Sainte-Croix-en-Jarez is a village inside a monastery, which is a sentence that does not make sense until you see it. Béatrix de Roussillon founded a Carthusian charterhouse here in 1280, in a hollow of the Pilat hills, and for five centuries, monks lived in solitary cells around a cloister, as the Carthusians do. When the Revolution dispersed the community, the buildings were sold, and the villagers moved into the monks' cells and the service buildings, so today ordinary houses, a bakery and a café share the old walls, and the village's streets follow the cloister. The church, the chapter house and the great gate are still there, and some of the cells are open to visitors.
The village is listed among the most beautiful in France, and it feels like a place where time has been layered, with medieval stone and farmhouses leaning into each other. The surrounding landscape is the Pilat regional park, a rounded massif of old rock and forest that rises between Lyon and Saint-Étienne, with chestnut woods, pastures and a few ridge-top viewpoints. The Gier valley runs below, once heavily industrial, now greener, with the town of Rive-de-Gier as its centre.
Getting here is half the pleasure. The roads climb from the valley through woodland and meadows in a sequence of short, tight corners, and they are narrow, with occasional gravel and wet leaves. Traffic is light, except on fine weekends when cyclists and walkers fill the hills. Fuel is not available in the village, so fill up in Rive-de-Gier, about six kilometres away, which has nearly fifteen thousand people, several stations and supermarkets. There is a small café in the village, and a restaurant or two that serve local food, such as Pilat cheeses and chestnut desserts.
The ridge road toward Pilat and Saint-Étienne is one of the nicest in the region, and the village makes a good halfway stop. In winter, snow can fall on the high ground, and mist is common in the valley, so check the conditions. The best time is a soft autumn afternoon, when the stone glows and the smell of woodsmoke drifts along the lanes. Take your helmet off and listen to the quiet. There are no cars in the cloister, and the silence feels earned.