A small village in Provence

Eygalieres
Creeping down the stairs in the early morning, the lightwell above casts a rosy glow on the natural handmade tiles of the staircase. I note the one with the dogs footprint deeply embedded in the clay as I do every time I walk up or down, thinking again of the vision and attention to detail of the people who had renovated this fine 19th century French ‘mas’, or farmhouse, in the south west of Provence.

I am glad to be up early before the others; glad to have a few minutes to myself to savor the dawn, and to pay attention to the strange and wonderful sensations of the place.

I cross the long dining room, dark except for the weak light coming through glass panes in the front door. At one end, a wide stone fireplace is filled with swathes of fragrant lavender, above it a gutsy modern painting in the style of Cezanne who was a native of this area. The French oak sideboard bristles with local wines, red white and a remarkable rose, which changes my taste in wine forever. The long table seats 16 or more but we never use it, preferring the kitchen which is flooded with morning light. It is an inviting room at any time, with its scrubbed table, huge Lacanche range and profusion of copper saucepans, conical sieves, colanders and large metal serving spoons hanging above.

The kitchen is a recent addition to the house. Two walls are completely glass from the waist up in narrow panels between steel frames to deter would-be criminals, which are the bane of the wealthy absentee landlords of Provence. It is not unusual for whole house contents to be removed, and so we have a resident caretaker living in a flat attached to the house to keep an eye on things, mow the lawns, feed the chickens, and look after the swimming pool. The pool is large and inviting, with a low white drystone wall surrounding it and a changing room and shade area alongside. There are comfortable reclining chairs and umbrellas and a paved deck edged with an appetizing hedge of rosemary.

I open the front door and step out onto the stone paving. At once the heady fragrance of lavender surrounds me and looking straight ahead over a good 100 metres of lawn area, I see in neat straight lines, a mass of lavender, more than I have ever seen in my life. Some is trimmed down into neat round clumps but the majority is in full flower, not the glorious bright purple of the high season but still abundant..

To my left on the paving is another large table and chairs ideal for al fresco dining. The sturdy façade of the house is honestly built of local stone in a natural blonde shade. It has big arched windows on this the south face, which allows the light to flood into the study and lounge in wide dusty shafts, picking up the creamy white covers on the big comfy sofas.

The lounge or ‘salon’ is large, 75 square metres, with a massive fireplace and two grand pianos, one a Steinway, as the owner is a concert pianist. The ceiling hangs low overhead supported by massive dark beams, each a whole tree. This gives an effect of reassuring solidity, softened by the addition of warm woven rugs and cushions.


The north side of the house is almost completely windowless to protect it from the raging mistrals which come in three day bursts, and have been known to drive men insane. We experienced an autumn mistral, a ferocious gusting wind, which literally pushed your body along if you didn’t resist it. The full force of an icy winter mistral would be hard to take.

To my right is a bench seat below the kitchen window and a white pebbled parking area which leads crisply to the little chicken shed where a couple of dear little chooks give us two large free range eggs each day and keep us amused with their antics. One day I spotted a crazy dance, the chickens leaping up and down in turn to peck the grapes off the vine which was 20 centimetres or so above their heads. When the shed door opened they would race off together across the lawn towards the orchard and olive grove, their legs striding out in enormous leaps, and a joyous cackle trailing behind them.

Behind the olive, almond and fig trees is a huge vegetable garden, with 10 metre rows of oxheart tomatoes, orange and red capsicums, corn, sprawling vines of plum tomatoes, large leaf parsley, chives, basil and garlic. Everything needed for a good Mediterranean meal, except the fish and meat, and that can be bought from the Friday market which takes over the main street of the village Eygalieres, five minutes away by car.

Alongside the vegetable garden is a patch of luscious vines, 100 Cyrah (Shraz) and 10 Viognier, used for making wine each year in the old stone barn, and some very rare Jacquez vines, banned for wine production because of their grapes’ high sugar content.

Each day, it is a pleasure to take a basket and walk down to the vegetable garden to gather supplies. I follow the sunny stone path around the raised kitchen herb garden,
stop and peer into the bristling reeds surrounding the frog pond, where two or three large brown speckled frogs plop into the water at my approach. Later we would see the tadpoles hatch, and the large flat waterlily pads would be scattered with dozens of tiny frogs.

I brush through a narrow channel in the lavender patch on to the orchard and nut trees picking the soft ripe black figs, popping one in my mouth and carrying the rest carefully so they won’t get squashed.

In the vegetable garden, I nudge the leaves away from the mass of writhing plum tomato vines. Gathering the bright red fruit, my mind runs through a litany of delicious uses I can put them to. We make fresh and tasty tomato salads with basil and chives, our own rich pizza topping, semi-dried tomatoes which burst powerfully on the tastebuds, and many roasted and grilled tomato dishes. They are so ripe and sweet; they lend themselves to creating beautiful meals. I move on to the capsicums, and collect 5 or 6 at a time, small slightly bitter orange ones I haven’t seen before and big red juicy ones, which go so well with the basil parsley and chives which I cut in great fistfuls, and stand in vases around the kitchen.

By eight o’clock, we’re all up, and a volunteer drives to the village to collect the croissants. Each of us has our favorite. I like the plain ones, warm and flaky from the oven, which smell so appetizing. Chris likes the ‘au chocolat’, and Jurgen’s pleasure is ‘one with the world’ as he calls it, a delicious concoction of croissant, cream custard and almonds. We gather round the table, and a contented groaning ensues, as we devour the lot, spread with lashings of butter and confitures and washed down with cup after cup of strong fresh coffee from the Miele machine installed in the kitchen. And so another day begins.

Anne King