A Year in Provence

A Year in Provence

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780679731146
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date: 06/28/1991
Series: Vintage Departures Series
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 224
Sales rank: 33,304
Product dimensions: 8.04(w) x 5.30(h) x 0.61(d)

About the Author

Peter Mayle is the author of fifteen books, nine of them novels, including the beloved bestseller A Year in Provence. A recipient of the Légion d’Honneur from the French government for his cultural contributions, he lived in Provence with his wife, Jennie, for more than twenty-five years. Mayle died in 2018.

Read an Excerpt

THE YEAR BEGAN with lunch.

We have always found that New Year's Eve, with its eleventh-hour excesses and doomed resolutions, is a dismal occasion for all the forced jollity and midnight toasts and kisses. And so, when we heard that over in the village of Lacoste, a few miles away, the proprietor of Le Simiane was offering a six-course lunch with pink champagne to his amiable clientele, it seemed like a much more cheerful way to start the next twelve months.

By 12:30 the little stone-walled restaurant was full. There were some serious stomachs to be seen-entire families with the embonpoint that comes from spending two or three diligent hours every day at the table, eyes down and conversation postponed in the observance of France's favorite ritual. The proprietor of the restaurant, a man who had somehow perfected the art of hovering despite his considerable size, was dressed for the day in a velvet smoking jacket and bow tie. His mustache, sleek with pomade, quivered with enthusiasm as he rhapsodized over the menu: foie gras, lobster mousse, beef en cro?te, salads dressed in virgin oil, hand-picked cheeses, desserts of a miraculous lightness, digestifs. It was a gastronomic aria which he performed at each table, kissing the tips of his fingers so often that he must have blistered his lips.

The final "bon app?tit" died away and a companionable near-silence descended on the restaurant as the food received its due attention. While we ate, my wife and I thought of previous New Year's Days, most of them spent under impenetrable cloud in England. It was hard to associate the sunshine and dense blue sky outside with the first of January but, as everyone kept telling us, it was quite normal. After all, we were in Provence.

We had been here often before as tourists, desperate for our annual ration of two or three weeks of true heat and sharp light. Always when we left, with peeling noses and regret, we promised ourselves that one day we would live here. We had talked about it during the long gray winters and the damp green summers, looked with an addict's longing at photographs of village markets and vineyards, dreamed of being woken up by the sun slanting through the bedroom window. And now, somewhat to our surprise, we had done it. We had committed ourselves. We had bought a house, taken French lessons, said our good-byes, shipped over our two dogs, and become foreigners.

In the end, it had happened quickly-almost impulsively-because of the house. We saw it one afternoon and had mentally moved in by dinner.

It was set above the country road that runs between the two medieval hill villages of M?nerbes and Bonnieux, at the end of a dirt track through cherry trees and vines. It was a mas, or farmhouse, built from local stone which two hundred years of wind and sun had weathered to a color somewhere between pale honey and pale gray. It had started life in the eighteenth century as one room and, in the haphazard manner of agricultural buildings, had spread to accommodate children, grandmothers, goats, and farm implements until it had become an irregular three-story house. Everything about it was solid. The spiral staircase which rose from the wine cave to the top floor was cut from massive slabs of stone. The walls, some of them a meter thick, were built to keep out the winds of the Mistral which, they say, can blow the ears off a donkey. Attached to the back of the house was an enclosed courtyard, and beyond that a bleached white stone swimming pool. There were three wells, there were established shade trees and slim green cypresses, hedges of rosemary, a giant almond tree. In the afternoon sun, with the wooden shutters half-closed like sleepy eyelids, it was irresistible.

It was also immune, as much as any house could be, from the creeping horrors of property development. The French have a weakness for erecting jolies villas wherever building regulations permit, and sometimes where they don't, particularly in areas of hitherto unspoiled and beautiful countryside. We had seen them in a ghastly rash around the old market town of Apt, boxes made from that special kind of livid pink cement which remains livid no matter what the weather may throw at it. Very few areas of rural France are safe unless they have been officially protected, and one of the great attractions of this house was that it sat within the boundaries of a national park, sacred to the French heritage and out of bounds to concrete mixers.

The Lub?ron Mountains rise up immediately behind the house to a high point of nearly 3,500 feet and run in deep folds for about forty miles from west to east. Cedars and pines and scrub oak keep them perpetually green and provide cover for boar, rabbits, and game birds. Wild flowers, thyme, lavender, and mushrooms grow between the rocks and under the trees, and from the summit on a clear day the view is of the Basses-Alpes on one side and the Mediterranean on the other. For most of the year, it is possible to walk for eight or nine hours without seeing a car or a human being. It is a 247,000-acre extension of the back garden, a paradise for the dogs and a permanent barricade against assault from the rear by unforeseen neighbors.

Neighbors, we have found, take on an importance in the country that they don't begin to have in cities. You can live for years in an apartment in London or New York and barely speak to the people who live six inches away from you on the other side of a wall. In the country, separated from the next house though you may be by hundreds of yards, your neighbors are part of your life, and you are part of theirs. If you happen to be foreign and therefore slightly exotic, you are inspected with more than usual interest. And if, in addition, you inherit a long-standing and delicate agricultural arrangement, you are quickly made aware that your attitudes and decisions have a direct effect on another family's well-being.

We had been introduced to our new neighbors by the couple from whom we bought the house, over a five-hour dinner marked by a tremendous goodwill on all sides and an almost total lack of comprehension on our part. The language spoken was French, but it was not the French we had studied in textbooks and heard on cassettes; it was a rich, soupy patois, emanating from somewhere at the back of the throat and passing through a scrambling process in the nasal passages before coming out as speech. Half-familiar sounds could be dimly recognized as words through the swirls and eddies of Proven?al: demain became demang, vin became vang, maison became mesong. That by itself would not have been a problem had the words been spoken at normal conversational speed and without further embroidery, but they were delivered like bullets from a machine gun, often with an extra vowel tacked on to the end for good luck. Thus an offer of more bread-page-one stuff in French for beginners-emerged as a single twanging question. Encoredupanga?

Fortunately for us, the good humor and niceness of our neighbors were apparent even if what they were saying was a mystery. Henriette was a brown, pretty woman with a permanent smile and a sprinter's enthusiasm for reaching the finish line of each sentence in record time. Her husband, Faustin-or Faustang, as we thought his name was spelled for many weeks-was large and gentle, unhurried in his movements and relatively slow with his words. He had been born in the valley, he had spent his life in the valley, and he would die in the valley. His father, P?p? Andr?, who lived next to him, had shot his last boar at the age of eighty and had given up hunting to take up the bicycle. Twice a week he would pedal to the village for his groceries and his gossip. They seemed to be a contented family.

They had, however, a concern about us, not only as neighbors but as prospective partners, and, through the fumes of marc and black tobacco and the even thicker fog of the accent, we eventually got to the bottom of it.

Most of the six acres of land we had bought with the house was planted with vines, and these had been looked after for years under the traditional system of m?tayage: the owner of the land pays the capital costs of new vine stock and fertilizer, while the farmer does the work of spraying, cropping, and pruning. At the end of the season, the farmer takes two-thirds of the profits and the owner one-third. If the property changes hands, the arrangement comes up for review, and there was Faustin's concern. It was well known that many of the properties in the Lub?ron were bought as r?sidences secondaires, used for holidays and amusement, their good agricultural land turned into elaborately planted gardens. There were even cases of the ultimate blasphemy, when vines had been grubbed up to make way for tennis courts. Tennis courts! Faustin shrugged with disbelief, shoulders and eyebrows going up in unison as he contemplated the extraordinary idea of exchanging precious vines for the curious pleasures of chasing a little ball around in the heat.

He needn't have worried. We loved the vines-the ordered regularity of them against the sprawl of the mountain, the way they changed from bright green to darker green to yellow and red as spring and summer turned to autumn, the blue smoke in the pruning season as the clippings were burned, the pruned stumps studding the bare fields in the winter-they were meant to be here. Tennis courts and landscaped gardens weren't. (Nor, for that matter, was our swimming pool, but at least it hadn't replaced any vines.) And, besides, there was the wine. We had the option of taking our profit in cash or in the bottle, and in an average year our share of the crop would be nearly a thousand litres of good ordinary red and pink. As emphatically as we could in our unsteady French, we told Faustin that we would be delighted to continue the existing arrangement. He beamed. He could see that we would all get along very well together. One day, we might even be able to talk to each other.

THE PROPRIETOR of Le Simiane wished us a happy new year and hovered in the doorway as we stood in the narrow street, blinking into the sun.

"Not bad, eh?" he said, with a flourish of one velvet-clad arm which took in the village, the ruins of the Marquis de Sade's ch?teau perched above, the view across to the mountains and the bright, clean sky. It was a casually possessive gesture, as if he was showing us a corner of his personal estate. "One is fortunate to be in Provence."

Yes indeed, we thought, one certainly was. If this was winter we wouldn't be needing all the foul-weather paraphernalia-boots and coats and inch-thick sweaters-that we had brought over from England. We drove home, warm and well fed, making bets on how soon we could take the first swim of the year, and feeling a smug sympathy for those poor souls in harsher climates who had to suffer real winters.

Meanwhile, a thousand miles to the north, the wind that had started in Siberia was picking up speed for the final part of its journey. We had heard stories about the Mistral. It drove people, and animals, mad. It was an extenuating circumstance in crimes of violence. It blew for fifteen days on end, uprooting trees, overturning cars, smashing windows, tossing old ladies into the gutter, splintering telegraph poles, moaning through houses like a cold and baleful ghost, causing la grippe, domestic squabbles, absenteeism from work, toothache, migraine-every problem in Provence that couldn't be blamed on the politicians was the fault of the s?cr? vent which the Proven?aux spoke about with a kind of masochistic pride.

Typical Gallic exaggeration, we thought. If they had to put up with the gales that come off the English Channel and bend the rain so that it hits you in the face almost horizontally, then they might know what a real wind was like. We listened to their stories and, to humor the tellers, pretended to be impressed.

And so we were poorly prepared when the first Mistral of the year came howling down the Rh?ne valley, turned left, and smacked into the west side of the house with enough force to skim roof tiles into the swimming pool and rip a window that had carelessly been left open off its hinges. The temperature dropped twenty degrees in twenty-four hours. It went to zero, then six below. Readings taken in Marseilles showed a wind speed of 180 kilometers an hour. My wife was cooking in an overcoat. I was trying to type in gloves. We stopped talking about our first swim and thought wistfully about central heating. And then one morning, with the sound of branches snapping, the pipes burst one after the other under the pressure of water that had frozen in them overnight.

They hung off the wall, swollen and stopped up with ice, and Monsieur Menicucci studied them with his professional plumber's eye.

"Oh l? l?," he said. "Oh l? l?." He turned to his young apprentice, whom he invariably addressed as jeune homme or jeune. "You see what we have here, jeune. Naked pipes. No insulation. C?te d'Azur plumbing. In Cannes, in Nice, it would do, but here . . ."

He made a clucking sound of disapproval and wagged his finger under jeune's nose to underline the difference between the soft winters of the coast and the biting cold in which we were now standing, and pulled his woolen bonnet firmly down over his ears. He was short and compact, built for plumbing, as he would say, because he could squeeze himself into constricted spaces that more ungainly men would find inaccessible. While we waited for jeune to set up the blowtorch, Monsieur Menicucci delivered the first of a series of lectures and collected pens?es which I would listen to with increasing enjoyment throughout the coming year. Today, we had a geophysical dissertation on the increasing severity of Proven?al winters.

For three years in a row, winters had been noticeably harder than anyone could remember-cold enough, in fact, to kill ancient olive trees. It was, to use the phrase that comes out in Provence whenever the sun goes in, pas normal. But why? Monsieur Menicucci gave me a token two seconds to ponder this phenomenon before warming to his thesis, tapping me with a finger from time to time to make sure I was paying attention.

It was clear, he said, that the winds which brought the cold down from Russia were arriving in Provence with greater velocity than before, taking less time to reach their destination and therefore having less time to warm up en route. And the reason for this-Monsieur Menicucci allowed himself a brief but dramatic pause-was a change in the configuration of the earth's crust. Mais oui. Somewhere between Siberia and M?nerbes the curvature of the earth had flattened, enabling the wind to take a more direct route south. It was entirely logical. Unfortunately, part two of the lecture (Why the Earth Is Becoming Flatter) was interrupted by a crack of another burst pipe, and my education was put aside for some virtuoso work with the blowtorch.

Reading Group Guide

The questions, discussion topics, and reading list that follow are designed to enhance your group's reading of Peter Mayle's delightful books about life in Provence, where he and his wife bought a two-hundred-year-old stone farmhouse nestled in the foothills of the Lubéron Mountains.

1. How well did Mayle's frequent trips to Provence as a tourist prepare him for the reality of residing there? What were some of the initial surprises he and his wife encountered?

2. How does the form of the book--a month-by-month journal--enhance the immediacy of Mayle's observations and draw the reader into his experiences? How do the changing seasons mirror Mayle's own adjustment to his new environment?

3. Mayle writes that neighbors take on an importance in the country that they don't have in the city [p. 6]. How do his relationships with Faustin, Massot, Menicucci, and the other local workmen reflect this? Does the fact that Mayle is a foreigner influence the way he is treated? How do the men working on his house endear themselves to Mayle, despite his continuing frustrations with their casual attitude about completing the job?

4. Mayle notes there are "two areas of endeavor in which France leads the world-- bureaucracy and gastronomy" [p. 23]. What particular characteristics of the French does Mayle bring to light in stories about the bureaucracy involved in buying the house, a car, insurance, and other necessities?

5. The influx of tourists begins in May and reaches a high point in August. How does his status as a resident affect Mayle's attitudes about friends and acquaintances who, as he himself once did, try to take in everything Provence has to offer during a short holiday? Does he learn things about himself and the life he has chosen by looking through the eyes of visitors? To what extent are his own perceptions influenced by his English upbringing?

6. How does the Mayles' party for the workmen and their wives, as well as their own Christmas dinner at a local restaurant, put the events of the year into context and serve as a coda to the book as a whole?

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A Year in Provence 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 100 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
For those who dream of escaping the rat race and "getting away from it all", this is the quintessential experience writ large. In this classic story, author Peter Mayle captures both the uniqueness and quirkiness that is rural France and its people while spinning a tale the reader will quickly fall in love with. From the challenges presented on their arrival through their transition to acceptance, Mayle captures the warp and woof of real life on every page. For those who lovingly treasure their "joie de vivre", this unforgettable book will easily enjoy an honored place on the shelf. Enjoy!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I come from a small village not too far from where the book takes place and that was the cheapest trip back home that I have taken in the past ten years that I have lived in the US. So real and also so simple, I read it on the subway going to work and tears would come to my eyes from the description of the market, the food, the people , their attitude and so many many other things..then two minutes after I would be laughing out loud and people around me would just stare at me. I would recommend this book to anyone who wants a simple and genuine good read about Provence. It is written in a very funny, English-humor-tongue in cheek kindda way. Thank you for a great trip and good memories .I could smell and taste Provence from Brooklyn, New York.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book brought back so many great memories of my growing up in Provence. Mr Mayle has done a fantastic job describing the way of life, the passion we have for good food, the scenery, this book definitely makes me homesick for Provence, and also made me laugh so much because only Mr Mayle could explain hunting for truffles so well! I have the movie (4 tapes, one for each season) of a year in Provence, it's hilarious! I highly recommend them!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I saw the movie before I read the book. I have read Provence many times. It seems each time I read it I slip into the adventures involved with moving and following your dreams. I love it.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is to fun to read, I have just moved from Cailf to Ohio so for me this was a nice way to know I'm not alone on learning new ways of life.
seoulful on LibraryThing 21 days ago
Upon reading this book for the second time, I am reminded of the skill Peter Mayle has in describing the foibles of the Provencal while at the same time making the shortcomings seem a source of delight. Mr. Mayle and his wife suffer through a year of delays and other provocations in the remodeling of their house, but appear to so enjoy the laborers who come in fits and starts that the experience is worth the inconvenience and frustration, not to mention being material for a very popular and successful book. A good guide to the mannners, customs, food, wine and seasonal changes in a small town in Provence.
Romonko on LibraryThing 21 days ago
This little book that covers a year in the colourful French province of Provence surprised and delighted me. This type of book is far from my usual genre, but I read it because a family member recommended it, and I loved it! The book was fascinating and extremely funny. Peter Mayle portrays the wonderful local people of Provence with humour and with great appreciation. His portrayal of Menicucci the garoulous plumber made me laugh out loud several times. He turns out to be the hinge that the story swings on because Mayle and his wife keep having to go to back to him to solve another problem. The book is part travelogue, but it is a study of human nature. It made me want to go to Provence myself to experience the people and of course the wonderful food! Make no mistake. This book is really about the wonderful and varied food culture of this wonderful part of the world. I really loved this book!
ajbarnett on LibraryThing 21 days ago
I thoroughly enjoyed this book. Reminds me of where I live now, except I'm in Spain, not France.
meags222 on LibraryThing 21 days ago
This was a book club pick. This year we decided to pick a different genre for each month and this month is non-fiction. This book is a literary travel book. Mayle gives a month by month recap of his life in Provence, France. Most of this book centers on food and at times I found the description to be way too much. While I like a bit of description I found that this went overboard. I almost felt like the author didn't have anything else to write about. It seems that Mayle spent a quiet year relaxing, renovating and hosting guests and when it came time to write a book he needed a little filler. This means pages upon pages of listed different foods that he ate and at times he even goes further by explaining where some of the food comes from (ie truffles). I ahve to say that there were a few cute parts to the book but overall I found it to be a bit boring. The book is not long so it didn't take me very long to read otherwise I may have abandoned it. One positive thing I can say is that it did make me want to visit Provence. It just seems like a place were one can get away from the hustle and bustle of the city and really relax and enjoy a few glasses of wine. Overall I give this book 2.5 out of 5 stars.
e.krepska on LibraryThing 21 days ago
Besides several funny stories, I found this book mostly boring. I quite disliked the long lists of dishes served in many restaurants the author visited and inclusions of French words. My advice is: read this book on vacation in one evening (safely skip the food descriptions), laugh a bit and forget about it.
pharrm on LibraryThing 21 days ago
Here is a joyful book that stays with you long after the cover is closed. Mayle describes his move to So France's Provence area and daily life and his discoveries of the locals and their idiosyncrasies. Fun read.
thioviolight on LibraryThing 21 days ago
A light read and easy that can be enjoyed slowly, a little bit at a time. It was like a little holiday to an entirely different place, and all the culinary descriptions were like a taste of Provence for me. I hope that one day I could take a real trip there.
Fluffyblue on LibraryThing 21 days ago
I really loved this book. It conjured up all that's good about France.
robynkit on LibraryThing 21 days ago
Very amusing journey of Peter Mayle and his wife trying to adjust to living in Provence with all of its quirkiness and routine. I enjoyed this book.
Mendoza on LibraryThing 21 days ago
In prose that skips along lightly, Mayle records the highlights of each month, from the aberration of snow in February and the algae-filled swimming pool of March through the tourist invasions and unpredictable renovations of the summer months to a quiet Christmas alone. Throughout the book, he paints colorful portraits of his neighbors, the grocers and butchers and farmers who amuse, confuse, and befuddle him at every turn. A Year in Provence is part memoir, part homeowner's manual, part travelogue, and all charming fun.
LTW on LibraryThing 21 days ago
He describes in loving detail the charming, 200-year-old farmhouse at the base of the Lubéron Mountains, its thick stone walls and well-tended vines, its wine cave and wells, its shade trees and swimming pool--its lack of central heating. Indeed, not 10 pages into the book, reality comes crashing into conflict with the idyll when the Mistral, that frigid wind that ravages the Rhône valley in winter, cracks the pipes, rips tiles from the roof, and tears a window from its hinges. And that's just January.
vernazzablue on LibraryThing 21 days ago
Fun, fun, fun. The first and best of Mayle's Provence memoirs. The characters are wonderful and hilarious. His remodeling conundrums are laugh out loud entertaining.
tulip_367 on LibraryThing 21 days ago
An easy and overall rather pleasant read but I found the characters too romanticized and was irritated by some French sayings supposedly said by French people that are not even correct French. Being a French expat, the parts I enjoyed were the ones about food!
CasualFriday on LibraryThing 21 days ago
A Year in Provence recounts the experience of an Englishman who moved to the south of France, restored an old house, and ate and drank extremely well. It was certainly an easy read, and mildly diverting. But I didn't come away with any sense of Provence as a place or a culture. I didn't get to know the narrator or his weirdly anonymous wife. There was a lot of "local color" in portrayals of the workmen and merchants encountered by the Englishman; the portrayals struck me as patronizing as much as affectionate, and it didn't escape me that the author didn't actually make any Provencal friends.
porch_reader on LibraryThing 21 days ago
Author Peter Mayle and his wife bought a house in Provence, and this book chronicles their first year living there. Three primary themes run through the chapters - house repairs, house guests, and food. As a whole, the book is well-written - almost like getting letters from a witty friend. But I have to admit my favorite parts were the parts about food. Given that I usually eat meals on my way to or from little league games, the ideas of a multi-course meal paired with good wine, good bread, and good olive oil sounds fantastic to me. I enjoyed living vicariously through Mayle.
BooksForDinner on LibraryThing 23 days ago
What fun. Picked this book up after I recently vacationed in Provence, and got a big kick out of it. Well written, and though written 20 odd years ago, holds up well. Funny lovable characters throughout, and a true love for the region comes shining through.
Oreillynsf on LibraryThing 25 days ago
How can you not love a book that begins, "The year began with lunch." Probably the most popular travelogue ever, A Year in Provence chronicles a year in the life of Peter Mayle, a former ad guy who left that behind to buy and live in a farmhouse in Provence. A wonderful portrayal of adjustment to new surroundings and appreciating people and lifestyles different from your own. Joie de vivre,
soylentgreen23 on LibraryThing 5 months ago
Is it Mayle we have to blame for the upsurge in recent years of people moving to France? It's possible that this book accounts for as many making the shift as a strong currency or a healthy economy ever could.The book is exactly what its title suggests it should be -the story of Mayle's first year living in Provence. I can't recall how he makes his money from all of this, but it proves a fascinating tale of an escape from the rat race; bucolic and enchanting enough to avoid sentimentality.
cstumbo on LibraryThing 5 months ago
This book eventually propelled me to Provence for a biking/cooking tour. :)
wenestvedt on LibraryThing 5 months ago
I really enjoyed this book, but I think a little of it would go a long way. Yes, the locals were hard for these British ex-pats to get to know, but they're warm folk when you get to know them. And yes, the air is clearer there and the food better and everyone nobler. (But I must also admit that the days I spent staying at a farm in southern France *were* pretty amazing: Mayle can't be blamed too much for going on and on.)