By Paul Topping

On the road from Bargème to Grasse in Provence, France, we climb the hill to the town of Claviers. A small town with a lovely row of large trees all the way up to the village. These trees are common to this part of France but are native to Persia. Napoleon had them planted along roadsides for shade/ wind protection for marching troops.

The Whinging Pome Random Rule No. 327: “The route into an unknown village or town is to go straight into the centre, find the square and then work back.” This approach was given to me by an ex-major who served in a tank division.

Parking the car, I notice a naked woman monument. Through a small iron gate, I get closer to the statue and to a memorial for many of the French Second World War resistance fighters from the area who lost their lives. It’s a strange combination: a memorial with a naked woman statue. Perhaps it relates to liberty, or perhaps the women who lost their men.

We have planned to play pétanque with a bunch of expats living in and around the local villages. The game is basically throwing underarm a small ball ( piglet )and then throwing bigger balls at the small ball. Sounds rather French.  After watching a few games taking place, we realise it’s serious stuff! We decide it’s better to watch than participate.

The completion of the game ends in the nearby bar, which, for the event, extends into the main road into the village.

We met some Americans and many British couples living the good life in Provence.

Had we been here a month earlier, we’re told there would have been lots of Dutch people living in the region. They've gone to enjoy their short summer season at home. Had we been here a month later, God forbid, the place would be overrun with urban French tourists, possibly the French at their worst.

The bar has a limited range of wines and beers and a grumpy barman whose most frequent response is “non”.

Claviers in Provence is a medieval semicircle town built on a ridge, overlooking a river and olive groves. It has a population of approximately six hundred and is situated five kilometres from Bargemon.

Foreigners living in Provence started in modern times with Riviera royalty in the 19th century: casinos, opera, sun and sea, all considered beneficial to health back then. Now over ten million foreigners of various sorts live in France, with Provence being a favourite location given its more balanced weather.

For those non-French who embrace the chilled rosé and shady terrace lifestyle, the reality is often heavily impacted by the frustrations of language, cold winters, bureaucracy, and builders.

As you can imagine, Jezzabel falls in love with the area, and we go on a little trip around estate agents in the villages. They say, “The best house in Provence is your friend’s house.”

The expats are likely facing rising running costs, inconsistent labour and high maintenance services. Many resort to Airbnb for additional income. 

The wife falls in love with a semi-moated turreted property and goes off to seek the price, "it’s just been sold", she cries. God, I feel blessed.

There’s no doubt that property demand was fueled by an abundance of books on the region. My favourite has to be "A Year in Provence" by Peter Mayle. We once visited the village in the Luberon where he lived, but the locals were not too impressed with the “stuck-up Englishman.” No, not the Whinging Pome!

A tour of Claviers reveals quaint alleyways and houses hugging the hillsides. Lots of lovely arches and, surprisingly, no tourists. A dominating church at the crossroads has a Norman-looking tower with a rather large black and white clock. Quite strange.

The town has a few estate agents and one small supermarket. It is waiting for the next big wave of tourism to hit and for an influx of foreign buyers. The housing market in this part of France suffers from a glut of properties, and return on investment can take years. Government regulations and taxes on property, plus tourism income, can also be a dampener.

It’s essential, as a taphophile, to visit the local cemetery. It’s up on a small hill, not quite Boot Hill of Dodge City, of country and western fame. Most French cemeteries are walled, and some have a little toilet block.

I notice pottery roses placed on many of the graves, saves buying flowers for each death anniversary. Reminds me of the song, "Another Good Year for the Roses" by Elvis Costello.