My Twenty-Five Years in Provence Page 12

  And yet, despite the inconvenience of missed dates and lengthy delays, I would miss these moments. The ingenuity of the excuses, and the considerable acting skills used by those who invent them, tend to make up for the damage they do to any hopes of a well-ordered life. And when, as does happen from time to time, everything takes place as planned, you feel as though you’ve won the lottery.

  BOULES

  Though I’ve touched on this delightful, leisurely sport earlier, I want to return to it because one of the many charms of this sport is that few can play it really well, anyone can play it badly, and everyone can enjoy watching it. Another attraction, for certain players, is that boules is one of the very few sporting contests that allow, and sometimes encourage, players to drink while they play. “One hand for the boule, and one for the glass” is the advice I was once given. Even the game-changing moment in the history of boules is a reminder of the tradition that this is a sport to be played in a relaxed fashion.

  Until the early 1900s, boules players were obliged to be, if not exactly athletic, at least mobile. Boule in hand, they would run up to the throwing line to provide the impetus required to hurl the boule toward the cochonnet, about twenty meters away. A keen player of this original form of the sport, Jacques le Noir—“Blackie” to his many friends—had been laid low by rheumatism. He could no longer run, and therefore no longer play. But he was still a devoted spectator. And, at heart, still a player.

  Most afternoons, a chair would be placed for him at one end of the court, so that he could watch the games in comfort. One day, a close friend, Ernest Pitiot, joined him, standing next to his chair, and the two men decided to start an informal game of their own. Le Noir would throw from a seated position in his chair, and Pitiot, standing next to him, would throw, but with his pieds tanqués, feet firmly planted on the ground. This was the birth of modern boules, and it immediately appealed to all the older players whose running days were over. Competitions were organized, clubs were formed, the name of the game was changed to pétanque, and today the long game is seldom played.

  Pétanque is not only for those who play. For me, it is a wonderfully subtle, picturesque game, and to spend an hour or so on a hot summer’s evening with dusk setting in, the click of the iron boules punctuating the evening chorus of insects, the occasional muffled curse after an unsuccessful throw, and the welcome arrival of a round of drinks—this is my kind of spectator sport.

  MARKETS

  There is no better cure for supermarket fatigue or shrink-wrap rash than to spend a morning at a Provençal market. Large or small, these markets will restore your faith in shopping—mainly for food, but you never know when you might come across Laguiole knives, hunters’ socks, silk scarves, straw hats, or those marvelously imposing pink heavy-duty brassières that have been providing support for generations.

  Markets in Provence are said to date from the twelfth century, when farmers and craftsmen gathered every week to sell what they had grown or made, and this basic function still survives. But the market today is much more than a purely practical supply service. It has become a social hub, often the setting for a little light musical entertainment from visiting troubadours, and, along with the cafés, gossip headquarters for the village.

  The market day begins early—by eight o’clock the stalls are set out, with the stallholders chatting with one another while they put the finishing touches to their displays. And here you can see the first and most obvious difference between market and supermarket: the absence of packaging. What you see laid out on the market stalls is produce that was picked the day before—lettuce, peaches, potatoes, cherries, grapes, the occasional immense squash, newly laid eggs—all neatly arranged, without a brand name or a trademark to be seen anywhere. The experienced market shopper will always be equipped with something in which to carry the purchases home, because the best you’ll get from the stallholder to hold what you buy will be a modest brown paper bag.

  As you walk through the stalls, you will come across small knots of people, cheerful and animated, who give the impression that they are old friends who haven’t seen each other for years. They chatter, they giggle, they occasionally whisper, and it’s hard to believe that they have been living next door to one another for years in the same village street. But such is the magic of the latest dubious piece of gossip that it invigorates the entire group.

  And so on you go, past the fragrant cheese truck, past the mobile fresh fish emporium, and the baker with his two-foot-long loaves of warm brown bread, until you reach a much larger group, who are sampling one of the specialties that show up in the market from time to time.

  This year’s novelty is the FoieGrasBurger, and early reports say that it is an exotic experience, certainly not to be confused with more conventional members of the burger family. Will it take America by storm? Will it inspire more burger refinements? Can we expect one day to see the CaviarBurger?

  Eventually, around one o’clock, the stallholders start to pack up, their job done. It’s all over, until next week. Once again, baskets have been filled with good things to eat. And once again, the stomach will be served.

  I must go. Lunch is calling.

  A Note About the Author

  Peter Mayle wrote books about dogs, advertising, and the facts of life for children, but his favorite subject remained Provence, thanks partly to a local tradition that insists that writers stop writing to have lunch. Mr. Mayle died in January 2018.

  Our neighbors

  The garlic boutique

  A field of flowers, Provence style

  A beautiful workplace

  The smallest guest

  Digging for gold

  Essential equipment for grape pickers

  On your mark, get set…goat!

  Snow? In Provence?

  One for the road

  Advanced gardening

  The first of the year

  Ah, spring!

  Picturesque shopping

  Another unexpected guest

  An extremely large back garden

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