A Year in Provence

by Peter Mayle

Neighbours, we have found, take on an importance in the country that they don’t begin to have in cities.

Out here in the country there was no avoiding the direct link between death and dinner,

We wanted to buy, the proprietor wanted to sell, a price was agreed, it was all straightforward. But then we became reluctant participants in the national sport of paper-gathering.

The two areas of endeavour in which France leads the world – bureaucracy and gastronomy – had combined to put us in our place.

there were days of material ahead, and the writer of that first story could almost be seen rubbing his hands in anticipation as he paused between sentences to look for some more exclamation marks.

today it is Sunday in Provence, and life is to be enjoyed.

There is nothing bland about Provence,

The sun was a great tranquillizer, and time passed in a haze of well-being; long, slow, almost torpid days when it was so enjoyable to be alive that nothing else mattered.

At any time of the year, but particularly in the summer, it was well known that foreigners of one stripe or another were responsible for causing most of the problems in life.

Living in France had turned us into bakery addicts, and the business of choosing and buying our daily bread was a recurring pleasure.

‘Look at those vines,’ he said. ‘Nature is wearing her prettiest clothes.’

There comes a time in the restoration of an old house when the desire to see it finished threatens all those noble aesthetic intentions to see it finished properly.

They were all astonished that it had taken so long, as though people other than themselves had been responsible.

‘And, as for the oil, it is a masterpiece. You’ll see.’ Before dinner that night, we tested it, dripping it on to slices of bread that had been rubbed with the flesh of tomatoes. It was like eating sunshine.

A connoisseur of woe needs fresh worries from time to time, or he will become complacent.

It had been a self-absorbed year, confined mostly to the house and the valley, fascinating to us in its daily detail, sometimes frustrating, often uncomfortable, but never dull or disappointing. And, above all, we felt at home.