Living in the geocentric world that is the USA leads one to believe that there is only one “Grand Canyon” worthy of the name. Well, however magnificent the eponymous one may be, carved out over millions of years by the increasingly defunct Colorado River, France is also a country that has several beautiful river canyons not to be missed by the discerning traveller. One such is the Gorge du Verdon. Often considered to be one of Europe’s most beautiful canyons, it is really a baby compared to “that other one across the pond”; just 25 miles long and never more than 700 metres deep, it is narrow, varying from 6m to 100m wide at the level of the river; it is also strikingly pretty, carved out by the river Verdon, the turquoise-green waters of which have cut through the limestone mass of the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence.
After a couple of days of heavy rain, we were in a mood to get out and see the countryside again and a trip up into the hills to the north where the air would be fresh, and the scenery wild and unspoilt, seemed to be the perfect anti-dote to our meteorological malaise. Having previously visited other French canyons such as the Gorge du Tarn, we were eager to experience the “best of them”.
Undeterred by the Saturday-morning mist, we set off early in a north-westerly direction towards the waterfalls at Sillans-la-Cascade, our first destination of the day, passing through Salernes, a village best known for its many ceramics factories. Visits to waterfalls are always hit-and-miss affairs, especially at the end of hot dry summers, but those two days of rain were a good omen and the prognosis was in our favour. Sillans-la-Cascade is a small medieval village (population about 600) on top of a low hill, encircled by the river La Bresque. When we arrived soon after midday everything was closed, so coffee was not on the cards, and we started walking downstream of the village along a track through the woods and beside the river, passing a surprising number of diseased and dying trees, figuring the falls would be close by.
After taking a few dead-end trails, we got directions from a friendly couple visiting from Marseilles, and finally found the steps and trail down through a fragrant, leafy glen leading to the wooden platform looking up towards the Cascade de Sillans. Our expectations were not misplaced, and water aplenty was cascading over the small cliff into the blue-green depths of the pool, flashing in the bright sunlight.
The picture was perfect and we could not have asked for a prettier setting to tempt us to stay longer. But, as always, we had an agenda for the day which did not include tarrying awhile, looking dreamily at wet mossy rocks, splashed by the deluge from above, glistening red and green in the sunshine, and soon we started to wend our way up the worn rocky steps, for a quick tour around the charming village of Sillans itself, before heading once more towards the Gorge.
Where it exits the western end of the Gorge, the river Verdon flows into an artificial lake, Lac de Sainte-Croix, and our route along the D957 first took us to a little bay with a few sailboats moored just offshore and a small pebble beach where we sat and ate our tasty picnic of “bio” sandwiches prepared by my beautiful bride. Further along the road we arrived at the unattractive, and practically deserted village of Les Salles-sur-Verdon on the shores of the lake, where we tried, again totally unsuccessfully, to find that elusive cup of coffee. Still caffeine-free, we popped our heads inside the modern church and then wandered down through a lakeside park to another stony beach, to enjoy the peaceful emptiness of the place and the view of the mountains in the distance. Then we climbed the steep path back up to the village centre, where we got into conversation with a very chatty guy, about my age, who quickly let us know his skeptical views about the benefits of capitalism, communism and all the other modern “isms”; we asked him about life in this quiet corner of the world and he clearly loved the peace and solitude of the place in autumn and winter; however, he held ambivalent views about tourists who, he said, ruined the ambience in the summer, yet provided him with a living from selling his jewellery! And we learnt all that speaking French which was pretty good going!
But, we still had to see the Gorge, and we set off along the edge of the lake to join the D19 leading to the D71, the road following the southern side of the canyon, “Route de la Corniche Sublime”; we chose that side mainly because we didn’t want to be taking pictures into the afternoon sunshine. Even then our photos really don’t do justice to this fine example of nature’s work.
It was a twisty little road climbing upwards to give us views back towards the lake, and then many enticing glimpses of the gorge itself, its white rockfaces dappled with patches of green shrubs and small trees, hanging precariously onto the steep slopes, and the river far below. 
Again, out of the tourist season, we could enjoy it all at our own speed; but there was a downside, the only café along the route was closed, and the effects of our delicious lunch having worn off in the late afternoon, we ended up munching on the pieces of ginger at the bottom of our thermos of tea to stop my tummy grumbling. After about twenty miles, the road parted company with the gorge and we soon came to the turning for Trigance, another ancient village on a hillside, miles from anywhere.
The countryside all around was still dramatically wild and empty, particularly as the sun started to go down behind the hills, and Trigance looked to be a very lonely place to live. However, once we had parked just outside the village gateway, and walked a few yards inside, joy of joys, we found it to be full of life centred around an open café, where we purchased a bag of very edible fresh pastries and the all important, for me at least, dose of liquid caffeine, for by this time of day I was beginning to fade!
Suitably re-fuelled, we poked our noses around the village, as we tried to get a closer look at the ramparts of the castle high above. We eventually discovered its entrance, and learned that this impressive 11th century edifice was now gainfully restored as “Château de Trigance” a posh hotel and restaurant, the menu prices of which made skinflint-me glad to have already found our tea-time vittles at the little café below.
We had still only seen about half of the Gorge, but with daylight fast disappearing, we realised we had to leave something for our next visit. So we turned away from the wild hills and drove back through the dusk to Lorgues, to plan our next excursion. Was it, perhaps, time to sample the fleshpots of the Côte d’Azur once again?
