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Our Lady of the Fountains reveals itself like a little brooch stuck into the folds of a scarf. Steep hills rear up everywhere, all rocks and trees, and then we are plunged into a thick ribbon of lavender. Fields and fields of it in the flat bottom of the valley, its scent filling the inside of the car immediately.
And nestled among all this green and purple is the abbey itself, a small cluster of buildings made of the same honey-colored stone the hills are made of. Between the tree-crowded slopes surrounding it, the sea of lavender, and the bright blue sky, the abbey’s surroundings are a living postcard, and the abbey itself—over nine hundred years old—is just as venerable and lovely.
As the car rolls between the tall cypresses which line the drive to the campus, I feel the heavy
