In Search of Anyplace but the ‘Most Charming Village in France’

 

In Search of Anyplace but the ‘Most Charming Village in France’

 

The novelist Joyce Maynard’s four-day road trip in the south of France was guided by pure spontaneity, which is how she ended up in “Le Love Room.”

 

Illustration Credit...Victoria Tentler-Krylov

By Joyce Maynard

June 2, 2025

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/06/02/travel/france-road-trip-joyce-maynard.html

 

I was finishing up a monthlong book tour in France, taking a train to a different city every night — many of them ones I’d never visited. Those 28 nights had revealed how much there was to discover in France beyond the endless allure of Paris.

 

Four free days remained before my return to the United States, so I hatched a plan to rent a car and take a road trip through the south of France, with no itinerary. Though my initial concept was to travel alone, I learned that Stephen, an old friend, was in France, too, wrapping up a professional obligation of his own in Marseille. I suggested we share an adventure. His wife, who hadn’t come along for the trip, was also a good friend, and no awkward hint of romance existed in this plan of ours.

 

It was “Two for the Road,” minus the love angle.

 

‘Not a Plan in Our Heads’

We picked up the car in Nice. A French friend suggested we start out in Èze, a nearby village celebrated for its beauty and charm. “Everyone loves Èze,” she told me.

 

Everyone but us. What we found was far from a hidden gem. The village was lovely, but the parade of tourists filing through the winding streets lined with shops selling soap and dish towels made it clear we’d come to the wrong place. “From now on,” I told Stephen, “let’s steer clear of anyplace labeled Most Charming French Village Ever.”

 

We headed north, not a plan in our heads. We sought small moments rather than important landmarks — great food that didn’t cost much, unexpected discoveries. I wanted to feel like a character in a French movie, I told Stephen, failing to specify what kind.

 

We headed north. Around lunchtime, I spotted a handmade sign, “Fromage,” outside a farmhouse with goats grazing around it. The young woman inside, who looked as though she’d stepped out of a Marcel Pagnol film, brought out a selection of chèvre. Was there a place nearby to buy bread? I asked. She pointed to a dirt road on which cows were ambling. “Pas loin,” she told me. Not far. Happily, I didn’t hear a word of English in the village she directed us to.

 

We then drove north to a spot known as the Gorges du Verdon, with a winding river between steep cliffs, and an impressive population of birds. For around 9 euros, or about $10, we rented a paddle boat, took a swim and nearly polished off our cheese and bread.

 

“What do you say we check out the Côte d’Azur?” Stephen suggested. Who was I to argue?

 

At a town called Villefranche-sur-Mer, we went looking for the Cocteau Chapel, featuring a series of frescoes painted by Jean Cocteau, the avant-garde artist. Finding it closed, we swam near the little quay nearby.

 

Then we rolled along — back roads whenever possible, a soundtrack of French cabaret music from Stephen’s iPhone — Georges Brassens, Edith Piaf, Dalida. Never a smoker, I wished I at least had a cigarette holder — but I settled for figs we’d picked up at a roadside market, so ripe they exploded in my hand when I reached for one, and the last of our goat cheese.

 

A good road trip demands an absence of plans, and we had none. Somewhere around 6 p.m., we consulted our phones for an Airbnb. In the past, I might have spent hours searching for the perfect spot, but for once, I didn’t care. The place we found was basic but that was fine.

 

A Dozen Oysters

Next morning, we wandered into a village whose market day was underway. For about 10 euros I bought a dozen oysters, along with a glass of Muscadet. The man behind the stand — Alain — handed me my plate with a flourish and the words “vive la France.”

 

In my long life of seeking out fresh oysters, these may have been the best. If, at that moment, Alain had suggested I run away to harvest shellfish with him, I would have given the offer some thought. He started singing to me as he shucked my second dozen. Stephen pointed to his watch.

 

Sometimes, over the course of our wanderings, we’d formulate a plan and then abandon it. I wanted to visit a magical series of inlets known as the Calanques, but when we got to Cassis, where the route began, we opted for a swim and a nap on the rocks instead.

 

We found time for a quick stop in Marseille for a trip to the oldest hardware store in France, Maison Empereur. I longed to buy vintage lightbulbs, clogs, cast iron for cooking cassoulet, but settled for a feather duster, a pink hot water bottle and a box of French jokes.

 

It was late afternoon by the time we left Marseille. As was our style, we ventured off the highway and found ourselves heading down a one-way street roughly eight inches wider than our car.

 

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We might have made it through, but a Fiat was blocking us. We assessed our options. Only one made sense. I started knocking on doors, inquiring whether anyone knew the owner of the green Fiat.

 

We found her, though not before every household on the street got involved. The Fiat owner ran down to the street, followed by a small barking dog, and moved the car enough that we could just make it through. In gratitude, I gave her the bag with the last of our precious figs.

 

Le Love Room

On our last afternoon, we pulled into Fayence, on the Côte d’Azur, a town of about 6,000. The name conjured images of china often featured in still lifes and kitchen scenes by Pierre Bonnard.

Though I didn’t spot a single china shop, there were no tourists either, and the town was charming — with flowers spilling over the parapets of centuries-old stone houses and rolling fields below, where some character played by Jean Gabin might have been toiling in a field, a donkey at his side.

 

Only a single Airbnb listing existed for the town — a space quaintly named Le Love Room. After booking it, Stephen suggested a meal. Only one restaurant was open — a pretty little bistro called Les Temps des Cerises (the time of cherries).

 

Within 15 minutes, every table was filled with local couples and families. Our waiter greeted them warmly, brought out a blackboard with the night’s offerings, then took our orders: house wine, foie gras prepared with Calvados, coq au vin — a classic French dinner, flawlessly prepared.

 

It was not fully dark as we made our way on foot to our lodgings. We passed an old woman leaning out her second-story window, next to her cat. Smiling, she called out a greeting. We called back.

 

Our Airbnb was in a very old stone building. We climbed the steep, narrow stairs to the door of Le Love Room.