Having used up all my air miles, and covered 14,000 kilometers or so on my Grand Tour of the American West, I have shelved any plans for further globetrotting this year and instead am re-reading Peter Mayle's Provence books in my bijou urban patio courtyard, sitting by the lavender plants with a glass of chilled rosé within easy reach, the muffled sound of accordeon music wafting out from the stereo and the aroma of roast lamb in rosemary and garlic drifting on the air. In fact I can recreate almost all of Provence apart from the heat, and we have had plenty of that here in Brussels lately. It's set to continue, so why waste money on the real thing? And I bet you can't get decent chips in Provence.
Ceci n'est pas mon jardin
You either love Peter Mayle or you hate him. I'm in the first group. His books conjure up for me all the sights, sounds, tastes and smells of Provence - which I have, I must confess, never visited apart from the (very) odd weekend on the Cote d'Azur. Peter Mayle's Provence is full of charmingly eccentric Anglophile locals, rural idylls, comical dogs, good cheap wine, blue curls of woodsmoke, the chink of pétanque balls, village fetes, truffle deals, fabulous sunsets, pastis tastings, goat races, long lunches, and honest workmen. I'm not so sure this Provence actually existed when Mayle wrote the book, and it certainly doesn't now he's ruined it. I suspect you'd be lucky to find a real French person anywhere between Aix en Provence and Draguignan these days.
It was OK when the slebs kept to the Cote d'Azur: if you wanted to go and gawp at them you could, but the hinterland was relatively unscathed, apart from artistes such as Picasso and Lawrence Durrell. But then everysleb and his pedigree dog took to the hills, and now you might as well be in the San Fernando Valley.
Johnny Depp, Brangelina, John Malkovitch, Pierre Cardin, Tom Stoppard, Geordie filmmakers Tony and Ridley Scott, Alistair Campbell, and, God help us, the Beckhams, not to mention a host of other "peepol" and hordes of lesser known moneyed Brits and Americans have built homes there or converted old properties. I'm told the Lubéron (Mayle's manor) has turned into Beverly Hills. It sounds ghastly.
Bargemon, one of the many places the Beckhams call home
And anyway, it's horrendously hot there in summer. And expensive. And then you've got the forest fires. And the Mistral. Flies, if not mosquitoes. No, I think my way of "doing" Provence is much better. And cheaper.
Mayle was played in the TV series based on his books by the late great John Thaw to the best of his ability. Thaw was (in other productions) a great English thespian, the like of which we may never see again. From the unorthodox but efficient Detective Inspector Regan in The Sweeney, to which role Philip Glenister paid homage in 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes', to the coolly intellectual Morse, he was the consummate all-rounder. Why, in this short play by acclaimed playwright Ernest Wise, he plays both a British and a German officer with aplomb, sensitivity and gravitas.
Ceci n'est pas mon jardinYou either love Peter Mayle or you hate him. I'm in the first group. His books conjure up for me all the sights, sounds, tastes and smells of Provence - which I have, I must confess, never visited apart from the (very) odd weekend on the Cote d'Azur. Peter Mayle's Provence is full of charmingly eccentric Anglophile locals, rural idylls, comical dogs, good cheap wine, blue curls of woodsmoke, the chink of pétanque balls, village fetes, truffle deals, fabulous sunsets, pastis tastings, goat races, long lunches, and honest workmen. I'm not so sure this Provence actually existed when Mayle wrote the book, and it certainly doesn't now he's ruined it. I suspect you'd be lucky to find a real French person anywhere between Aix en Provence and Draguignan these days.
It was OK when the slebs kept to the Cote d'Azur: if you wanted to go and gawp at them you could, but the hinterland was relatively unscathed, apart from artistes such as Picasso and Lawrence Durrell. But then everysleb and his pedigree dog took to the hills, and now you might as well be in the San Fernando Valley.
Johnny Depp, Brangelina, John Malkovitch, Pierre Cardin, Tom Stoppard, Geordie filmmakers Tony and Ridley Scott, Alistair Campbell, and, God help us, the Beckhams, not to mention a host of other "peepol" and hordes of lesser known moneyed Brits and Americans have built homes there or converted old properties. I'm told the Lubéron (Mayle's manor) has turned into Beverly Hills. It sounds ghastly.
Bargemon, one of the many places the Beckhams call homeAnd anyway, it's horrendously hot there in summer. And expensive. And then you've got the forest fires. And the Mistral. Flies, if not mosquitoes. No, I think my way of "doing" Provence is much better. And cheaper.
Mayle was played in the TV series based on his books by the late great John Thaw to the best of his ability. Thaw was (in other productions) a great English thespian, the like of which we may never see again. From the unorthodox but efficient Detective Inspector Regan in The Sweeney, to which role Philip Glenister paid homage in 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes', to the coolly intellectual Morse, he was the consummate all-rounder. Why, in this short play by acclaimed playwright Ernest Wise, he plays both a British and a German officer with aplomb, sensitivity and gravitas.
No comments:
Post a Comment