A Year in Provence-Peter Mayle

                                                                                                                                        Memoir/Travel

A Year in Provence

Peter Mayle

I first visited Daryaganj book-bazar, the iconic flea market in Delhi, more than a decade back. I was in Delhi for a few weeks. A friend, the first and perhaps the most passionate bibliophile I met in my life, was then posted at Delhi. On a Sunday, after I have had lunch at his place, he proposed to take me to the book-bazar. I had begun to collect books seriously only a few years back. I was aware that Daryaganj book-bazar occupied a hallowed niche in a book-lover’s heart, especially if he happened to be from North India. It was a sea of books I saw that summer Sunday on the pavements of Daryaganj. Books occupied every inch of the pavement for miles and frequently spilled onto the road. I was too excited to systematically sift through the heaps. In a few minutes though, I had sighted and bought a few. I found two biographies of Somerset Maugham. Weather it was this fortuitous find- I am an inveterate Maugham fan and had been looking to acquire these books for some time- or the vastness of the collection or the throwaway prices; I was hooked to Daryaganj book-bazar.

For many years I visited Sunday book-bazar four to five times in a year, usually in winters when the weather in Delhi is particularly suitable for long strolls in open. I began my search for books at Asaf Ali road in the forenoon. Bazar extended almost till Red Fort. I traversed the stretch of nearly two kilometres, weaving my way through the thick pulsating crowds as I jostled, elbowed, stopped frequently to view pavement stalls, was pushed around and all the while lugged my backpack bursting at its seams, by the time bazar thinned to a stray vendor at its furthest end. I mostly lunched at Changezi, an Afghan-cuisine restaurant, near Golcha theatre.  I often noticed sky redden over the majestic ramparts of Red Fort in dusk as I was caught in the melee of the flea market surrounding the lanes that led to Jama Masjid. I would board the metro at Chandni Chowk metro station, often halting at Natraj Chaat shop for Dahi-Bhalla. Shop was at the mouth of the lane leading to the station. Those were fulfilling Sundays. My backpack used to get heavier and my pace slower, as I progressed along the pavement. Books were dirt-cheap. There was no need to haggle. I came to recognize vendors who stocked the genre of books I liked. They would take out the new additions in their lot as soon as they saw me. I added many hundreds of books to my collection over the years. More than the lure of an enviable bargain, I liked the idea of splendid hours in company of old books. Sunday book-bazar was a great outing on a pleasantly cool day of Delhi winter.

I was reminded of Daryaganj, as I picked up Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence a few days back. I had bought it almost ten years ago at Daryaganj. I was aware of its reverential status as a travel book and its phenomenal success. It remained on my Wishlist of ‘next-read’ all these years. This is one pitfall of possessing many more books in your collection than you can read in a lifetime. As you finish a book you realise that there is not one, not two, but an intractable number of books with the ‘to-read-next’ tag.

Peter Mayle was a creative director of a successful advertising firm in UK. After a long career in corporate world he and his wife moved to Provence in France. They bought a farmhouse at the foot of the Luberon mountains, between Avignon and Aix, with huge grounds for farming. Peter Mayle was writing before he moved to France. This book is a riveting account of Mayle couple’s first year in Provence. Book is a ravishing read. Mayle is an excellent raconteur. You keep turning the pages rhythmically, enjoying thoroughly the vivid picture of Mayle and his wife’s early time in Provence. Style of the book is high comedy. Mayle endearingly describes his staggering efforts as the couple struggle to renovate the house according to their taste. He is apparently peeved, but later reconciles to the Provencal workmen’s ineluctable tendency for deferment and prevarication. His neighbour is a farmer. He is bemused and plainly impressed by his generosity and unassuming eagerness to help the new comers to Provence. He describes the quixotic eccentricities of another of his neighbour with affectionate charm. It is easy to see that Mayle is intentionally exaggerating the peculiarities of the natives to infuse humour into his narrative. His style succeeds and effortlessly beguiles the reader. One reads the book with joyful mind, partaking of Mayle’s adventures. Mayle describes the landscape, the vineyards, the grape-picking festivities, his excursions into the countryside; all in a fluid prose. His words are like the strokes of the brush of a gifted painter. It is plainly evident, how and why the book was such a phenomenal success. Peter Mayle’s apparent frustration with unsolicited guests who descend on them shamelessly and partake their hospitality with impunity, is described in the same humorous vein as pervades the whole book. Another unique aspect of the book is Mayle’s extensive disquisition on French cuisine and wines. I am not a connoisseur of food or wine. I’m particularly ignorant of western eating and drinking habits. But para after para of food and wine never tested my patience. I read these with interest. It added to the experience Mayle was attempting to convey. I am sure book would be a pleasure for a gourmet and an oenophile.

I cannot foresee any reader who will not be charmed by Peter Mayle’s lucid prose, humorous narration and fascinating description of French countryside.