June, Juin | crushes, island vibes & Sète's natural wine scene
Distracted and very behind schedule.
This month’s Substack is late. You are likely unaware, but if you are aware, that is quite a low-key ego boost - so sorry, but also thank you. I can’t even fall on the usual sword of too much work and travel.. In fact, it is quite the opposite: after months of gruelling build, work is hitting a gentle summer stride and I am finally able to spend more than two weeks at home in Sète. This has meant countless hours presque nue à la plage, napping, reading, staying up too late, drinking far too much, but definitely not writing. You see, I have a crush. And I have it bad. In theory having a crush is a good thing; a sort of shimmer of excitement that dances through your daily life, making even the banal just that little bit more appealing.
However, I have passed into the all-consuming teenage version of a crush. One that renders your mind tunnel-visioned and hopeless. I have sat down countless times this month to write, gone on long walks and bike rides to chew over what I actually want to say. But then, without warning, my musings have been derailed by sudden thoughts of lust and deviance. Any nuanced ideas I may have had have been unceremoniously stopped in their tracks by my mind’s exotic dreamings. Despite my suspicions that a dive into the darker, more carnal aspects of my imagination may have been well received, I have decided to try and weather the erotic mental storms that I am currently going through, so as to keep this Substack on track… I think I am meant to be writing about France and wine? I can barely remember.
This painstaking crush has coincided with the definite and absolute arrival of summer - and all the sweaty, ocean-whipped, almost nakedness that this entails (especially when living on the Med). I landed back in France on the 21st June, which was not only the summer solstice, but also the France-wide mega celebration that is Fête de la Musique. This is an all day (and all night) music celebration which bears witness to the French tapping into their more feral edge; an interesting thing to witness considering that the French err more on the conservative side and are normally not afraid to berate others for such displays of wanton freedom.
But coming back to France for this genuinely beautiful display of kinship and fun made me relish the very real and evocative change that takes place once summer hits here. France shakes off the aspects of itself that entail more rigidity and regulation, giving way to its more frivolous side that vibrates with street parties, festivals, very late night dinners and the momentary acceptance of anyone and everyone (no matter how shit your French is).
This month feels like the beating drum that defiantly calls in summer; calls in the madness, the heat, the late nights, the inevitable draw to bad decisions. As soon as I stepped off of the plane in Carcassonne, I could feel it, smell it, almost taste it; the final loosening of springtime’s pretty, floral shackles. Gone was the cool evening air, the sweet scent of jasmine and the ability to live without being drenched in sweat. In its place was something more gnarly and intense, less forgiving. The air is now viscous and enveloping, laced with the baked scent of pine trees and lavender, and the marked smell of brine emanating from the ocean. The whole colour palette has changed too; the verdant greens and bright springtime florals have given way to something muted and sun-bleached, almost sepia toned. Summer has let us know that she is here.
An almost island baby
Being back in Sète these past few weeks has given me more than just that ‘living the fucking good life’ feeling. It’s brought me back to a rhythm I’ve been craving - one that also feels deeply familiar. My mum recently commented that it was funny how I brought myself back to a place that was similar to where I grew up.. And whilst I initially balked at this suggestion, it dawned on me that perhaps she was right.
I grew up on the small island of Hayling Island - tucked between Chichester and Portsmouth, and looking out to the Isle of Wight. And while it is indeed an island in name, it’s only really an island when the tide is in. When it’s out, it’s just... almost an island. Or as the French say about Sète, une presqu’île - an almost island. I believe that this semi-detachment/attachment to the mainland does something to the mentality; whilst the semi-attachment stops you from going stir-crazy and falling prey to an all-out island mania, the semi-detachment allows you to leave your real life worries at the bridge, descending into the island a lighter, freer version of yourself.
The delay this month hasn’t just been lust-fuelled - I’ve also been trying to put words to a feeling I haven’t quite been able to name. It is the sense that I am mirroring some of my most treasured moments of being a child; of living in a small place, encased by water and sand and winding paths wrapped in sand dunes that I could take my bike out onto. Of living in a place that centred around one haven - a place where you could go alone and always find friends or an adult to buy you a lemonade. Back then it was Hayling Island Sailing Club. Now, it's a small constellation of natural wine institutes in Sète: Cave au Vin Vivant, Pimpant and the newly-opened Soif.
For me, these places epitomise the easy-going, barefoot spirit that washes through Sète in summer - and if I’m honest, all year round. They eschew the London obsession with sleek fit-outs and state-of-the-art wine fridges - they are rough around the edges, imperfect and welcoming. Tabs - or notes as they’re called here - are scrawled on scraps of paper, bottles are pulled from old humming fridges, and no one cares if you're still sandy from the beach or if you made a bit of a tit of yourself the night before - someone will still pour you a glass and welcome you with a Salut! and a wink, as if you’re part of the family.
I’m going to talk about this more another day, but this is the beauty that I have often found in the world of natural wine, especially down here on this almost island: there is a community of people trying it out and giving it a go. It definitely isn’t always polished, and occasionally I have to declare a wine mousey as hell, but I’d prefer it that way.. real, welcoming and sometimes feral.
Anyway, that’s quite enough coherence for one day - I’m allowed to go back to sunbathing and fantasising now, right?
Loved that!!
Very romantic!