Life in a French Village

Boulangeries, fatbergs, and the Mistral rearranging my face

Ok so I promised that in this post I would add some pictures and explain a little about where we actually are in France… so here goes.

We’re in a small village in the Côtes du Rhône region in the South of France — about 12km northwest of Avignon, just over an hour from Marseille and Montpellier. Aix-en-Provence is about 20 minutes from Avignon on the train (for those who know it — and I know some of you do).

The village has around 2,000 people. It’s very quaint — lots of old stone houses, bits of cobbled streets, the whole “this looks like a film set” vibe… although I have noticed that the ‘pick it up’ part of dog ownership in France appears to be more of a guideline than a rule. There are, somewhat optimistically, bins and bags provided.

We have a boulangerie (critical infrastructure), which I can walk to — and have, frequently… purely for cultural immersion purposes of course!

There are a few small restaurants, and also a takeaway pizza place doing things that feel slightly unusual but are actually delicious. Last time I had a raclette pizza — potatoes, raclette cheese and ham. It was so good that my youngest daughter (who has ordered margarita pizza without deviation since the age of 3) has announced she may switch. This is seismic.

The village also has an old lavoir — a traditional French wash house.

Apparently in the 18th century, women would gather there to do the washing and, more importantly, chat and put the world to rights. Men were banned and it was as much a social gathering as a practical one. I’m fairly sure this is where “airing your dirty laundry” comes from, although I haven’t verified this with any historians.

We also have one of the largest sundials in the world, up on a hill. It’s considered “motorway art” and you can see it from the A9. I think it resembles the Sydney Opera House… which is perhaps a bit of a stretch, but you can sort of see what I mean…..

Our house is an old French farmhouse, which comes with what I can only describe as “challenging” plumbing. We’ve already inherited a blocked kitchen sink and have thrown everything at it — including an entire bottle of the French version of Draino and something called a furet déboucheur (which sounds far more elegant than “drain snake,” but is essentially the same battle). No success so far.

I am now at the point where I need to call a plumber and attempt to explain, in French, that I believe there is a “fatberg” in the pipes. This could go either very well or very badly. There is a real risk I accidentally describe something far more personal.

The house faces south (I think), and I’m fairly certain the water may in fact go the other way down the plughole — although I haven’t fully confirmed this scientifically.

We are surrounded by vineyards. Completely surrounded. We’re in rosé country, and the village has been producing wine for about 750 years — which feels like a reassuring level of expertise.

For the history lovers: in the 14th century, a number of popes relocated to Avignon and became very fond of the local wine (relatable). They took it back to Italy, which helped spread its reputation. Louis XIV was also apparently a fan.

This area became the first AOC rosé region in France in 1936, and nearby you have Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Pope John XXII (John evidently a very popular name at the time) drank so much of the local wine that it became known as Vin du Pape, which later evolved into Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a name I always thought sounded incredibly romantic until my partner pointed out it basically translates to “the Pope’s Newcastle.” It’s been slightly ruined for me ever since.

Every morning I walk the dogs through rows and rows of vines, which we think are mostly grenache and syrah.

When we arrived, they looked completely dead.

Then came two weeks of the Mistral — a wind that I am told is very important for keeping the vines dry and healthy, which is useful information to remember when it is aggressively rearranging your face.

Since then, the vines have transformed. First tiny shoots, then leaves, and now the fields look like a sea of green. You can even see the beginnings of grape clusters forming, which feels like progress we can all get behind.

The weather is warming up now — lots of sun — and it’s lovely walking through the fields in the evening. From the house we can hear the church bell every half hour, which feels very idyllic… for now. I may report back on this in a few weeks.

I think that’s probably enough for this post. There are definitely more trials and tribulations I could share, but I thought I’d keep this one relatively upbeat (and save the chaos for another day).