In 1989 author and advertising man, Peter Mayle, published A Year in Provence, telling of his family’s adventures while moving its home to the South of France in search of the ‘good life’. It was by no means the first of the genre, as a child I was completely enthralled by Gerald Durrell’s telling of his family’s move to Corfu in My Family and Other Animals, but it was such an enormous bestseller amongst the book-chattering, Provence-loving classes that it launched an avalanche of imitators, some of which turned out to be much better than the original.
There were tales of people buying vineyards and opening restaurants, taking over stately homes and opening zoos and safari parks. Anecdotes about quaint locals, eccentric relatives and hilarious animals were mixed with recipes and travel stories. Publishers loved them and if the author had ever appeared on television and had a name that was recognisable to the public so much the better. Many of them needed the help of ghostwriters.
Visiting these people in their new and alternative lives was always entertaining. The sense of relief and joy that they conveyed at having been released from the tedium of their previous lives reminded me how lucky I was to be a freelance writer, the financial cliffs that they were often staring over made me shiver with recognition.
I always admired their courage. If I had followed a different path I don’t know if I would ever have had the nerve to walk away from a secure life once I was used to a regular income, cushioned with a pension and paid holidays, in order to risk everything on being a writer. By starting at 17, when I had no debts, no dependants and outgoings that could be pared away to barest survival levels, sharing a flat with half a dozen or more other people, I had accidentally given myself a head start on the pursuit of the sort of ‘good life’ that these escapees from the rat race were often searching for.