I went to the herb fair this last Saturday, under the trees in Aggie Park. It has always been crowded, no matter how early in the day I go; a mass commingling of serious gardeners, herb enthusiasts, vendors of botanical exotica and plants. Large plants in tubs, small plants in 2-inch pots, wrought-iron garden accessories, and increasingly, soaps, teas, books, dried herbs and tiny bottles of expensive essential oils – everything for the dedicated herbivore. The non-plant vendors were mostly inside the park hall, which as a result smelt divinely of lavender. In the last decade or so, certain adventurous enthusiasts have discovered that lavender grows quite well, thank you, on the rocky limestone slopes of the Hill Country.
The Hill Country, that tract of rolling, lightly wooded hills north of San Antonio has always been South Texas’ Lake District, our Berkshires, our Mackinac Island, or Yosemite; a cool, green refuge in the summer, a well-watered orchard oasis in the dusty barrens of the Southwest.. Rivers run through it –  the Guadalupe, the Pedernales – and it is dotted with edibly charming small towns, like Wimberley, Johnson City, Kerrville, Comfort and Fredericksburg. Visitors like my mother often say it reminds them of rural Pennsylvania, a resemblance strengthened by the coincidence that large tracts of the Hill Country (notably around Fredericksburg) were settled in the mid 19th century by German immigrants, who built sturdy, two-story houses out of native limestone blocks, houses adorned with deep windows and generous porches and galleries.

In the spring, in April and May the hillside pastures and highway verges are splashed with great vibrant sweeps of color — red and gold Mexican Hat, pink primroses, and the deep, unearthly indigo of bluebonnets, acre after acre of them. Wildflower meadows are an ongoing enthusiasm in Texas, more notable here than any other Western state I have ever traveled in. Lamentably, they also figure in kitschy art: the perfect Texas landscape painting must be of a long-horn grazing in a field of bluebonnets, and double-points if the artist includes a barn with a roof painted with the Lone Star Flag, and the Alamo façade  silhouetted in the clouds overhead. Alas, Vincent Van Gogh was never able to immortalize the Hill Country in paint, as he did so memorably with Provence. Perhaps he might have not been so dreadfully depressed, what with communing with cows, cowboys and staid German immigrant farmers.

But that may turn out to have not been needed – for I detect that the Hill Country is very gradually and delicately turning into Provence. There always were the artists, and eccentrics, and hobby farmers (one of the eccentrics is currently running for governor, and I just might vote for him out of the sheer weirdness of it all =  god knoweth Kinky Friedman couldn’t possibly be more out-of-sight than Jesse Ventura, and Minnesota is supposed to be so boringly sane, for chrissake!) I make the suggestion in all seriousness: the Hill Country may not superficially look all that much like Provence, but the underlying geographic bones are similar, the climate is (at a squint) similar and the same kind of things Provence is famous for (at least in popular imagination) are emerging from the Hill Country. Got that – and some very good wine at that, for all that ‘Texas Wine’ probably elicits the same sort of humorous reflex that ‘Australian Wine’ did, once upon a time. (No, Texas wine is quite drinkable, and does not have a bouquet like an aborigines’ armpit. Seriously –  the local high-end groceries all have a section for the local stuff.) Goat cheese  –  we got it. All those local hobby farmers, trying to find a useful outlet for what started as a herd of pets. Olive oil? Got that, too. (Although this place is still thinking Tuscany – ) A local farmer, with a booth at the herb market had small saplings in 2-inch pots I may yet get an olive tree to grow, in my front yard garden, devoted to my memories of Greece. It will take a bit, a couple of hundred years or so, but I and my descendants will have nicely gnarled, bearing olive tree. In a decade or two, there will be a Hill Country olive oil industry –  it may be boutique –  but it will be there. Lavender and perfume? Got it.(I love St. Fiacre, from this place   – it’s in my perfume wardrobe, right next to the Chanel Number 5.)
And if you don’t care for wine, and all that,  there is this brewery. Enjoy! the desserts are splendid, but very rich; best split them between two diners, or get them to take away.
Now, if we could only get Red McCombs, and a couple of other local millionaires to build some fortified villages and artistically ruinous castles on some strategic hilltops – the Hill Country might have a chance at being ‘The New Provence.’