Encore Provence (17 page)

Variations on the game of
boules
have been in existence ever since man discovered the delights of throwing a ball at a target that can’t throw back. Early versions of the
boule
itself have now become, like wooden tennis rackets and hickory-shafted golf clubs, sporting antiques. They are wonderfully handsome objects, made from nails that
have been hammered into a boxwood core to form a sphere, the nail heads so tightly packed that they resemble scales on a fish. Pleasing to look at and satisfying to hold, their fault is that, being handmade and slightly uneven in shape, they are inclined to skip away from the true line once they hit the ground. In a game where millimeters count and passions run high, this skittish behavior was the cause of much grief and argument, and eventually the old
boule
was replaced by the perfectly engineered, perfectly round steel missile we see today.

This doesn’t mean to say that grief and argument have disappeared from the game. Indeed, grief and argument, as much as precision and skill, are essential to the enjoyment of both players and spectators, adding drama to what might otherwise merely be a well-behaved series of lobs.

The purpose of the contest is to place your group of
boules
—knocking others out of the way if necessary—as close as possible to the target, a small wooden ball called the
cochonnet
. Once the players have thrown, they walk up the court to take measurements. A simple matter, you might think, one that can be carried out in a sportsmanlike fashion, abiding by the principle of May the Best Man Win. But no. Not a bit of it. The players huddle over their
boules
in a fever of dispute, debating every hairsbreadth of distance from the
cochonnet
, arms, voices, and sometimes pocket rulers raised in triumph or disbelief. May the Loudest Man Win.

It is possible that these regular outbursts of discord are inspired by something more than the honest quest for victory; something a little stronger.
Boules
, as far as I know, is unique in the world of outdoor athletic competition. You can drink while you’re playing. You don’t even have to put
down your glass when you throw, providing you possess reasonable physical coordination and a steady hand. And I have often thought that alcohol may account for some of the uninhibited and quite remarkable techniques displayed by the game’s stylists.

The throw itself, an underhand pitch of either high or low trajectory, is normally a study in disciplined concentration, knees bent, eyes fixed on the target. It is the follow-up where individual flourishes come into play, a kind of curious ballet that is conducted on the spot, since the player is supposed to stay behind the throwing line. There he stands, often on one leg, his body leaning forward, back, or sideways, depending on the flight of the throw, his flapping arms acting either as accelerators urging the
boule
on or brakes willing it to slow down, his single earthbound foot on tiptoe. The effect is not unlike a heron trying to take off from a river bed with one leg stuck in the mud. It is a sight to make you smile as you sit in the shade watching the puffs of dust raised by the
boules
, the clunk of steel against steel (like the gnashing of a dinosaur’s teeth) mingling with the ebb and flow of argument and the tinny thump of the café radio. The players move slowly from one end of the court to the other, and back again. The air is hot and still. Time stops.

One of the charms of
boules
is that it can be played, badly but enjoyably, by an amateur of almost any age. Brute force is less important than cunning and a good eye, and I find it odd that the game seems to be reserved exclusively for men. In all my years as an idle spectator, I have never seen a Frenchwoman step up to the mark during the course of these sessions that run into the early evening. Curiosity once made me ask a couple of old experts why their wives didn’t join them on the court. One dismissed
the question with a shrug. The other scarcely hesitated. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Who would cook dinner?”

I am not blessed with the essential attribute of the successful gardener, which is patience—the ability to take the long view, to pace myself according to the speed of the seasons, to wait for years before the sprig grows into a mature and recognizable form. I also have a physical disability: My thumb is not the traditional gardener’s green, but a dingy, rather sinister brown. Others seem able to touch an ailing shrub and restore it to the fine green glow of health. My attentions—well-meant but clearly not well-received—achieve the reverse. A week in my care is enough to reduce a normally robust bloom to a state of wilting despair. Plants see me coming, and shrivel.

This will partly explain why I feel that a garden in Provence is my kind of garden. The climate is cruel, with temperatures that dip below freezing and rise above 100 degrees. The earth is rocky rather than rich, water comes in torrents or not at all, and when the mistral blows it exfoliates the landscape, tearing off the topsoil and battering everything in its path. Experience has taught me that any vegetation capable of surviving in these hostile conditions can survive even my best efforts.

Among my acquaintances are one or two keen gardeners. Intoxicated by horticultural terminology, they have a casual yet scholarly way of referring to the inhabitants of their gardens in Latin. To them, buttercups and daisies are
Ranunculus acris
and
Leucanthemum vulgare
, and the modest dandelion is promoted to
Taraxacum officinale
. I cope with these displays of expertise with uncomprehending
nods, or by trying to change the subject, but they won’t be distracted. And it isn’t long before they begin to offer advice on how I could transform my arid plot of Provence into a transplanted English cottage garden.

A little color would be nice, they say, looking around them with mild disapproval. Something to brighten the place up. And a
lawn
. There’s nothing quite as restful to the eye as a lawn (amazingly, it doesn’t appear to have a Latin name). From the imaginary lawn, it is only a short step to espaliered fruit trees, rose bowers, flowering hedges, and those essential living ornaments so dear to the English heart, herbaceous borders. One of these days they will suggest ha-has and parterres. I can feel it coming.

It’s a relief when they go and I am left to look at what I love: lavender and cotton lavender, cypress, sage, rosemary, bay, oleander, box, thyme. Grays from almost blue to almost white, greens from shiny and dark to dusty and faded, a summer splash of purple, colors and shapes that suit the landscape, plants that conquer the climate and tolerate me. They need very little to sustain them, and the only major duty is more of a pleasure than a chore: the cutting of the lavender in July.

This is best done wet. You soak yourself in the pool before taking up the sickle or the secateurs to start the first row. The stalks are dry, almost brittle, and cut cleanly. After gathering a few clumps, your hands take on the scent of fresh lavender, sharp and astringent. Within five minutes the sun has dried the last drop of water from your body; within ten minutes you’re sweating. At the end of half an hour, another trip to the pool and a flop into heaven.

An afternoon of this will give you a pile of cut lavender, with a dozen ways to enjoy it. The fragrance lives to an
aromatic old age, and a small sachet of lavender left in a drawer or linen closet in July will retain its scent, faded but still distinctive, until December or beyond. A stalk or two in bottles of olive oil or vinegar is an infusion of summer that lasts the whole year. And then there is lavender essence, the Provençal cure-all. Use a few drops as a disinfectant on scratches or insect bites, as a gargle to soothe a sore throat, as an inhalant in a bowl of hot water to clear a thick head, as a scorpion repellent when you swab down the kitchen floor. Finally, save a few bunches of dried lavender to put on to the first fires of winter, and the house will smell like the purple patch you cut those many months ago. Try getting all that out of a herbaceous border.

An old house—built before the arrival of preformed doors and windows, instant kitchens, and the many other dubious delights of modern modular construction—is at the same time a joy and a constant obstacle course. What you gain in character you lose in architectural perfection. Floors have slopes and develop mysterious swellings in winter. Walls tilt. Doorways list to one side. Stairs lurch upward with little regard for regularity, and the true right angle is nowhere to be found. And so, when the time comes to replace a sagging banister, a worm-eaten door, or a warped shutter, it is impossible to find a ready-made substitute. You must brace yourself for a series of encounters with that amiable and talented will-of-the-wisp, the Provençal artisan. He will make whatever your heart desires.

Scores of artisans are at your disposal throughout the
Vaucluse, masters of their various crafts. But whether they work their magic in wood, pottery, stone, marble, wrought iron, or steel, they all seem to share similar characteristics. These become apparent during the course of the job, revealing themselves according to the number of visits that you make. And a summer’s afternoon, when lunch has made you sufficiently benign to look upon the whole process as a form of entertainment, is as good a time as any to make a start.

Your first visit will almost certainly include a guided tour of the atelier, where you will be invited to admire commissions undertaken for other clients. Marvelous half-finished objects litter the workshop floor, and you feel fortunate to be in the presence of an artist who can make exactly, precisely, what you want. Not only that; he is encouragingly eager for your business, ready to drop everything and come to your house to take measurements, maybe that very same evening.

At the house, details are noted in the curling pages of a weather-stained exercise book. There are, of course, complications that you, an innocent in these matters, couldn’t be expected to understand without a short lecture. Irregularities and difficulties are revealed to you, the ravages of rust and decay pointed out with many a sad shake of the head. A delicate and sympathetic touch is needed, but you are reassured that you have found the man for the job.
Pas de problème
. A price is quoted and agreed upon, and then you plunge into the realm of the unknown by asking when he might be able to deliver. He counters by asking when you would like that to be. You think of a date, add on a month, and tell him.

This is the cue for the artisan’s motto, which I have heard so often that I think it must be taught to every
young apprentice on his first day at work. In response to your suggestion of a delivery date, there will be a short silence followed by an intake of breath and a thoughtful nod.
C’est possible
, he will say. You will notice that he hasn’t actually said yes, merely that what you ask is not beyond the bounds of possibility. It is a subtle but important distinction, as you will discover. However, for the moment you feel that the two of you have come to a clear and businesslike arrangement.

Not wishing to appear like an aggressive and impatient foreigner, you let a decent interval elapse before calling to check on the job’s progress. It will be an unsatisfactory conversation—if you can call it a conversation—because the artisans telephone is always situated in the loudest corner of his workshop, the area of maximum din. I’m sure this is a deliberate tactic designed to scramble unwelcome questions of a specific nature, or maybe it’s a recording that cuts in automatically. Anyway, it works. Nobody can talk for long to a wall of noise made by a buzz saw or a stonecutter or an enthusiastic welder in full cry. A few half-words might penetrate the clatter, bang, and screech, but not enough to make any sense, and so the seeker after truth is obliged to make another personal visit.

Nothing much has changed in the atelier. The same marvelous objects are still there, still half-finished. If you’re lucky, another one—yours—will have joined the collection, and this will be shown to you with the pride of a father introducing a favorite daughter. It’s beautiful, just what you had hoped for. Is there any chance, you ask, of having it next week?

The intake of breath, the thoughtful nod.
C’est possible
.

Of course, it won’t be ready. But what the hell. The house isn’t going to fall down without it.

I would be interested to know if any research has been done on the connection between a well-served stomach and a few glasses of wine and the urge to go forth and acquire. I am not by nature a shopper, and the idea of trailing around on the lookout for something I don’t need has no appeal for me—except when I’ve had a good lunch. It is then, in the early afternoon, replete, good-humored, and expansive, that I become a willing and susceptible mark; a consumer, ready to consume. In cities, this has occasionally led to expensive embarrassments and stern words from American Express. I’m safer in Provence, where there is a nostalgic fondness for cash.

Many of our neighbors are avid collectors and supporters of
petits fournisseurs
—the small, unadvertised suppliers who grow or make their own products and, ignoring chain stores and supermarkets, sell directly to the public. Their headquarters,
les bonnes adresses
, are usually lost in the countryside or tucked away in the backstreets, simple and inconspicuous, hard to find without directions. The specialty of the house might be anything from white anchovies to custom-made espadrilles, but whatever it is will not be sold to you without a bonus. Education is included in the price—a dash of history, a few remarks on the manufacturing process, and a generous measure of self-promotion, with the occasional sly swipe at mass-produced competition. In other words, the customer should not be in a hurry. This is how I like shopping to be, and a slow, hot afternoon is when I like to do it.

We had been given an address in Cavaillon where one could find the ultimate melon, a melon whose exquisite bouquet and ravishing juiciness were only matched by the
erratic and often disagreeable nature of the proprietor. It sounded like an interesting combination, and after some geographical difficulties we found ourselves in a cul-de-sac on the edge of town, not far from the main produce market.