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NATIONAL BESTSELLERTaking up where his beloved A Year in Provence leaves off, Peter Mayle offers us another funny, beautifully (and deliciously) evocative book about life in Provence. With tales only one who lives there could know—of finding gold coins while digging in the garden, of indulging in sumptuous feasts at truck stops—and with characters introduced with great affection and wit—the gendarme fallen from grace, the summer visitors ever trying the patience of even the most genial Provençaux, the straightforward dog "Boy"—Toujours Provence is a heart-warming portrait of a place where, if you can't quite "get away from it all," you can surely have a very good time trying.
had been laid on a bed of reinforced concrete, as deep as the flagstones were, thick. It would be a demolition job just to get down to the earth. Massot sensed what I was thinking, and put the metal detector down so that he could talk with both hands. ‘In Cavaillon,’ he said, ‘you can rent a marteau-piqueur. It will go through anything. Paf!’ He was quite right. A miniature jack-hammer would go through the flagstones, the reinforced concrete, the pipes feeding the pool and the electric cables
they left in a cloud of muttering. That's one book we won't be buying, only wanted to look, anyone would think it was Buckingham Palace. I watched them march down the drive to their Volvo, shoulders rigid with indignation, and thought about getting a Rottweiler. After that, the sight of a car slowing down and stopping on the road in front of the house was the signal for what came to be known as a crawler alert. ‘Make yourself decent,’ my wife would say, ‘I think they're coming up the drive. No –
beach bright and early and attempted to look inconspicuous despite the curious similarity of their bronzage – the policeman's suntan ofbrown forearms, brown vee at the neck and brown face, with everywhere else, from toes to forehead, an unweathered white. Fortunately, the fugitive was too busy getting aboard his windsurfer to notice anything suspicious about twenty pale men loitering with intent until they surrounded him in shallow water and took him away. A subsequent search of his studio
heard about Régis from some friends. They had invited him to dinner at their house, and during the morning he had called to ask what he would be given to eat. Even in France, that shows a greater interest than normal in the menu, and his hostess was curious. Why was he asking? There were cold stuffed moules, there was pork with truffle gravy, there were cheeses, there were home-made sorbets. Were any of these a problem? Had he developed allergies? Become a vegetarian? Gone, God forbid, on a diet?
fingernails, earth on their heavy boots. Obviously, they had sold their lettuces well that morning. The passageways and stalls were now crowded with members of the public, shopping with the intent, slightly suspicious expressions of people who were determined to find the most tender, the juiciest, the best. A woman put on her reading glasses to inspect a row of cauliflowers which, to me, looked identical. She picked one up, hefted it in her hand, peered at its tight white head, sniffed it, put