Picture the scene. You’re in a beachside restaurant that overlooks the Med. Before you sits a plateful of fresh john dory and a glass of rosé wine. Okay, a bottle. There’s nobody on the sunlit shore, for it is spring, and the rest of Europe is eating sandwiches in the office. You take a pull of the wine and wonder idly if you have anything pressing on for the next 25 years.

If that appeals to the aesthete in you, then now is exactly the right time for a little wine tour of Provence. Nothing too heavy — wine-buffery is a dangerous disease leading to insanity — but a springtime pursuit of plonk is a fine way of getting in among the wilder bits of the region, and the more popular coastal bits, before the masses congregate.

Of course, real wine buffs don’t rate Provençal wines anyway. They react with hollow laughter. (They do that often. It’s a sign of their madness.) Provençal wines are 80% rosé, and pink cannot be serious, they say.

Ignore them. First, and I have considered this question in depth, there is nothing wrong with frivolous wine-drinking. It’s often the most rewarding sort. Second, Provençal pinks are no longer the headache- provoking preserve of the picnicking classes. They’ve moved on, and are among the few wines defying the present French viticultural crisis and actually increasing sales. Third, the region also boasts reds and whites to confound Bordeaux and Burgundy, at a fraction of the price. And finally — whatever the colour — the wines fit the frame of a land at once tough, tasty and voluptuous. Along this route, you will encounter rugged hills, excellent food and astounding churches. You will also gaze upon Mary Magdalene’s skull: the Provençaux prefer their religion, like their food, highly coloured. The boundaries between the spiritual and the sensual remain, frankly, fluid.

You will find the regional wines a pleasing complement to all of this. Just two words of warning. When visiting a vineyard, and however splendid the produce, remember that wine is a drink, not an artistic experience. That way, you’ll avoid the outer edges of lunacy. And, if tasting, spit out sometimes. Otherwise you’ll end up giggling, at the bottom of a gorge, four wheels in the air.

This is a wine-driven trip, so we’ll leave some big sites — Aix, St Tropez — for another time. It’s tailored for flying into Marseilles in the late afternoon and hiring a car. Others may come along by jumping off the A8 motorway at St Maximin.

DAY ONE: You’re tired, so it’s a quick 45-minute flip from the airport, between Marseilles and Aix, to Gardanne on the D6, thence to Trets and into St Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume. With any luck, the late light will be doing spectacular things to the great slab of the Montagne Ste Victoire, to the north. Painted upwards of 60 times by Cézanne, it is an item of mesmerising colour and hugeness. As is the basilica in St Maximin, which lords it over the jolly little town like a supertanker among tugs. Aim for it, then slide off next door to the monastery, recently reopened as the Hôtellerie Le Couvent Royal (Place Jean Salusse; 00 33-4 94 86 55 66, www.hotelfp- saintmaximin.com, a hotel of distinctly nonmonastic contem- porary standards; doubles start at £61. Dine in the Chapter House restaurant (from £22pp), then wander through the splendid cloisters, pondering Mary Magdalene.

The story goes that she landed on the Provençal coast, having been set adrift in a boat from Palestine with other A-list early Christians. After evangelising the region, she retired to a cave in the Ste Baume mountains. Then she died. In 1279, her tomb and relics were dis-covered in St Maximin. The giant basilica was built to house them. Immediately, the site became one of the holiest in Christendom, with popes and sovereigns queueing to visit.

If all this raises doubts, don’t express them. Though genial, the Provençaux are easy to offend. It’s been a long day. and a long story. Time for bed.

DAY 2: Straight to the basilica, which, though never quite finished, really is of startling gothic magnificence. Note the perfect proportions, the walnut pulpit, the organ and the 16th-century altarpiece — then stop pretending. What you really want to see is the relics. They’re in the crypt, past the sarco- phaguses. A blackened skull stares out from a gold setting. Below, a tube contains the strip of skin from Mary Magdalene’s forehead touched by Christ after the Resurrection. Contemplation of both generates an unease that will take all morning to shift. A drink will help.

Beetle along the plain and through the woods into the delightful village of La Celle, whose centrepiece is another former abbey: monks increased logarithmically round here. The left-hand side is HQ to Côteaux Varois wines.

Now, we’re not going to go into the intricacies of French wine appellations. None of us has the patience. Suffice it to say that, of the two wine districts in the Var département where we’re travelling, the Côteaux Varois is the junior, with slightly easier wines at slightly cheaper prices than its big brother, the Côtes de Provence. But rosé is to the fore in both, styles are similar and you’ll do damned well to dis- tinguish general differences. The variations are between individual wines.

The charming people at the abbey will talk of this, then let you have a taste. Go for a Domaine Gayolle rosé. It will perk you up no end, ease concern about Mary Magdalene and suggest lunch. There’s a very posh restaurant, L’Abbaye de la Celle, in another wing of the abbey. Go, by all means: but there’ll be small change out of £45pp, you’re going to be eating very well tonight, and just opposite is the Café du Midi, a homely village spot with a dish of the day for £7.15.