-Cirq-Lapopie, perched high above the Lot River. It was as postcard-perfect as promised, though not without its tests. A brief flare of tension between us turned the air tight until the girls mirrored our own advice back at us—reminding us to listen, say sorry, and make peace. Their earnestness cracked the moment open. We laughed, made up, and hiked to the hilltop for a sweeping view of the valley. A passing rain shower left the smell of wet stone, and we celebrated with ice cream on the way down.

That afternoon unfolded in a gentle rhythm. The girls played in the hotel pool as the gray skies opened up, and we weathered the storm as it rolled across the river valley, enjoying the rain as only people from the desert can. A chance meeting with a Parisian–Estonian family turned into a night of good conversation, shared wine, and easy connection. It felt like one of those gifts travel hands you when you least expect it.

From there we drove to Pau, Maxell’s home in France a mere 23 years ago. The first hour wound through countryside that looked painted, the last three rushed by on the toll roads while we read aloud from Walk, a story of children hiking the Camino. It only deepened our anticipation. Pau itself offered simple joys—kebabs for dinner, wheat beer from a nearby bar, and music pulsing through a park where the girls ran free. We wrote in our journals while the city reminded us that places change, and so do we.

On August 29, the drive toward Basque Country tested our nerves. Rain hammered the windshield, our Citroën skidded sideways, and by the time we trudged through Biarritz to the bus station we looked like drenched adventurers. Then came the near miss in Bayonne, boarding the wrong train until Arya’s sharp eyes saved us with literal seconds to spare.

By evening we arrived in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. The Basque houses, red shutters, and steady stream of pilgrims signaled what lay ahead. The Camino was about to begin. The bumps on the road had already shown us the truth: the obstacles are the way.