Scuffling around the South of France

Somehow or other, it has been three months since I moved into this little apartment. Three months of living in a city after … well, rather a number of years living in tiny hamlets or small towns, including the last two and a half in France. Three months of being a short walk from the beach. Three months of adjusting to sounds that aren’t sheep bells and donkeys (to be fair, there was only one donkey, and it was apparently a temporary resident, as I never heard it again after). Three months of neighbours upstairs, downstairs, and to one side, rather than no one most of the time.

Which has been a significant change.

Of course I knew it would be – I haven’t lived in an apartment since the previous time I was here in France, and I left in 2019. Since then there have been many quiet houses and silent spaces, many changes of life and rhythm and the world. I have become significantly more hermit-like, and I had no idea what my tolerance would be for noise and busyness and the general background hum of a city. I was happy to move, because the mountain house was dark and cold and not entirely comfortable, but I also didn't know if this was the right move. Maybe I just needed a different spot in the same area?

But all things are temporary, even apartment moves (especially for me. I have been through long stages of moving every year, and that doesn’t count all the time bobbing about on boats). And as much as I am undecided on where exactly, as in which town, I might want to end up permanently (insofar as anything I do is permanent, other than tattoos), I seem to have slowly settled on a general geographical location, which is interesting and worrying and odd all at once for a nomadic little creature like myself. So it made sense to at least try beach living. Which, around here, unless you have a number of kidneys to sell, means city apartment living.

The old place did have some spectacular sunrises …

And after three months, here are my observations so far:

The noise.

In no way is this as bad as I feared. Come summer things may well be different, when the place fills up with holidaymakers, but I have stumbled into a small apartment block in a fairly residential area, and other than some very mild partying in the street around Christmas, which was over by 10 p.m., it’s all very civilised. Of course there always is noise, cars on the roads or ventilation in the building, or someone running the washing machine late at night, but it is, for the most part, in the background. In the mountain house, I often heard the silence, like the low hum one finds in a seashell, and I’m not sure it was any less distracting than what I hear now.

People.

I really love how there’s a certain politeness in French culture. If anyone steps into a doctor’s waiting room, they say hello to everyone there, and everyone nods back. The same in a lift, or walking into a shop (I have still not figured out the exact rules for at what size of shop one stops doing this. The little supermarket not far from me still seems to require it, even when busy). Of course, in the mountains you say hello to everyone, because there just aren’t that many people around, but here it’s more about the issue of bumping into people unexpectedly. I have remembered the trick of checking the hallway to make sure no one’s outside before I sneak out, in order to avoid impromptu chats, but encountering someone in the stairwell or the garage still requires an exchange of pleasantries, and it happens a lot more than I’m used to. Good practice for my French, though (and also excellent story fodder …).

It does also mean remembering not to run the washing machine at 6 a.m., and not starting a workout at a similar time, but I’m good with it. There’s something oddly pleasant about the invisible rhythm of lives carrying quietly on all around me, the gentle energy of people just getting on with their chores and work and dreams and loves, like the woman in the apartment block opposite, who often opens her shutters just as I’m hanging washing out on the balcony. We nod to each other, a little bubble of human connection, and I wonder if she likes the pigeons who sit on her balcony railing, or if she just tolerates them, another small life intersecting in her world. She probably wonders how many people I have living here, given all the laundry.

Beachy sunrise.

There’s the people-watching, too, which feeds so much of my writing. Observing the little quirks and curiosities of humanity, beautiful and strange and full of very human magic, watching them write their own stories in the way they dress and walk and talk to each other. It fills a well, remembering all the wild and infinite variations in all of us.

And, the flip side of that: so many people, and so much anonymity. In the mountains, I was the odd foreign writer who was renting so-and-so’s house. I was known. There was something a little scratchy and exposed about it, even though everyone was always lovely and friendly, and always willing to help out if I needed something. But for someone who prefers the edges of the room, it’s a little uncomfortable. Here, I’m the new foreigner in the building, but that’s all. And outside the building, I’m nothing but another resident, ambling down the road to the sea. There’s a peace in that, for me.

The view.

This is an interesting one for me. In the mountain house, I had a beautiful view out of the bedroom window, and also from the rooms upstairs, which I never really used. The main room had a decent view, although the window was placed in such a way that I had to go and peer out of it to really appreciate it. But the orientation meant I got both sunrises and sunsets, and they were glorious.

I didn't go hunting for a view when I was looking for an apartment near the coast. My requirements were simple: one bedroom, an actual kitchen (so not just a plug-in burner and a microwave), comfortable enough for the fact I can spend days at a time inside without leaving when I’m working, and not ridiculous rent. These are already stringent enough specifications around here.

However. This apartment has a most delightful view. Because it’s high enough, and on a little hill, it actually looks over the tops of the trees to the mountains, and those trees also mean I don’t really see many buildings, other than the one with the pigeon lady. And that is painted in nice Provençal colours, with blue shutters, so it’s rather charming in its own right. I have a big sliding door onto the balcony, and I can see the sunset every day without even moving from my desk. I look outside all the time, and in that respect it’s actually better than the previous place. This is such a joy. I never realised how much having a good view makes such a difference. I barely feel like I’m in the city at all when I look out those doors.

Sunset is not bad here …

Out and about.

Okay, so you may have guessed I’m not exactly the person who’s out dining at a different restaurant every night, then hitting the clubs before bed. But I am a fan of lunch dates with friends, and the occasional night out for live music or a nice meal. Which I still did in the mountains, but the choice was between an okay pizza place and a friendly but slightly dubious bar, or driving a two and half hour round trip to the coast. Which, again, I did, and I enjoyed it, but there is something rather nice about being able to meet a friend for lunch and it not taking the whole day. Especially when one is as unwilling to give up work time as I am …

Then there’s the shops! I can nip down to any number of supermarkets, any time I want. Plus boulangeries and pet supply places and fruit and veg shops and anything else I need without it being an expedition.

I believe there are also clothes shops and so on, but I’ve only been here three months. Give me a chance.

The sea, the sea.

Oh, the sea. I knew I missed it. I didn't realise how much I missed it, until I was able to go and put my feet in it every day. The sound of waves on the shore. The ever-changing colours, dark and fickle in the winter winds, light and clear when the sun floods the sand. The seagulls chasing their shadows across the waves, and the tiny fishing boats piling nets into the waters, hopeful and persistent in the face of the mass of big-scale fishing elsewhere. The kitesurfers and swimmers and walkers, and the driftwood marking the passage of the tides. It’s all so beautiful, and so endlessly changing, and driving down to spend a day by it is simply not the same as hurrying down the street on foot to catch the sunrise, or deciding to walk the sand to shake loose a plot point. Returning to the sea is always coming home for me, and I love it so much.

And breathe …

Of course there are other things, too. But these are the ones that matter to me right now. As I say, ask me again in summer. I may well be ready to run away to the mountains once the beach is packed and the holiday apartments are full of partying visitors, and the lovely big doors are piling in so much sunlight I’m roasting like a chicken under a halogen bulb.

But for now, for me, it’s perfect.

And that is enough.

Now tell me, lovely people – what’s your favourite thing about where you live now? Or what’s one thing you’ve been surprised to love? Share away in the comments!