VERY seductive, rural France. Or perhaps I should say, très seduisante. Six years ago, after two decades farming in Britain, my wife and I had the chance to spend some months in France profonde, learning about lavender and wine. We have never really left, and are now residents of La Roche, a small village in the south-west.
La Roche is exactly how you picture a French village: sleepy, shuttered, a cat picking its way from the salle des fêtes to the cemetery, the tolling of bells from a Romanesque church, named for an obscure saint. Long and uninterrupted views of woods and vineyards. On the end of a barn wall, a faded Dubonnet advert.
The past is still accessible in deep France.The baker does his rounds in a battered Citroën Berlingo van, 100 warm baguettes in the back; Monsieur Lapix's cobbled farmyard has ducks and geese picking over the manure heap.
In the morning mist, my neighbour, Madame Roban, cycles past with a bucket of treats for her cows dangling from the handlebars.. As do many in the village, she has a potager, which to describe simply as a kitchen garden loses something in translation; the potager is also a pretty, flower-enhanced place. Function and style simultaneously, which is very French if you think about it. She makes her own wine, too. To use a modern phrase, many of our neighbours practise a high degree of self-sufficiency. In our small village, dawn is announced by four cockerels. Then quacking ducks and honking geese.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der March 27, 2024-Ausgabe von Country Life UK.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der March 27, 2024-Ausgabe von Country Life UK.
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