The enduring appeal of La France Profonde

Many of my generation would lay the blame for this idyllic infatuation squarely at the flyleaf of Peter Mayle’s 1989 book, A Year in Provence, which painted a picture of a simple life in the French countryside, but even such an aged tome was tapping into something that already existed. Rural France has always been a place we long for, where we imagined a life composed entirely of freshly baked bread, ichorous cheese and wine drunk in the warm, fragrant dusks of overgrown gardens. 

Every time I visit, I expect the bubble to burst, the dream to end. I’m bracing myself to see villages deserted by the urban drift of the young, destroyed by high street chains or dominated by huge processing plants in the place of family-run vineyards. But, while this does happen, it’s far from the norm, for one simple reason. If La France Profonde is indeed an English dream, it’s one that the French created and still fight hard to keep alive.  

There is a deliberate drive to preserve traditional methods of production and farming, not as historical curiosities but for their role as conductors of life, setting a slow tempo with which everyone around them keeps time. It’s heartfelt and genuine, without the slightest hint of Disneyland confection. And it works. What struck me on this visit was how considerate drivers were of cyclists – waiting patiently, overtaking slow and wide. A small thing perhaps, but it seemed to speak volumes about the power of having a real sense of community means. It was no surprise to me that the show, with its prize of running your own B&B and becoming a part of a place like this, had received such a tide of applications.  

As we spent more time in the sleepy village in the middle of the Limousin National Park, I felt myself unfurling into the countryside, easing down through the gears, even with the intense nervousness of my TV debut. I briefly wondered why the area wasn’t more popular with tourists, but it’s not a place with highlights and hotspots.   

The landscapes are broad and gentle, perfect for trundling farm carts and happily taking a long time to travel a short distance. Even the natural beauty seems oddly understated, with rivers winding casually through low hills, as if they considered soaring mountains and crashing waterfalls to be a little gauche.  

You come here, just as the old dream depicts, for the very absence of drama. For local markets, seasonal food and people who are either friendly or not, but never out of professional courtesy or years of being sanded down and polished by the currents of demanding outsiders. This visit stirred in me what it always has and probably always will – the faint sense that this was life done right and that I should try, somehow, to reorient myself around it, ground myself in it.  

Sadly, I’m just a judge on The Great B&B Challenge and it’s the winners who will actually get to do it – escape to this modern resistance and sink themselves into the warmth of La France Profonde. I will content myself with dipping in for a week here and there, carrying home with me the flavours of the wine and cheese on my tongue, the feel of crusty bread breaking in my hands and, in my mind, a fresh layer of thick lustrous, lacquer on that dream of paradise. 

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