May came to the Vaucluse (picture above) and every human or animal living there had his own task. The Mayle's were savouring the bathing in their pool and the driving around with their bicycles while Faustin, their neighbour, planted lavender on the Mayle's field. Faustin's rabbits, on the other hand, ate all the lucern from the Mayle's field and grew stronger and stronger unaware that their meat would soon land on the kitchen tables.
Mayle's house was being visited by a sucession of friends and half-acquaintances, who reveled in driving around the jaw-dropping French countryside and eating in unfussy restaurants. Mayle charms me again in the way he portrays his guests, who really, to his surprise, didn't disturbe their fulfilled lives, which the Mayle's treasured like pearls plucked from an oyster.What I find remarkable about life in rural areas then is that the locals worked like ants from dusk till down, but after tyring physically they went eminently happy to bed since they could immediately see the "fruits" of their labour. Everyone one of them lived a fulfilled life and there was a paucity of stress compared to today's rat race.
One more proof that money cannot guarantee happiness.
My vocabulary today consists of only one new word (how I adore reading "A Year in Provence"):
adamant
a)stubborn
b)sullen
c)unhappy
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