A Year in Provence (Vintage Departures)
NATIONAL BESTSELLER • In this witty and warm-hearted account, Peter Mayle tells what it is like to realize a long-cherished dream and actually move into a 200-year-old stone farmhouse in the remote country of the Lubéron with his wife and two large dogs.
He endures January's frosty mistral as it comes howling down the Rhône Valley, discovers the secrets of goat racing through the middle of town, and delights in the glorious regional cuisine. A Year in Provence transports us into all the earthy pleasures of Provençal life and lets us live vicariously at a tempo governed by seasons, not by days.
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Community Reviews
A charming bauble perhaps best read curled up in the winter under a blanket with a glass of wine nearby. Pair it with Mayle's "Anything Considered" (which I read first - see my separate review).
“The year began with lunch,” starts Peter Mayle’s book, A Year in Provence, a delightfully entertaining travelogue that documents the fulfilling of the British author and his wife’s dream of restoring an old, stone farmhouse set at the base of the Lubéron Mountains in southern France. And while the charming house seemed so perfect when they impulsively bought it, the reality of Provence set in within the first month with the introduction to the Mistral – a violently strong and cold wind that drops the temperature to subzero levels and causes their naked pipes to burst. It was during the description of this bitterly cold that I fell in love with Mayle and his wife. The two were able to piece a few things together after wondering exactly WHERE did everyone go during this frigid weather and when most of the residents were born.
As the months progress, Mayle introduces the eccentric locals, know-it-all builders, and ignorant acquaintances that use the author’s home as a depot of sorts for their own vacation. Each chapter is laced with descriptions of decadent foods found throughout the region in cafés and restaurants. Equally descriptive is the content describing the indulgent, ever-flowing French wines. Going from month to month, each chapters’ descriptions will have the reader laughing out loud - and eventually starving - and then the hectic year is finished with a peaceful Christmas dinner between Mayle and his wife.
Peter Mayle’s dry, British wit is possibly the single best thing about the book. His simple one-liners or easy observations provide hilarious insight into his character and appreciation for the absurd. Any book that elicits a bark of out-loud laughter should be praised, and A Year in Provence is no exception. The detail that Mayle puts into characterizing his eccentric neighbors and employees such as Faustin – the farmer, butcher, doomsayer; Menicucci – the plumber, electrician, personal Yellow Pages-know-it-all that happens to enjoy Mozart; or Massot – the local rival of tourists that goes out of his way in scare-tactics from dogs to signs warning about land mines, makes you fall in love with the region’s local personalities. Their descriptions are so perfectly French that it cannot be helped but to smile and enjoy.
The pace in Provence seems to be much more relaxed and as Mayle says, “[timing is] a very elastic commodity, even when it is described in clear and specific terms” (p. 45). The problem with trying to get the builders and workmen together in order to complete the renovations is nothing short of entertaining. Mayle’s descriptions of how hand gestures have to be read almost scientifically when discussing time restraints is an art form. His imagery is wittingly funny and can be perfectly envisioned.
Much of the book goes into detail about meals and food. The French are obsessed with the stomach and anything that pleases the palate. Mayle and his wife, throughout their year in Provence, grow accustomed to it quickly and each description provides the reader insight into some of the things we may be missing as Americans or English (or any number of countries that enjoy food on a far less scale than what the French seem to). Reading through, I was certain that I would tire of reading the descriptions of foreign and strange ingredients. Instead, I found myself fascinated with the way the French eat. The cafés and restaurants sound heavenly, even if there are several that simply serve whatever the chef decides to make for the day. As a complete novice – rather, a wine virgin – the descriptions of the wine and interest thereof were somewhat repetitive, however, Mayle’s ability to describe those who were proud connoisseurs of wine were equally entertaining. He describes one particular night, “I don’t think it is given to many of us to witness fifty or sixty couples in advanced stags of inebriation attempting the swoops and turns and heel-stamping flourishes of the true tango artist, and it was a sight I shall never forget” (p. 185). The description is perfect, and the reader is perfectly able to envision such an experience.
As the months progress, Mayle introduces the eccentric locals, know-it-all builders, and ignorant acquaintances that use the author’s home as a depot of sorts for their own vacation. Each chapter is laced with descriptions of decadent foods found throughout the region in cafés and restaurants. Equally descriptive is the content describing the indulgent, ever-flowing French wines. Going from month to month, each chapters’ descriptions will have the reader laughing out loud - and eventually starving - and then the hectic year is finished with a peaceful Christmas dinner between Mayle and his wife.
Peter Mayle’s dry, British wit is possibly the single best thing about the book. His simple one-liners or easy observations provide hilarious insight into his character and appreciation for the absurd. Any book that elicits a bark of out-loud laughter should be praised, and A Year in Provence is no exception. The detail that Mayle puts into characterizing his eccentric neighbors and employees such as Faustin – the farmer, butcher, doomsayer; Menicucci – the plumber, electrician, personal Yellow Pages-know-it-all that happens to enjoy Mozart; or Massot – the local rival of tourists that goes out of his way in scare-tactics from dogs to signs warning about land mines, makes you fall in love with the region’s local personalities. Their descriptions are so perfectly French that it cannot be helped but to smile and enjoy.
The pace in Provence seems to be much more relaxed and as Mayle says, “[timing is] a very elastic commodity, even when it is described in clear and specific terms” (p. 45). The problem with trying to get the builders and workmen together in order to complete the renovations is nothing short of entertaining. Mayle’s descriptions of how hand gestures have to be read almost scientifically when discussing time restraints is an art form. His imagery is wittingly funny and can be perfectly envisioned.
Much of the book goes into detail about meals and food. The French are obsessed with the stomach and anything that pleases the palate. Mayle and his wife, throughout their year in Provence, grow accustomed to it quickly and each description provides the reader insight into some of the things we may be missing as Americans or English (or any number of countries that enjoy food on a far less scale than what the French seem to). Reading through, I was certain that I would tire of reading the descriptions of foreign and strange ingredients. Instead, I found myself fascinated with the way the French eat. The cafés and restaurants sound heavenly, even if there are several that simply serve whatever the chef decides to make for the day. As a complete novice – rather, a wine virgin – the descriptions of the wine and interest thereof were somewhat repetitive, however, Mayle’s ability to describe those who were proud connoisseurs of wine were equally entertaining. He describes one particular night, “I don’t think it is given to many of us to witness fifty or sixty couples in advanced stags of inebriation attempting the swoops and turns and heel-stamping flourishes of the true tango artist, and it was a sight I shall never forget” (p. 185). The description is perfect, and the reader is perfectly able to envision such an experience.
I liked it overall, especially the parts about food and wine but it really lacked a solid plot. The American in me couldn't understand some of the 'delights' of Provence but it felt like a little get away so I'll probably read it again at some point. It has me craving cheese and champagne now.
Great writing. I liked their exploration of the places and food, less so the detail about the process of the house. But, I get it. I’ve had my place under construction too. It can be very stressful. All in all a nice read. I’d probably enjoy it even more the next time around.
Month-by-month account of a British couple who buy an old farmhouse in Provence. The detailed descriptions of meals made me hungry. The detailed descriptions of house renovations drudged up the memories of my house renovations. I enjoyed the way that the book was broken down by month, allowing the reader to really feel the pace of life in this rural section of Provence. I'm ready to book a trip for the fall when all of those annoying tourists go home.
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