La ville aux mille fontaines

Last year I visited Aix-en-Provence during a period of “restrictions d’eau liées à la sécheresse” (aka drought). As a result, almost all of the city’s fountains were dry. Even without running water they still make wonderful landmarks — mossy, elaborate, at times somewhat theatrical monuments appearing at the end of streets and tucked into shaded squares — but it never quite felt like the full Aix experience. Returning at a time when the fountains were actually flowing became an inevitable desire.

The other issue that gnawed away at me in the depths of sleepless nights was the certainty that I had failed to see all of the city’s “mille fontaines”. Naturally, this led to the sensible and proportionate task of mapping every historic fountain I could find in central Aix. If I missed any, let me know, as there will be consequences. The final total identified remains some way short of a thousand, so there may still be one or two hiding somewhere behind an unsuspecting wall or cunningly tucked away in a quiet corner.

I also had to accept that certain fountains — particularly those concealed behind private courtyards and locked gates — would remain stubbornly out of reach. A hard truth, but one I continue to process with quiet dignity.

The original plan was beautifully organised. Start at a favourite spot - the elegant gardens of Pavillon de Vendôme, finish triumphantly at Fontaine de la Rotonde, and link everything together via the most efficient route possible.

This lasted right up until the more important plans for breakfast, coffee, lunch, ice cream, and a small amount of shopping asserted themselves as significantly higher priorities than route efficiency. The resulting tour involved several backtracks, but became considerably more enjoyable because of them.

Reality asserted itself promptly at the very first fountain — the reflecting pool at Parc Jourdan, which was not only turned off, but completely drained and filled with leftover infrastructure from the previous day’s Ironman event. It felt like an immediate warning against excessive optimism. From that point onward, the goal quietly shifted from “seeing every fountain flowing beautifully” to simply accepting whatever Aix decided to offer on the day.

The simple fact is Aix has something to offer everyday. Sure, this turned out to include a handful of dry fountains, a few of which were partially hidden behind construction barriers.
But the memories that will linger are much sweeter. The sound of running water echoing off old stone walls, announcing an unseen fountain hidden somewhere just around the next corner. School children playing football beneath the grand arches of Église de la Madeleine, using the doorway as an entirely adequate goal, if one with an unreachably high cross-bar. In a quiet side-street café, we enjoyed a Danish breakfast so good that we immediately started discussing a future trip to Copenhagen. It was served alongside a coffee with such depth of flavour that my daughter declared her entire understanding of coffee permanently transformed — less a drink than a revelation.

Then there was the subtle scent of roses drifting through the quieter roseraie at the entrance to Pavillon de Vendôme, the cool of shaded squares after long sunlit streets, and the way fountains seemed to appear exactly when they were most needed. Some were grand statements, others were little more than stone basins attached to walls. Together they became markers in the day, like chapters in a book, each with its own small story, all contributing to the wider narrative of la ville aux mille fontaines. Perhaps not entirely factually accurate, but never once feeling like an exaggeration.
The touristic impulse to document these wonders was strong. Armed with a smartphone, I indulged this freely and frequently, watched patiently by my daughter and considerably less patiently by a small French boy at the Palais de l’Archevêché. Despite his father’s repeated attempts to move him aside so I could photograph the elegant wall fountain, he stood his ground defiantly, sticking his tongue out until we left. The training starts young.
Our patience here was eventually rewarded by an art exhibition tucked away in a corner of the Archbishop’s Palace, advertised by a wonderfully reassuring sign promising both free entry and free exit. Although the artwork itself was interesting, the real discovery was a small unrecorded wall basin hidden within the small courtyard entrance . It was probably the smallest and least significant fountain-like object we encountered all day, but somehow that only made it better. It felt less like a monument and more like a tiny forgotten fragment of the city quietly revealing itself to anyone curious enough to wander through the right doorway.
By mid-afternoon, the mapped route had slowly become more of a suggestion than an instruction and the memories of fountains began to blur into one another. Had we been here once before, possibly even twice? Even the landmark fountains carried an air of uncertainty about them at this point. Should I take a photo, just in case?
Eventually we reached what we believed - and were certainly prepared to declare, the final fountain on our route. Fontaine d’Argent, the “Fountain of Silver”. No silver was in evidence today, but it captured the essence of Aix quite neatly. Part theatrics, part everyday - full of character.
The exact number of fountains visited remains disputed. In the end, perhaps the point was never to find every fountain. Aix works precisely because there always seems to be another one somewhere ahead, a rumour, half-heard and just around the next corner.