Here's library staff member Mandy with a review of 'A Year in Provence' by Peter Mayle.
Dyma Mandy gyda'i barn am 'The Voices Series' gan Peter Mayle.
There is nothing quite as nice as
revisiting an old favourite where books are concerned. It’s rather like catching up with an old
friend. And this week my old friend has been Peter Mayle’s ‘A Year In Provence’.
It’s a simple book, a monthly account of Peter Mayle’s first year in the
Provence farmhouse that he bought with his wife. Mayle shares his experiences
and reflections in a gentle and humorous way.
It’s a breath of fresh air as there is no hint or whisper of moaning or
belittling.
From the start he’s able to bring to
life the tastes, smells, weather and all nuances of life in the southern French
Valley through his quiet observations. Like the seasons, he moves seamlessly throughout
the year and we get to know characters, become familiar with the house, and
discover the beauty of Provence from the comfort of our homes.
Let me start with my favourite:
food. Mayle is a descriptive genius and almost always has me drooling as he
introduces us to the local cuisine. From the extravagant ‘ ...they were moist and fat and fluffy with a
tiny deep nugget of truffle in every mouthful, a last rich taste of winter”
to the food of the local peasants ‘there
were saucissons spotted with peppercorns. There were tiny sweet onions
marinated in fresh tomato sauce. Plates were wiped once more and duck was
brought it.’ He becomes almost poetic in places ‘as for the oil, it was a masterpiece, before dinner that night we
tested it, dipping it into slices of bread that had been rubbed with the flesh
of tomatoes. It was like eating sunshine.’ I want to eat sunshine!
I salivate at these descriptions -
even being vegetarian - as he talks about rabbit stew or wild boar pate, it’s
all part of the books charm. But it’s
not only how the food is eaten. You become au fait with the ways of truffle hunting, the correct breads to
use with each meal, and of course grapes and wine making.
The characters are captured in tender
tones, be it Monsieur Menicucci, the local plumber who likes to play the
clarinet, and has a bonnet for every season; or Massot, the local hunter, with
the cigarette-stained moustache who gives tips on cooking fox and shooting mice that run around the
attic. They drop in and out like friends popping in for tea and biscuits,
welcome distractions in a world gone mad.
Mayle also observes how the French
view the English ‘lls sont bizarres, les
Anglasi.’ Be it the French recalling
visits to England and the standard of the food they ate there, or the British
and their constant upset stomachs! Sometimes it’s nice to view yourself from a
different angle, especially a humorous one.
Mayle’s own experiences of British
people is also a treat; friends of friends of friends who regard the house like
a bed and breakfast but don’t pay any board, drink all the wine and playing
havoc with the plumbing! (The British and their upset stomachs.) But even with
all this inconvenience Mayle refuses to let it dampen his spirits. How could
he? Living in this beautiful landscape, where there the sun is shining and the
local vineyards produce your wine for the year, you can dip into the cool
swimming pools or walk deep into the forest of the Luberon to explore. There are the local events such as goat racing
around the village, and farmers markets selling vegetables picked from the
fields before the crack of dawn.
If you’ve not read this book, get
your self a glass of wine, sit in the garden and discover the south of France
from another time. If you have read it, I’d recommend revisiting, it’s worth
coming back to this old friend.
