When I was growing up, my family summered in rural farm-country west of Chicago. My father built a small cottage on five acres of woods and meadow that, in the 1950s, was an easy drive from the big city. Every June - as soon as school let out - we took refuge there, and I would be transformed from city boy to country boy.

I especially loved the trees… ancient oaks, shagbark hickories, weeping willows… and spent countless hours lying on my back, gazing up at them. I distinctly remember the heat of the sun, the ever-changing beams of light as branches danced in the wind, and the patterns formed by the umbrella of leaves above. Magical moments I have always cherished. .

Now… fast-forward about 50 years, and my wife and I are driving along highway D99 on the way to St-Remy-de-Provence. Traveling west from Cavaillon, we encounter our first stand of plane trees, les platanes. Majestically lining both sides of the road, the plane trees arch skyward, creating a cathedral of green overhead. Hazy shafts of light filter through the leaves, shifting and shimmering all around us. For just a moment, recollections of my youth come flooding back. .

We drive in awe through this tunnel of trees for about a quarter-mile before once again breaking out into the unrelenting Provencal sun. Stunning! Yet, beautiful as they are, these trees are but a precursor of things to come. .

Le platane is among the most amazing of trees. Though closely related to the Sycamore of North America, the species that populates the South of France is distinctive. As outer layers of bark peel away, they reveal vividly colored patches of bark underneath, producing trunks with mottled patterns of grays, yellows and greens. I liken it to a sort of artistic, natural camouflage. .

For centuries, the French have lined canals, carriage-ways and highways with these magnificent trees, planting them roughly ten to twenty feet apart and within two or three feet from both sides of the thoroughfare. For today's motorist, they provide a cool oasis along sun-baked roads and a sight for sore eyes. Conversely, for the careless driver, they can become a decidedly unyielding hazard. .

Back on the D99, progressing toward St. Remy, our encounters with plane trees become more frequent and of longer duration. Each stand more breathtaking the last. In between, we find lush fields stretching to the north with clusters of wild bamboo dotting the roadside. To the south… only a few miles away… looms the charming-but-rugged little mountain range, Les Alpilles. Tucked between road and mountain, fields of sunflowers alternate with the vineyards of the local appellation, Baux de Provence. We pass signs for Domaine Terres Blanches and Chateau Romanin, two of our favorite vignerons, but continue on… St. Remy awaits. .

Just east of St. Remy, we enter still another corridor of plane trees. Evening approaches, now, and darkness closes in from the leaves above while remnants of sunlight streak in from the southwest. The trees lean to the left, the result of decades of competition for the life-giving light. .

Here, the trees are continuous. Around the next bend… more trees. Crest the hill… still more trees, in uniform rows stretching as far as the eye can see. We slow down to savor the moment and reflect. What a miracle of creation, the tree. What an important influence on our sense of well being.

We motor through lovely St. Remy and on to the Mas Mussargue, nestled into the foothills of Les Alpilles and our home for the next two weeks (thank you, France Homestyle). The first order of business? Planning our Provencal itinerary, of course, including as many trips as possible along the D99. We just can't get enough.

We two couples were on a driving tour in Northwest France. Cramped into my Volkswagen Rabbit, we were exploring the bucolic countryside of the Loire Valley. On an afternoon trip from Blois to Chaumont, travelling along a lonely country road, the Rabbit suddenly and without any hint, died. No amount of staring under the hood at the silent engine did any good. Nobody else on this road, no houses in sight, no cell phone. What to do?

Along came a single auto. They stopped. More staring at the silent Rabbit. Neither of us could speak the other's language well enough to talk it over but it was quite clear that we had a problem. This kind couple offered to take me to the nearest village, Bracieux, to arrange for repairs. They took me to a garage known to them, explained what they could about our problem, and continued along their way, leaving me at the garage.

Again, language was a problem but not an insurmountable obstacle. The mechanic wanted to know what kind of car it was. I did not know the French word for Rabbit so I hopped like a bunny, which didn't seem to have any meaning to them yet was a source of amusement to a curious group of onlookers. Come to find out they don't call these cars Rabbits in Europe, that is an American configuration.

Anyway, the mechanic tossed his tools into the back of his small van and invited me, too, into the seatless rear compartment. He and his partner in the front seats, and I with the spare parts rolling around in the rear compartment, roared off at great speed to the rescue. We had not yet spoken anything decipherable between us, but somehow I believed this was going to turn out OK.

Behold, we found the ailing Rabbit. These guys, who weren't particularly impressive in their appearance, went right to the job of diagnosing the problem. In a short ten minutes they had found an obscure burned-out electrical circuit powering the fuel pump, and in only a few minutes more they had rewired around the short circuit and conducted a successful test of the repair. Voila.

What a relief, and what a great experience. First came the kind local couple that carried me to the garage, and then came these ragtag yet very able mechanics who got us back on the road in very short order. We took photos of the whole group to preserve a wonderful memory. I wouldn't want this to happen again, but if it should, I hope those French guardian angels of hapless tourists are nearby!