Not being overly troubled about things to do during recovery from what the doctor called bronchitis, I sank into puzzlement and speculation about where the late author, Peter Mayle will be planted.
Born in England, he moved to the south of France where his writings were so heartily adopted that he had to move to Amagansett, Long Island, to avoid un-invited guests just "popping in, old chap!"
When I read yesterday that his express instructions called for a very nice lunch with copious amounts of wine - and death just before the check gets to the table - I knew immediately that he was talking about Provence. Cheating the Check is a well-known and longstanding custom there.
The Brits aren't famous for their discernment at picking a wine; in fact, they seem mainly to drink champagne at the drop of an aitch or a hat. I can hardly argue with that stance as I am very fond of a flute of bubbly myself. Any occasion will do.
Amagansett is only populated in the summer as far as I know and summers are always rowdier than winters because it's cold in the winter and passers-by cannot see what the home owner is up to and whether it involves clothing or not.
No wonder Mayle's books sold very well indeed. With a fundamental philosophy like that listed above, how could one not like his writing?
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