La Vie: A year in rural France

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He has moved with his family, dogs, and various animals. The aim is to reconnect with nature, to farm for the person rather than for money, and to become at least 50% self-sufficient by the end of the year. For fans of Peter Mayle, La Vie is a perfect slice of sunny escapist joy from the Sunday Times bestselling John Lewis-Stempel.

Lewis-Stempel’s best book in an age; my favourite, certainly, since Meadowland. I’m featuring it in a summer post because, like Peter Mayle’s Provence series, it’s ideal for armchair travelling. Especially with the heat waves that have swept Europe this summer, I’m much happier reading about France or Italy than being there. The author has written much about his Herefordshire haunts, but he’s now relocated permanently to southwest France (La Roche, in the Charente). He proudly calls himself a peasant farmer, growing what he can and bartering for much of the rest. La Vie chronicles a year in his quest to become self-sufficient. It opens one January and continues through the December, an occasional diary with recipes. I watch Jean-Francois make his way from the Boulangerie to the Maisonette de la Presse. A journey of fifty yards, but it takes Jean-Francois quarter of an hour. A former notary in his early seventies, Jean-Francois shakes hands or bisous five different men and women - France is the republic of handshakes and kisses - and exchanges greetings, gossip and news with them all. These same people then greet and talk with others in a slow, slow quadrille.In this book, he describes a year on his farm, the birdsong, the wildlife, the crops, the villagers and some of the nuances of French culture, all in his beguiling, poetic style. An utterly beguiling immersion in La France Profonde, keenly observed and beautifully told’ Felicity Cloake, author of One More Croissant for the Road Everyone who is British living in France profonde utters, as axiomatic, ‘France is like the Britain of our childhood’, by which they mean, depending on their certain age, the 1950s or the 1970s or 1990s. Sometimes rural France is older still. While we were house-hunting and renting the mill in the hedged bocage of northern Deux-Sevres the birdsong was of medieval intensity. Here, in our corner of woods and arable fields in eastern Charente-Maritime, we are at Renaissance level.

Lewis-Stempel is a farmer of mediaeval heritage, with his family owning the same land for 700 years. But he has bought a house in the Charente region of France. This house comes with a potager, various farm buildings, and other accoutrements of a house built in rural France during the Belle Époque. The book recounts a year in his life: January-December. The rituals of rural France, whether queuing for a baguette or sipping a noisette (espresso with a ‘nut’ of milk) while watching the world go by, are effective barriers to the rush of modern times. Somehow, in France, at least outside of Paris, Marseille and Lyon, there is still time. Time to be. Time to do nothing at all.

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