December, Decembre | Escaping to the slow pace of the South
A flirtation with baldness and a commitment to the slow lane
Learning to slow down, the hard way
Nine years ago, as I celebrated my last Christmas with family and my last New Year with friends before I left on my Australian adventure, I was suffering badly with alopecia. It had started three years prior as a little patch behind my left ear, and had spread gradually, and at random. Now, over fifty percent of my head was devoid of hair - milky white and soft.
For two years, I didn’t wear my hair down, trying with varying degrees of success to cover my increasing baldness with hair pieces and carefully orchestrated hairstyles. My stomach would churn at a gust of wind and my whole body would tense if someone moved to touch my hair. I was self-conscious and embarrassed, but in the midst of a pretty savage life lesson.
Fast forward to 2024: at 4 a.m. on a cold November morning, I quietly slipped out of London with my newly minted Irish passport in hand, trading the lubricated debauchery of the final weeks of the year for the blue-skied quiet of southern France. With two small bald patches lingering neatly at the crown of my head (the most annoying place, trust me), I had learnt my hard lesson and was finally willing to listen to my body.
There is definitely a consensus that this year has been an assault course and I am not alone in saying that I am mustering all the energy I have to simply just make it to the end of this year. The New Yorker published a piece last December about how we are very tired, “tired of meetings, brainstorming, expectations, dealing with people, figuring out never ending problems.”. And just this week, the Guardian posted an article about the often paralysing sense of overwhelm that many of us are experiencing, “We’re presented with so much evidence of opportunities that we could be taking, whether that’s a side hustle, or with fitness, or with money, or whatever it is..”. I am sure that nothing that I have just written is news to any of you, but I guess I am trying to understand where, in our jam-packed calendars, we’re allowed to take a breather and acknowledge what a fucking ride that was?
At this point in the year, I resemble Bruce Willis at the end of Die Hard; beaten, bloodied, bruised, and in need of some serious R&R. I am also aware that my alopecia - now my guiding light of stress and capacity - has abated but is still lingering. It is telling me that I need to slow it down and that I have bigger fish to fry than the hustle. So this December, I decided to take a breather - I chose solitude over conviviality and gave up the notion of cuffing (look it up) and mistletoe flirtations in pursuit of rest and revival. It turns out that living in the south of France is very conducive to doing this.
It is officially hivernants season
Wintering in the southern reaches of France is by no means a revolutionary concept; from the early 1800s and all the way until the 1950s, the Riviera’s peak season was over the winter where the annual pilgrimage of hivernants descended to the coast for its warmer climes and bustling coastal life.
These days, Southern France is more a mainstay of summer getaways; bustling markets, festivals, and a never ending supply of rosé et Ricard. Most people probably never think of coming south during the winter, but there is something magical about this time of year when the tourists have gone and there is no longer sweat dripping off of every inch of your body. The cities and the expansive surroundings of beaches, gorges and vineyards become yours once again, giving way to the gentle rhythm of southern life. But as the beat softens and the crowds abate, you realise that actually, not much changes. Yes, I am wearing a coat, not a bikini and the cool air that whips off the mountains cuts differently, but the sky is still a bright, cloudless blue, the rosé and (breakfast) Ricard still flow and life is still lived on terraces of cafés and bistros serving the well-priced plat du jour.
Weeks here meander gently, punctuated by markets: food, flowers, and antiques. Occasionally, there may be an event, which sees droves of people flocking to the city. The unveiling of the refurbished Les Halles came with bombastic fanfare. On my last visit, the Macarena played on the speakers, and to my delight, the locals joined with the well-known dance routine and unabashed enthusiasm. It was absurd, charming, and somehow perfect for this unpretentious town. Most recently, there was the unveiling of the Christmas display. From the all-out kitchness of it and the excitement amongst the locals, you’d be forgiven for thinking that you had wandered onto the set of a Hallmark Christmas movie. Was I about to get snogged by a humanised snowman? Alas, I was not, but the quiet camaraderie and involvement in small town life was and is infectious. It definitely isn’t cool but it feels good in a back-to-basics sort of way, and it feels refreshing to not even have to choose where to go and what to do.
Don’t get me wrong, there will be a moment when I am craving the high octane intensity of big city life - I can already feel the bristle of movement and plans coming alive just over the hill of the new year. But for now, I am basking in the healing powers of the south and understanding that the Victorians had it right when they created hivernants pilgrimage. For a few more days, I am going to continue feeling excited for the small things: seeing the new season vegetables appearing at the markets, drinking terrible coffees on sun-dappled terraces and staring out at mountains surrounding us or the vibrant reflection of the city in the River Orb. I might even join in for the next Macarena. The rest can wait.
As this year comes to an end, I want to say a humungous, wholehearted thank you to all of you have read what I have been putting out there this year. I appreciate the time you take to read, share, comment or message me and hope that there are more stories of France and life and wine to come in 2025.
Bisous à tous x
And isn't stress a bitch? While I still have my hair, stress immobilized me with extreme back pain that was eventually relieved through physical therapy. My back has become my stress barometer; whenever I feel even a slight twinge in my upper back, I know it's time to stop, reflect, and change something in my life. I think perhaps our bodies are smarter than our minds....
You have captured the natural, cultural, and social beauty of this place brilliantly!