A Year in Provence is a best-selling memoir by Peter Mayle about his first year in Unlike the book, the mini series was not well received by critics; A Year in Provence was later placed at number ten on a Radio Times list of the worst. A Year in Provence book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. National Bestseller In this witty and warm-hearted account, P. A Year in Provence [Peter Mayle] on presemorboecuad.ml Browse our editors' picks for the best books of the month in fiction, nonfiction, mysteries, children's books.
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Also by Peter Mayle · The Diamond Caper · The Corsican Caper · Provence in Ten Easy Lessons · The Marseille Caper · The Vintage Caper. See all books by. The trade magazine even managed to get the basics wrong, calling his new book a novel. Even a year later, when A Year in Provence was. The author describes his first 12 months in Provence, after he and his wife have abandoned England for an 18th-century farmhouse in the Luberon Mountains.
Peter Mayle does an excellent job describing his surroundings in his writing. This book captures the easy, slow paced lifestyle of Provence beautifully. An excellent read that I highly recommend! Rated 4 out of 5 by AmyG from Not particularly action-packed, but boy did it make me hungry I picked up a copy of this book after reading a list of titles that would appeal to a "wander luster" or travel-fanatic.
I haven't been to Provence but I can say after reading this book I definitely intend to. Other reviewers commented on it being a bit slow - I'd tend to agree with that. The concept of the book itself isn't exactly action-oriented, but it's a bit like life in Provence itself, which I think Peter captured beautifully. Do not read on an empty stomach - tales of dinner parties and tasty Provencal treats were too much for me to bear! Rated 2 out of 5 by ChelseaPT from I would not recommend.
I found this to be a boring tale of a married couple who moved from the United States looking for a beautiful farmhouse in Provence, France. They find the house of their dreams and the entire book is a month-by-month account of their daily lives.
They spend most of their time renovation their new home, talking to the country folk and complaining about how long the renovations are taking to complete. Rated 5 out of 5 by Steve from Delicious! Love this book! Like Camilleri, Mayle's writing inevitably leads one to eat good food and drink good wine. Rated 4 out of 5 by Sue from This book made me hungry! Told by month, the trails and tribulations of moving to a new country, learning a new language and enjoying the culture of good food and wine Date published: Rated 5 out of 5 by Grace from Fun and happy read Oh what fun and warm descriptions of Provence.
Very enjoyable book! It was recommended to me by a friend, who warned, "It'll make you ravenous! Mayle is as fond of the vino and cuisine as he is of the countryside, and exquisite descriptions abound. Might be a good thing to first stock up on a crusty baguette, quality olive oil, imported cheese, and a hearty red, unless you enjoy torturing yourself. Must confess I haven't yet been to the south of France sigh , and so cannot report on the author's accuracy.
But as far as armchair travel goes, this is a satisfying read. Most rewarding, I think, are the character sketches of the people he encounters: Amusing, light-hearted stuff. It helped to take me away to the laid back, relaxing, European charm of Provence. I could taste the olive oil soaked crusty bread and see the dark and sweaty but good-hearted neighbor that Mayle so deliciously and meticulously describes.
I found the situations of the couple in the story farcical and light-hearted and I laughed at the husband's exceptional wit and ability to poke fun at himself.
I thought this would make a great movie with Hugh Grant in the leading role, as he is so good in light-hearted comedies.
Peter Mayle's descriptive narrative took me away to his beautiful villa and in my imagination I could appreciate the hardy generosity of his French community. It will definitely make you want to plan a trip there…by fantasy or reality. I would recommend reading this book with the goal to visit a beautiful place; relax, pick a hot sunny day deep in the summer and sip on a nice glass of red wine…you will love this trip.
Drink the wine and eat the cheese. Follow the bike races if that's your style, but do not read this book about Mayle's experience of the glorified south of France. He is a Brit whose trite renderings of French behaviour and morals are not only disrespectful, but insulting.
His style is flippant, painfully debonair and not in the least funny. I can't believe they made a TV series from his completely self-indulgent journals. Written by British ex-pat Peter Mayle, it is a month-by-month account of the joys and trials of living in Provence. Mayle uses a refreshing choice of words and metaphors throughout. The characters are eccentric and the events hilarious. You too will want to download a villa in France!
Extra Content. 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 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: 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? 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? 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? 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 ,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? 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.
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? 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? 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? 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. There was so much information my problem was what to leave out. He felt that style was lacking in the BBC Television version of his book and he admitted that he was disappointed with the way it turned out.
And John Thaw, who played me, seemed to be in a perpetually bad mood, whereas I was absolutely delighted with my new life in France. I was not drawn to politics or big business, or indeed any endeavour where I had to report to committees and bosses. Independence was what I wanted and writing I thought was how to achieve that happy state.
In the 60s he went to New York, working for advertising giants David Ogilvy and George Lois and believes writing advertising copy imposed disciplines that have been vital in his new career.
These are not bad qualities for a writer to cultivate. With copylines like that on his CV it seems hard to understand how Mayle could throw in the security of an advertising executive for the life of a novelist?
Look at his book French Lessons — Adventures with a Knife, Fork and Corkscrew, where he travels through the country sampling gastronomic festivals. With four of his children living in the US and one in England and with seven grandchildren they exchange visits as often as is possible but they always keep in touch. One thing he does notice on his visits is the Francophobia that still infects UK media. It is pathetic, ignorant and spiteful, and so shrill it is impossible to take seriously.
God knows there is plenty to write about. You have to, life is too short'.