by Peter Mayle
Englishwomen, on the other hand, are usually much less noisy and more civilized. It’s true, said Farigoule, that they have a problem with the tea served in Provençal cafés, which apparently is a poor, insipid copy of the real thing served in England. And they are startled to see their husbands making inroads on the wine as early as ten in the morning. But then, boys will be boys, especially on vacation.
We moved on to consider the German visitors. For them, according to Farigoule, Provence was “bière et bronzage.” They were always thirsty, always deeply tanned, and always well organized, although not quite up to American standards. As for the Belgians, Farigoule’s only observation was one commonly heard in France: they put good French lives at risk because of their habit of driving in the middle of the road.
He was much more vocal about Parisians. “Such arrogance,” he said. “Such snobisme. They live in their Parisian bubble, and they treat us all like peasants. They look down their noses, they leave miserable tips, they complain about the heat and the prices, they criticize our restaurants. I don’t know why they come here. They should stay on the Riviera.”
I couldn’t believe he was serious. “Surely they can’t all be like that?”
“Of course, there are exceptions. I have a dear Parisian friend, and he is one of those exceptions. He is modest, and he has a sense of humor.” Unfortunately, one dear Parisian friend clearly couldn’t make up for the rest of them. Farigoule was still muttering as he stumped off to lunch.
Recent additions to the list of each year’s foreign visitors, whom even Farigoule would approve of, are the Japanese—that is, if he should notice them. I have never seen any clumsy behavior, nor have I ever heard a Japanese shout. When they are gathered around a café table, they chirrup. Otherwise, the loudest noise I have heard them make is the chorus of clicks that comes from their smartphone camera shutters. Nothing can hide from those inquisitive lenses: boules players, an artist crouched over his easel, a couple kissing, a dog slinking off with a stolen baguette—every aspect of village street life seems to fascinate them.
And so the summer season hurries along. But just when the crowded streets and the flurry of international faces begin to feel permanent, August ends, September begins, and with almost shocking speed the crowds are gone. Peace returns. Village inhabitants who have hardly seen one another for two months once more take possession of the cafés and restaurants, where they exchange tourist stories and plans for the coming winter. The early-morning air has a distinct nip. Scarves and sweaters make a comeback, and there’s a renewed feeling of energy in the village, almost like a second spring.
Mid-September marks the beginning of the hunting season, when the hills are normally alive with the sound of gunfire as the hunters flex their trigger fingers, and all prudent animals make for the more remote parts of Provence. This year, however, has seen a significant reduction in the choice of living targets. The crack-of-dawn fusillades around our house have all but vanished, and this set me thinking. Has the price of buckshot tripled? Have pheasants and rabbits learned to fight back? What could possibly explain the cease-fire?
I might have known; it was the stomach. A hunter explained, rather sadly, that the wild boar, or sangliers, that live in the local forests are not what they used to be. One popular theory is that they have been having carefree romances with ordinary cochons, or pigs, and the result is a new breed: the cochonglier. This has not been one of nature’s triumphs as far as flavor goes. In fact, I am told that the flesh tastes distinctly unpleasant. And, as any good hunter will tell you, if you can’t eat it, don’t shoot it.
I should add here that this was one hunter’s theory rather than a generally held belief, but the fact remains that our Sunday mornings, which used to start with a bang at seven o’clock, are now blessedly peaceful. However, this doesn’t mean that the forest is deserted. Furtive figures and their dogs can be seen among the trees pretending to be out for a casual stroll. Far from it, of course—they are hunting for truffles.
There are two powerful traits in the truffle hunter’s personality. The first is optimism, the abiding belief that today is the day he will come across a cache of truffles the size of tennis balls. In addition to their market value of more than a thousand dollars a pound, the man who unearths those truffles will find that his reputation will blossom among fellow hunters, who will be convinced that he knows something they don’t. And they never will, thanks to the second personality trait: extreme secrecy. A truffle hunter will never tell you exactly where he has found his truffles.
In many ways, this period between September and January is our favorite time of the year. The summer procession of houseguests is over. The village market, while busy, is no longer a scrum. Local restaurants light up their log fires and put thick soups and stews and wild game back on their menus. Vin rosé is given a rest, replaced by the full, fresh reds of the region. The village is more spacious without its summer population. And the countryside is a joy—quiet, empty, and beautifully lit by the winter sun, which puts a clean, crisp edge on the rows of clipped vines and the elegant skeletons of leafless trees.
January, when it finally comes, is for many the month to be avoided, either on the ski slopes or by escaping to a warmer climate. It is a cold month, certainly, and occasionally snowy, but I like it. The light is still beautiful, the sky is still a flawless blue, and I always feel that I have the Luberon to myself. There is also, during two or three days each January, a foretaste of warmer times. The temperature goes up by a few degrees, the sun seems a little bigger, and we have fond memories of the occasional January lunch eaten out of doors. Can spring be far behind?
Nineteen
Hollywood Comes to Provence
We first met Ridley Scott more than forty years ago, long before he became Blockbuster Scott. In those days, Jennie and I and Ridley all worked in London, doing our bit for the advertising business; Jennie and Ridley each had TV production companies that specialized in commercials, and I worked as a copywriter in an agency. It was a pretty small universe then, I suppose rather quaint by today’s standards, and there was a good deal of mingling. We all knew one another.
My first experience of working with Ridley was on an unpromising project for a deodorant commercial. Try as we might to think of something original to say about it, all traces of originality were weeded out by the client until all we were left with was a tired jingle that had been created by a previous agency to accompany some standard bland footage of young people enjoying themselves.
Even in those days, Ridley had the reputation of being able to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and so in desperation we turned to him. At our first meeting, we played the jingle for him. After taking a few moments to recover, he said, “This is a product for young people, right? Let’s see what we can do.”
And here’s what he did. He took the bare bones of the jingle and had it totally remade by one of London’s junior rock musicians. He then filmed the band—guitarists, drummer, double-bassist, saxophonists, all of them suitably shaggy and sweaty—playing and singing the jingle. It looked and sounded more like a clip from a televised rock show than a deodorant commercial, and we loved it. So did the client. I’ve been a fan of Ridley’s ever since.
In the years that followed, Ridley went off to Los Angeles and we went off to Provence, where we were pleased and surprised to find one day that we had a distinguished neighbor, none other than Ridley himself, who had a house twenty miles from us. He loved it there, he told us, when he had the chance, but work kept him in LA. So he was permanently on the lookout for something that would let him spend more time in Provence without being gnawed by guilt.
At that time, I was close to finishing a story about a young London executive who inherits a Provençal vineyard from his uncle, and who finds himself up to his neck in grapes and crafty peasants. It was a nice little story, but a long way from the great sweeps of history and drama that Ridley special
ized in, and so I was surprised that he asked to see what I’d done. It was more in hope than expectation that I left it with him.
To my surprise, he liked it enough to suggest that I finish it and then let him have another look. So I finished it, he had another look, and that was it. Next stop? Choosing locations and casting. It was that quick.
I knew, of course, that my success was not entirely due to my writing abilities. My story had an unfair advantage over all the other projects that Ridley was considering: it was the only one that offered him the opportunity—no, the obvious necessity—of spending several sunny weeks in his Provençal home.
It didn’t take long for news of the film to reach every village in the Luberon, and reactions were mixed. On the whole they were good, with a small chorus of groans and grumbles from those who were convinced that Provence was turning into Disneyland. Despite them, the complex and sometimes delicate preparations for filming went into overdrive: locations had to be found, and terms negotiated. Lodging for cast and crew had to be arranged, transport organized—as I watched, from a safe distance, I began to think that my contribution to the project had been by far the easiest. And then there was the casting.
Ever since the success of Gladiator, Ridley had enjoyed a good relationship with Russell Crowe, and so nobody was surprised when he was chosen to play the leading role of the fortunate executive. Naturally, Russell needed to have a little romance as he labored in the vineyard, and here Ridley showed once again his talent for spotting talent. He had given Brad Pitt’s career a kick start in Thelma and Louise, and this time it was the turn of a young actress, Marion Cotillard, who was then little known outside France. Now, of course, she is a major star. Merci, Ridley.
To add the final touches, there was the wonderful Albert Finney, Tom Hollander, and a fine supporting cast. All that remained was to start the cameras rolling.
I had always imagined that shooting a major film would be an exciting, glamorous affair, bursting with high drama and memorable moments. It was high-level showbiz, for heaven’s sake, with famous names and delicate egos swirling around. Surely there would be a few social indiscretions at least, if not a full-blooded fight. I got to the set early on the first morning of shooting so I wouldn’t miss anything. Marion Cotillard was there, reading a paper. Ridley was having breakfast. Russell was nowhere to be seen. Various technicians scampered back and forth, looking busy and important. The owner of the chateau where we were shooting poked his head out to make sure we weren’t trampling on the vines. And that was about as far as the morning’s drama went. I was later to find out that Ridley’s shoots are like that—extremely well organized, unhurried, and actually quite relaxed. The calm was only disturbed once while I was watching.
This was caused by the star’s difficulties with punctuality. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour—Russell seemed to have a problem turning up on time, causing the waiting film crew to sigh loudly and mutter. It wasn’t long before they started to call him “the late Russell Crowe,” and it might have been this that prompted Ridley to act.
He called a meeting—crew, actors, everybody—to tell them that it was crucial for today’s shoot to begin on time. Not a second should be wasted. He wanted a full turnout on set that evening.
Sure enough, they were all there, including Russell. But where was Ridley? They waited. And they waited. And they waited, for forty-five long minutes, until Ridley emerged, apologizing for a long call he’d had to take from LA. After that, the star’s punctuality improved significantly.
For me, one of the most memorable scenes in the film was shot in the village of Cucuron, which enjoys the distinction of possessing the biggest bassin in Provence—a rectangular, thirty-meter-long ornamental pool, fringed with huge plane trees, the envy of less fortunate villages. On this particular evening, it had been transformed. Tables for two had been placed all the way along the side of the bassin, complete with white tablecloths, candles, and fully charged ice buckets. At the far end, a small group of musicians played seductive music, and the surface of the bassin was sprinkled with white flowers and floating candles. Magic.
This was the setting for a romantic diner à deux, Marion and Russell, alone at last. Well, almost. Because in addition to the crew, a distinguished local figure was studying the idyllic scene. It was his honor the mayor of Cucuron, and he was sufficiently impressed to ask Ridley if there was any chance that the set could be left exactly as it was once shooting was done.
The film was duly finished, but the excitement definitely wasn’t over. Cucuron was perhaps the only village in the Luberon to have its own cinema. It was certainly the only village to hold the premiere of a Hollywood movie, and the audience provided a relaxed alternative to the normal premiere crowd.
There was not a limousine or a long dress to be seen, nor a tuxedo. Jackets and jewelry were rare, and pre-screening refreshments were supplied by the local café: rosé, and not champagne. The atmosphere was lively, almost boisterous. It was our film, and we were going to enjoy it.
The rosé-tinged post-screening verdicts were kind, especially from those extras who had spotted themselves decorating various scenes, and the audience eventually drifted off with the feeling of a job well done. The mayor can’t wait for Hollywood to call again.
Twenty
Signs of Summer
For most of us, the change in the seasons is a peaceful and often barely noticed affair, marked by gradual differences in temperature, presence or absence of leaves on trees, frosty car windshields, and a dozen other small adjustments to the world around us. In Provence, seasonal change is frequently marked in more dramatic and varied ways, particularly during the delightful period from early spring through to early summer.
Early hints of things to come are the spectacular outbreaks of scarlet poppies in fields that have been quiet and green all winter. The poppies are soon gone, but they stay for long enough to establish a red alert: Put away your heavy clothes, and dust off your espadrilles. Summer’s coming.
Slowly at first, but with increasing speed, nature begins to deliver the early examples of its annual show. Among the most spectacular of these are the pink and white billows of almond blossom. At the same time, bare branches develop a green fuzz of foliage, adventurous butterflies emerge to inspect what’s going on, the first tentative buds appear, plants that might have been left for dead suddenly start climbing walls again—wherever you look there are small signs of furious activity. And some not-so-small signs as well, from the banks of vivid yellow broom in the fields to the vines, which, although months away from producing grapes, look fresh, green, and promising. In fact, the entire landscape seems to have had a facelift.
This is also the time when the nocturnal orchestra around the house starts rehearsals. Still too early for crickets, but serenades from the tree-frog section begin each evening when the sun goes down. Owls occasionally make a contribution, too, and so one way and another, there is never a dull musical moment.
Meanwhile, down in the village, nature gives way to humanity, with the arrival of the first batch of this year’s foreigners, and it may be useful here to explain who fits the local definition of foreigner. In its earliest and most primitive form, a foreigner was someone who wasn’t born in the village. Progress has been made since then, and foreigners in Provence are now pretty much the same as foreigners anywhere else. And they are generally well received, partly due to the sympathy felt by the natives because the foreigner, poor soul, suffers the sad misfortune of not being French. This sympathy is expressed in a number of ways, including a significant verbal deceleration, when the normally hectic pace of Provençal speech is reduced to a crawl, with the speaker watching anxiously to ensure that he’s being understood. Or there is sometimes the ultimate effort: some dusty relics of elementary English learned at school are brought out, often with considerable pride. These can be extremely puzzling. I remember having what I thought was a discussion abo
ut the French rugby team’s chances when my companion broke off the conversation, poked my chest with his finger, and said, in his best English, “I have a dog. His name is Jules. He likes to walk and run.” There’s no answer to that.
The shift in seasons changes the appearance of the village in a number of ways. Doors to the boutiques are left open, usually with a chair placed on the pavement outside so the proprietors can sit in the sun, watch the world go by, and check out what people are wearing this year. The village dogs give up the cozy embrace of their baskets and rediscover the joys of the street—sights, smells, the chance of stealing a baguette from an unattended shopping basket, and the social and sporting opportunities offered by the arrival of exotic tourist dogs visiting from Paris. But the most obvious change is undoubtedly the rearrangement of the village furniture.
During the chilly winter months, the cafés sharply reduce the number of tables and chairs they allow to stay outside, leaving just a few for the hardy and well-muffled village smokers who are banned from indoor comforts. This changes dramatically, almost overnight, once the temperature has risen.
Previously empty stretches of sidewalk on either side of the main street suddenly sprout café tables and chairs and large umbrellas designed to protect pale-skinned visitors from the sun. The street becomes a rare and welcome example of pedestrians taking precedence over cars. And what a varied bunch they are. On market day you’ll see them all—immaculate Parisians, English showing signs of too much sun, Japanese traditionalists and their vintage cameras, Americans with their smartphones, Germans hunting for their next beer, and prematurely weary stallholders who have been up since four a.m. Doing their best to wriggle through this heaving mass with their trays are the waiters and waitresses from the cafés, who have to cross the street to reach their customers. It’s bedlam, but a slow-moving, good-humored bedlam, best seen from a well-placed café table.
