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Keep up, Lance!

The Tour de France starts this weekend, but its climax will come on an infamous peak that has become a rite of passage for cyclists. Tom Robbins saddles up

Sweat drips from my forehead onto the handlebars and evaporates at once. It’s 3.30pm, 42C, and I am struggling, one slow painful pedal stroke at a time, up the flank of Mont Ventoux, the “giant of Provence”, rising alone almost 2,000m above the surrounding plains. I feel dizzy, my stomach churns. I focus on reaching the next corner, only to find the reward waiting there is another, even longer, even steeper stretch of road. Another cyclist comes up behind and overtakes, saying quietly between big gasps: “C’est… trop … dur …”

Too hard indeed. Cycling is the toughest of all mainstream sports, and the Tour de France, which gets under way in earnest today, is its hardest event – a three-week, 3,500km (2,174-mile) endurance challenge. Crashes are common. Often competitors collapse with exhaustion at the end of a day’s stage – Eddy Merkx famously did so after winning the 14th stage of the 1970 Tour, a stage that ran from Gap to a certain Mont Ventoux.

Even deaths are not unknown. Francisco Cepeda and Fabio Casartelli both died during high-speed descents, while Tom Simpson, Britain’s most celebrated cyclist, suffered a heart attack and died by the side of the road close to the summit of a huge sunbaked French mountain. That was Ventoux, too.

The Tour is cycling’s pinnacle, and Ventoux is perhaps le Tour’s most infamous climb. It is “a monument to cycling”, says Jean-François Pescheux, the tour’s sporting director. “Ventoux overlooks no valley, leads nowhere,” wrote Paul Fournel, the French cyclist-philospher. “Its only purpose is to be climbed.”

Ventoux has featured in the race 13 times, but this year its role is bigger then ever. Usually, the mountain stages – where the greatest time gains and losses are possible – take place in the middle, but this year the ascent of Ventoux happens on the penultimate day of the whole race, with the cyclists transferred by train afterwards for the traditional curtain call on the Champs Elysées the next morning. This means that on the Tour’s 20th day, the leaders will be racing for overall victory up the slopes of Ventoux. “I expect them to go at each other hammer and tongs,” says Pescheux. “It’s the final throw of the dice.”

And so, this year more than ever, Ventoux is a place of pilgrimage for cyclists. On 20 July, 9,500 of them will ride L’Etape, a timed amateur event that follows the same route as stage 20 of the Tour, starting in Montélimar and climaxing, 167km later, at the top of Ventoux. The event was massively oversubscribed, not least because of the boom in cycling in the UK, but that doesn’t stop you recreating it yourself. And the surprising thing is that taking on this year’s ultimate cycling challenge can easily fit into a long weekend.

Last Friday I took a Eurostar to Paris after work (two hours, 15 minutes), then the following morning caught the TGV direct to Montélimar (just under three hours). I’d cycle on the Sunday, stay in the village of Bédoin at the foot of Ventoux, then ride the 40km downhill to Orange on Monday morning to catch the TGV direct back to Paris. Taking a bike on the train is easy, as long as you’ve pre-booked. There’s no need to dismantle or wrap it up as you would on a plane – on Eurostar you simply check it in an hour before departure and pick it up on the platform the other end; on the TGV you carry it on and off yourself.

But while the travel is easy, the logistics need thinking about. With no support car, you have to take everything with you on the bike. A change of clothes and a squirt of deodorant would be nice after a day in the saddle, but do you want to carry them all day? Instead I opt for so-called “credit card touring” – you buy everything you need along the way, and take nothing but a spare T-shirt, camera, and passport, leaving the bike unencumbered but for a small saddlebag. As I hadn’t spent much time training, I also packed every available pocket with the next best thing – a huge supply of energy bars and gels.

In Montélimar I meet my friend Reg, and we spend the afternoon mooching around the pretty pedestrianised old town and visiting some of the 15 nougat factories (thanks to the abundance of almonds, pistachios and lavender honey, this is the world capital of nougat). Possibly less of an enthusiast than me, Reg has turned up without a bike, but he manages to buy one in the town, and then we are free to indulge in one of cycling’s few wholly enjoyable elements, the eve-of-battle marathon of carbohydrate scoffing.

We set off at 7am, keen to get some miles under our belts before it gets too hot. The first couple of hours are glorious. We speed on deserted roads past vineyards and fields of lavender laid out in perfect rows. The morning mist hangs in the woods, lit up by shafts of sunlight. If we weren’t on a cycling trip, we’d still be in bed and would have missed it all.

We pass through the pretty stone villages of Taulignan and Rousset-les-Vignes just as they are starting to wake up, the boulangeries throwing open their shutters. It’s mellow, bucolic perfection but all the while the rocky bulk of Ventoux looms on the horizon. In St Jalle they are setting up a market under the shade of the trees. We wheel our bikes past the stalls, then start up towards the Col d’Ey, one of four mountain passes on the route. As we start to climb, the pain is dulled by the satisfaction of tangible progress over the obstacles in our route. At the top there are moments of light-headed glee, charged with potential energy. Then we whizz down the far side, a guilty pleasure because we know every metre we splurge on the cheap thrill of descent will have to be earned back on the next climb.

We stop in Buis-les-Baronnies, where tourists mill around clutching bundles of lavender, then again in the beautiful hillside villages of Aurel and Sault.

And then comes Ventoux. “Your eyes stay glued on your front wheel, and it’s your innards you’re staring at there,” wrote Fournel. “Ventoux simply feeds back your fatigue and fear. It has total knowledge of the shape you’re in, your capacity for cycling happiness, and happiness in general. It’s yourself you’re climbing. If you don’t want to know, stay at the bottom.”

Perhaps fearing a devastating moment of self-awareness, perhaps because he is “****ing ****ed!”, Reg stays at the bottom, in the bar. So I set off alone along the road that rises slowly at first, passes through the hamlets of St Colombe and Les Bruns, then enters the forest and starts to kick up savagely. I feel my face burning. I lose concentration and my hand slips off the bars, making me swerve into the gutter. I force myself to keep going, promising a break and another energy gel every 45 minutes. Little encouragements take on huge significance – a cyclist flying down in the other direction shouts “Good Luck!” Names of legendary Tour riders are painted across the road, left from previous races, but I take heart most from one that reads in English: “Go Audrey Go – 40 today!”

After 90 minutes I emerge from the forest and onto the bare limestone of the summit slopes. The gradient eases but the heat intensifies. I pass the memorial where Simpson died, covered in offerings of spare tyres and water bottles. After eight-and-a-half hours in the saddle, my brain is numb and empty of any thought beyond the need to keep turning the pedals, so the summit, hidden around a final hairpin, comes as a shock. I’m too tired to look for myself up there, but I do find a massive sweet stall and a glorious 360-degree view above the clouds. And then all that’s left is the 20km woosh back down to Bédoin, a beer, and the delicious prospect of watching Armstrong and co on 25 July, struggling up Ventoux in my tyre tracks.

Essentials

Rail Europe (0844 848 4070; raileurope.co.uk) has fares London-Montélimar and back from Orange from £125 including bike carriage in France. Taking bikes on Eurostar costs £20 each way. In Montélimar, Hotel Kyriad (kyriad.com) has doubles from €89; in Bédoin, Hotel des Pins (hotel-des-pins.fr) has doubles from €95. For more on the route see letour.fr and ventoux-stage-france-2009.co.uk. See also ladrometourisme.com and provenceguide.com.

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High on the hog in the Languedoc

It’s a new holiday village but the architecture is traditional, as are the activities. Ian Belcher tries winemaking, trout tickling – and a spot of boar hunting

Club Med, eat your heart out. Mark Warner, look away now. I’ve seen the future of holiday villages and it involves taking pot shots at wild boar, treading Corbières grapes, and – if you’re feeling reckless – tickling speckled trout. Wind surfing and sailing lessons? They’re just so last season, chéri.

Les Jardins de Saint Benoît, tucked into the widescreen panoramic drama of the French Languedoc, is aiming to rewrite the holiday village rulebook. Harnessing the passion, traditions and skill of local Occitane winegrowers and artisans, it offers a practical, herb-infused taste of Mediterranean rural life – a natural high-de-hi.

But the opening revelation comes well before you snaffle a first truffle: Les Jardins has interpreted “village” quite literally – it bulges out from the (real) medieval Saint-Laurent de la Cabrerisse like an ochre hernia. It opened last month, several centuries after its host, but old and new blur into a seamless splatter of terracotta tiles and limestone walls.

It’s a deliberate deception. Three years’ construction, £55m and 15 rewrites of the heritage master plan have captured the details and textures of original village buildings, albeit with modern tweaks such as pergola-shaded gardens. With its grid of stone-paved, car-free streets lined with Victorian copper lamps, it would bring a rosy flush to the Prince of Wales’s cheek. The Gallic Poundbury’s 171 self-catering houses, kissing a stonking restaurant, spa and swimming pool, have state-of-the-art kitchens and bathrooms but display a style dubbed chic rustique: all earth tones, artfully distressed southern French furniture and pastel shutters.

Occupying the site of a ruined 12th-century abbey, Les Jardins is laced with freshly planted olive trees, lavender bushes and roses. If, understandably, it feels rather new, there’s also an original maze of medieval walled gardens, shared with the villagers. These drip with fruit, vegetables and herbs, bordered by well-established organic vineyards, which lead down to the Nielle river.

But the unique heritage architecture is just a soupçon of its integration with Languedoc life. There’s also employment – nearly all the staff live nearby – and a groundbreaking array of guest activities that involve the area’s farmers, chefs and artisans, from cheese makers to beekeepers. “We’re building a bridge between locals and tourists,” says Miguel Espada, president of Garrigae, the resort operator behind Les Jardins. “At Club Med or Mark Warner everyone stays within the complex, but we’re completely open to the community. We want guests to get back to nature, to sample the Mediterranean joie de vivre, to experience totally new things.”

You can say that again, Miguel: it’s the first time sanglier (wild boar) hunting has appeared on my holiday itinerary. But just hours after arriving, I’m crossing Garrigae’s metaphorical bridge with two locals: Daniel Esparza, Saint-Laurent’s former mayor, and his beefy son, Ludo, who are planning to bag a sanglier they spotted scoffing their grapes.

We climb through pine forests, passing an outcrop where witches once danced on the summer solstice, and the promised joie de vivre arrives in the shape of food. Astounding food. Food eaten alfresco yards from the hilltop garden where it was grown: mushrooms with wine and rosemary, lamb shank with creamy aubergine, and cheek-tingling lemon pie. Under dappled sunlight, we wash the meal down with marquisette – white wine with lemon – and bottles of rosé “from those vines over there”. It’s like a Magners commercial only with better booze.

As I gorge, my hosts talk about the dangerous, sly wild boar. Languedoc’s boar population has exploded as new highways have blocked their old foraging routes. The critters have stayed put, gorging on farmers’ crops and producing super-sized litters. “They eat everything,” exclaims Esparza. “Grapes, potatoes, small rabbits. They are pigs.” Which is accurate, if a little harsh.

“It’s not about killing,” he stresses. “It’s about eating. We’re respecting the natural balance of nature. We don’t give boys PlayStations here; we give them guns. I’ve passed on my knowledge of nature to Ludo since he was young.”

Ludo – who says he sometimes smears himself with boar shit to creep close to his prey – seems a good man to hide behind. At midnight, after a final “savage cherry” liqueur that renders accurate shooting impossible, I climb into his battered van. Ludo makes a strangling noise, hinting at the animal’s fate, asks if I’m “ready for adventure”, and then, bar the odd grunt, doesn’t speak for two hours. I’m boar hunting with Obelix.

The former mayor is in another car, leaning out the window. His loaded shotgun rests on the wing mirror – something Boris Johnson hasn’t tried in Chiswick. Yet. We rip across country, up and down rutted tracks, occasionally zipping past village cafés where regulars sit outside sipping late-night digestifs. Grass and vines tower above the van. Every so often Ludo screeches to a stop, listens intently for evidence of wild boar mainlining grapes, grunts, and accelerates. We perform a high-speed swerve to chase a rabbit. If we hit something, death will be sudden and brutal – and the boar may be a little sore as well.

Yesterday Daniel spotted 23 sangliers, but tonight they have stage fright. Or a crystal ball. After two hours we’re still boar-less. It’s an intoxicating rush, but I have rising indigestion and falling bloodlust. We are packed off home, awaiting a dawn call should they spot one.

Late next morning I’m staring straight into the eyes of a dead sanglier. His whiskers drip pathos, his tusks retribution. Don’t fret. No wildlife was harmed in the making of this article. He was shot years ago by vigneron Jean-Pierre Mazard, and his stuffed head now decorates an atmospheric beamed room at Jean-Pierre’s winery, alongside a stuffed owl and some sepia photographs.

I am here to blend Chateau Belcher 2009. Forget straightforward wine-tasting; this is an advanced vino-experience. “It’s a science,” says Jean-Pierre, “a complex art.”

Oenotourism will be central to Les Jardins. Swaddled by the legendary Corbières wine region, the resort aims to immerse guests in its production. You can even lease a strip of vines and, helped by local farmers, make multiple visits to tend and harvest your grapes, before bottling a bespoke mini vintage.

Most of the activities are highly seasonal – November means picking and pressing olives; January is for hunting truffles – but I’m here in a quiet spell. So Jean-Pierre and wine technician Matthieu Dubernet show me how to mix my own rocket fuel from three classic Languedoc grapes harvested last year: Syrah, Grenache and Carignan. Individually, they’re unbalanced mono-wines, but together they make sweet music.

We start by sampling an acclaimed blend: Jean-Pierre’s 2004 Cuvée Annie, with its scent of cherries, olives and menthol. It’s done in a friendly, unintimidating atmosphere. You don’t have to be an expert, just find a blend you like.

We move on to the mono wines. Carignan is a bit “animaux” and Grenache is “sweeter, bigger, smoother”. But I can’t make a single intelligent observation on Syrah. “Turkish delight?” I hazard. Jean-Pierre, the 12th generation of Mazard winemakers, diplomatically raises the tone, explaining that Syrah is complex, with hints of garrigues, thyme, rosemary and blackcurrant.

Just like Turkish delight. Thank you.

Things then turn scientific, with glass measuring jars and a calculator. It’s seriously absorbing. Minor blend changes carry major clout. Cuvée Annie is 65% Syrah and 35% Carignan and Grenache. But reduce the Syrah, up the Grenache and it becomes “fruity, easy-drinking”.

It’s like playing with a gourmet chemistry kit. We reintroduce a little Syrah, apparently making it more “terroir”, but my first solo tweak turns this to “absolute pants” – my verdict, not Jean-Pierre’s – with astringent tannins. After two more changes, I’ve created Chateau Belcher: 15% Carignan, 30% Grenache, 55% Syrah. It’s declared “very drinkable” but, frankly, it’s basic polyester compared with the velvety Serres-Mazard 2004 I depart with.

Along with other activities – Les Jardins plans to start a weekly market – winemaking is part of Garrigae’s drive to champion local produce. “We want to be a locomotive for the region,” says Espada. “Local producers are passionate, but they know virtually nothing about marketing.”

This is personal. The charismatic Espada, who made his fortune through an internet start-up, is committed to promoting his home region. “I grew up 15km from here and feel a real social responsibility,” he says. “If this wasn’t good, my family would kill me.”

Kids’ activities reflect his Languedoc childhood, whether it’s pottering on the resort farm or harvesting wild figs to make jam. I sample an option you won’t find in Balham: trout tickling. It sounds like an MP’s expenses claim, and is suitably slimy. First we feel under a flat rock in the Nielle, where fish doze in the shallows. Then we sedate them by caressing their bellies, before attempting a lightning grab.

It’s glorious Enid Blyton-esque fun, but it would be a shame to leave surrounding Languedoc unexplored. I drive through a vast landscape marked by vineyards, hamlets and vertiginous switchback roads en route to the giddyingly high Cathar stronghold of Quéribus – a perfect goal for cycling masochists.

Back at Les Jardins I’m paralysed by heat and the range of activities. Perhaps I need a grapeseed oil and herb massage among the vines? Or maybe something more mainstream, like tennis? I’m contemplating whether I’m too old for the kids’ club – Circus Training with Denis la Rue followed by Smell Lotto sounds sensational – when I meet Mark and Jenny from north Lincolnshire. They stumbled across Les Jardins on the web, caught a Ryanair flight to Carcassonne, and appear happily bemused. “I never thought I’d be grouting a mosaic on my holidays,” says Jenny. “It’s quirky, but also very upmarket. ‘Holiday Village’ doesn’t do it justice – it’s far more stylish shabby-chic than most coastal resorts.”

Strangely, I also have no experience of holiday mosaic grouting. It’s tempting, but I plump for something perhaps equally bizarre: goat herding. I’m visiting Guillaume Portal, a laconic, roll-up smoking producer of award-winning cheeses. But you, or more likely your children, can help lead the goats out from the steep pastures for milking – the fuel for Guillaume’s fabulous fromage.

It’s a schizophrenic world. One minute I’m in the goat shed, with more flies than the Aussie outback, the next I’m wearing a plastic coat and shoe covers, standing in a startlingly hygienic production plant, learning about intestinal enzymes. It is, however, safe to say few people return from holiday knowing how to stimulate a mushroom crust on a three-kilogramme goat’s cheese.

Later I’m using the stuff to make Languedoc tapas. Dany from Saint-Laurent demonstrates, while her winemaker son provides translation, tasty vino and a heartfelt testimony to Les Jardins. “It has the spirit of our village,” Arnaud says. “It’s good for my generation’s future.”

That will be music to Espada’s ears. Les Jardins, Garrigae’s third opening, has attracted large regional government subsidies, and massive interest from the French press. “We really believe we’re pioneering a unique model of sustainable tourism,” he says. “This will become the norm in a few years. Who knows, maybe one day we’ll end up buying all those traditional holiday villages.”

Essentials

A one-bedroom house (sleeping two) at Les Jardins de Saint Benoît (0871 2187066; garrigaeresorts.com) costs from £145 a night (seven-night stays from £716). Larger houses available. Activities cost extra: cheesemaking and goatherding €26, trout tickling €43, wine blending €34, and a full-scale boar hunt €128. Rail Europe (0844 8484070; raileurope.co.uk) has returns to Narbonne from £105. Avis (08445 818181; avis.co.uk) offers seven days’ car hire from £242.

More ways to enjoy the best of rural France

Walking in Corcsica

There’s no better way to experience Corsica than on foot. Headwater (01606 720199; headwater.com) offers an eight-day “Contrasts of Corsica” independent walking holiday, which starts in Piana and takes in stunning coastal paths, lemon groves, pine-clad forests and mountain streams. Two nights are spent in Corte, the historic old capital in the mountainous heart of the island, famous for its spectacular citadel, which is perched precariously on a large craggy outcrop.

• From £869 in August, including five hotels, most meals, route notes and luggage transfers. Fly from Gatwick to Ajaccio in Corsica with Easyjet (easyjet.com).

Lavender Festival in Montelimar

From next Saturday, the town of Montélimar in the Rhône-Alpes region is holding its annual two-day lavender festival (montelimar-tourisme.com). There’ll be flower arranging, traditional lavender distilling, flower-decorated horse-drawn carriages and the chance to stock up on lavender byproducts, such as honey and candles.

• Fly Gatwick-Marseille with Easyjet (easyjet.com) and hire a car through Auto Europe (auto-europe.co.uk) for the 170km drive to Montélimar. For places to stay visit montelimar-tourisme.com.

A chalet in the Alps

Summer is a great time to visit an Alpine ski resort: the crowds have gone and the pistes are transformed into glorious green hills. Just France (020 8780 4463; justfrance.co.uk) offers chalet holidays throughout the French Alps. The Chalet Chavannes, just above the resort of Les Gets, sleeps six and has an open garden with a stream running through it and a large balcony with a sauna and relaxation area. Visit the adventure park and lake just 15 minutes’ walk away, and Lake Geneva and the spa towns of Evian and Thonon-les-Bains are a short drive away.

• From £784 for a seven-night stay for six people in July/August, including return ferry crossing from Dover to Calais.

Wine & canal cruise in the Loire Valley

Sample your way through the Loire Valley on Le Boat’s Wine Lovers’ Cruise (0844 463 3577; leboat.co.uk). The round-trip cruise departs from Chatillon-sur-Loire and takes in Nevers and Sancerre, where you can learn all about the region’s vineyards at the Maison des Sancerre, a 15th-century house dedicated to the art of wine-making.

• A seven-night tour for up to eight people in August costs from £2,255. Fuel costs extra. Fly to Paris with Easyjet (as before), then take the train (one-and-a-half hours) to Chatillon-sur-Loire.

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds


The Guardian guide to UK hotels

Use our interactive map to find your ideal place to stay – as reviewed by our expert Sally Shalam


Ferrara as fabulous as Florence

Author Sarah Dunant set her latest novel in Ferrara, a town that captivated her with its rich history – especially that of its grand medieval convents

The first problem I had when I started writing a novel set in a 16th-century convent in Ferrara was that my spellchecker kept trying to turn the city into a car. It was one of many realisations that this history-rich place on the banks of the River Po is one of Italy’s hidden treasures.

We’ll get inside the convent later – first, Ferrara itself. I arrived there early one summer morning on a train from Florence. My walk to Florence station had been an obstacle course of cars and crocodile files of sweating tourists so busy adjusting their commentary earphones that they barely managed to lift their eyes to see what particular Renaissance wonder the guide was instructing them to appreciate.

An hour and a half later, hopping on a bus from Ferrara station, which is situated outside the massive, crumbling medieval walls, I found myself in a well-nigh perfectly preserved medieval and Renaissance city, with barely a car or a tourist to be seen and with a prevailing soundtrack of bells – the bass ones coming from the churches and the upper register from the hundreds of bicycles that are the lifeline of transport for the modern Ferrarese.

For those with the time and energy to travel outside the accepted tourist trail of Florence, Venice and Rome, north-east Italy is a goldmine. Padua, Verona and Mantua are each treasures in their way, but for my money Ferrara is the best of them all. An energetic, aggressive city state until the Papal States gobbled it up in 1597, it was run for centuries by the d’Este clan, who started out as barely concealed thugs but morphed into sophisticated Renaissance patrons, with an eye for town planning and an ear for fabulous music. The buildings you can still see; the music takes a bit more imagining.

A great boulevard divides the medieval quarter from the Renaissance side, conceived and built in the early 16th century by Duke Ercole d’Este. In the Renaissance city all is space and dignity: parks, palazzi and grand houses. In the medieval quarter the humble Ferrarese brick (one of the many wonders of this city is that much of it is built from warm brick rather than the colder glory of marble or stone) lights up a criss-cross of tiny jumbled roads, packed with churches, cloisters, old palaces and ordinary houses. The variety and ingenuity of their arches, windows and grilles are worth a small slideshow of photos in their own right.

In the middle of the divide stands the outrageous d’Este castle: half palace, half fortress, even down to its surrounding moat. Inside, under baroque sweetness lies a history of naked power. It was here, in 1425, in the marital bedchamber and the dungeons, that Niccolò d’Este had his second wife and her lover – his own son, Ugo – murdered for an alleged affair. This venting of medieval righteous anger is perhaps understandable until you learn that he himself boasted of sleeping with 800 women and that the chroniclers of the time talked of how, “left and right of the river Po, everywhere there are children by Niccolò”.

Luckily, visitors to Ferrara can now find safer places to rest their heads. Writers, of course, travel on pathetic budgets, but one can still nose out a little style. Suite Duomo on Corso Porta Reno is slap-bang in the middle of town: if you ask nicely they will give you a room with a view of the cathedral facade and you can breakfast on a terrace that overlooks the grand piazza in front. On my second day I woke to find the market in full swing, as it would have been for centuries. Amazingly, the grand cathedral had shops built into its side, and while the majority of the cheap clothes on sale now may come from China, the vegetables, meats and cheeses still roll in from the surrounding countryside.

How you spend the rest of your days (and I would recommend at least a long weekend) will depend on whether your taste leans towards ostentatious art or more humble secret architecture. By my third visit, the writer in me was already in a convent in my head, so I no longer had any time for the splendid decadence of the Palazzo Schifanoia – its name roughly translates as “avoiding boredom” – with its salon of frescoes by 15th-century Ferrarese masters depicting peasants and gods at work and at play (I leave you to guess which are doing what).

Instead, I was sticking my nose inside churches and cloisters. Casa Romeo is a beautifully restored 14th-century merchant’s house that once abutted an old convent, its central courtyard silent and serene. An equally perfect and even sweeter example of medieval cloister architecture is to be found at the entrance to the cathedral museum, right in the middle of the city’s most thriving modern thoroughfare. Opposite is a popular local wine bar where the quality of the wine is as high as the prices are low. Somewhere off that same street I found a great secondhand clothes shop (had I had one or two fewer glasses of wine I might have remembered the exact address, but at least it gives the visitor something to aim for), where I bought a leather jacket so fine I am considering being buried in it.

Which brings me to the churches. And the convents. Five hundred years ago, Ferrara, like all other Italian cities, was so nervous about female sexuality that as soon as respectable women reached the age of menstruation they were either married off or – more likely, given how expensive dowries were by this time – incarcerated in convents. “Christ is the only son-in-law who doesn’t cause me any trouble,” wrote the great Ferrarese Renaissance patron Isabella d’Este, after walling up two of her own daughters for safety.

But while no one can deny the appalling unfairness of the practice, it was not all terrible. Sisters, nieces, aunts and cousins within a family would all have been nuns – and, bearing in mind the forced marriages, abusive husbands, lack of birth control and death toll from childbirth outside the walls, convents could be sanctuaries as well as prisons. Those nuns with fine voices could use them daily (convent choirs were a source of great glory to a city like Ferrara); others played instruments and even in some cases composed music or wrote plays. The more you dig, the more a portrait emerges of small republics of women with their own dramatic ebb and flow of power.

Most Italian convents were disbanded after Napoleon invaded but among the glories of Ferrara two working ones still exist, both of them rich in history. Corpus Domini is famous both for its visionary 15th-century nun and for the tomb of the infamous Lucrezia Borgia, who married into the Ferrarese royal family in 1502 and produced a crop of heirs.

The other, Sant’Antonio in Polesine, on which I based my novel Sacred Hearts, is even more special. Originally a thriving Benedictine convent for noblewomen, it now sits serene and secluded at the edge of the city wall, home to just 17 elderly nuns.

Like the nuns of Corpus Domini they are enclosed, but if you visit between certain hours and ring the bell, a sister will talk to you through the grille, then crack open the door and guide you to the inner chapel, the walls of which are filled with wonderful, delicate frescoes from the time of Giotto.

Later you can sit in the outer church and listen while those 17 nuns sing public vespers on the other side of the altar grille. Their ageing voices are cracked and desperately sad compared with the great choir that would have enthralled the city’s dignitaries 500 years ago, but like so much in Ferrara, the experience is a reminder of the unexpected delights that this jewel of a city has to offer the more intrepid tourist.

Essentials

Ryanair (ryanair.com) flies from Edinburgh, Birmingham and Stansted to Bologna, 35 miles from Ferrara. Suite Duomo (00 39 0532 793888; suiteduomo.it) has doubles from €80. The Monastero di San Antonio in Polesine (leabbazie.it/emilia_romagna/ferrara) is open from 3.15pm-5pm on weekdays. The Monastero di Corpus Domini is currently closed for restoration but check the website above for opening hours. Further tourist information from ferraraterraeacqua.it.

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds