I bought a book last night…Encore Provence by Peter Mayle. It is the only one of his memoirs that I haven’t read. It is the third in the series that began with A Year in Provence which was published back in 1989. I love travel books and memoirs of all shades and Peter Mayle is by far my favourite writer of both genres. I’m not a big fan of his novels, but his memoirs are delicious.
I couldn’t wait to get into my new book. So what did I do? I put it aside and I picked up A Year In Provence (I have already read it several times, but not in the last three or more years) and I started at the beginning. And remarkably, it feels every bit as fresh and delightful as did the first time around.
I read A Year in Provence a long time ago and like millions of readers around the world, I fell hopelessly in love with Provence and Mayle’s lighthearted account of his life there. I was two pages into that first book and I was hooked. Mayle talks about how he and his wife finally made the decision to move to Provence, a place that they had long been dreaming about living in and he says:
“… And now, somewhat to our surprise, we had done it. We had committed ourselves. We had bought a house, taken French lessons, said our goodbyes, 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 a mas, or farmhouse, built from local stone which two hundred years of wind and sun had weathered to a colour somewhere between pale honey and pale grey… Attached to the back of the house was an enclosed courtyard…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.”
And from that point on, so was the book and it’s charming author. There is an ease in Mayle’s writing and a certain whimsy. He is clearly enamoured of Provence and he’s charmed and amused by the people and the customs and it all comes through in his writing.
He is a gifted story teller with an eye for detail and an ability to write the most evocative prose, particularly while describing the beauty of his adopted home:
“The Luberon mountains rise up immediately behind the house to a high point of 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 for cover for boar and 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.”
And who can blame him, considering that Provence, the part of it that he lives in, looks like this:
But it isn’t just the beauty of the place, it is the sheer quality of life that comes from living in the countryside, where the pace of life is slow and there is time to appreciate the good things in life, like a morning spent at the market, an evening at the cafe watching a game of boules, a dinner at a friends house, a walk through the mountains, a wine tasting, a spectacular meal at a restaurant in the middle of nowhere… and France, particularly Provence seems to have an abundance of the good things. In the end, what appeals to me the most in Mayle’s writing is the sheer joy in life that comes through the pages of his books.