New Year’s Eve. The local hunters were out in force, already well into their celebrations and firing potshots at anything that moved faster than a snail. Fortunately for the region’s fauna (including us), most creatures with the good sense to keep their heads down survived intact. The kids and I managed the hundred-metre dash from house to garage without incident.

By dusk, and in good time for the first round of apéritifs, we bumped our way up the rutted track through olive groves to a neighbour’s house. No public roads here, and the risk of stray bullets not negligible. We were deep in the Provençal hills, far from anything resembling restraint.

Inside: bedlam. The merriment was already at full throttle, the Pastis bottle emptying rapidly. Resistance was futile. A quick perroquet – Pastis with mint syrup and ice – and I was in the spirit. Seven people conducting three conversations apiece, all at full volume.

Children hovered at the fringes, wisely keeping a respectful distance. In rural Provence, modern parenting has yet to breach the stone walls. Kids learn young that interruption is perilous.

Through the double glazing, I caught the dull crack of a gunshot. I was the only one not mid-diatribe, and no one else seemed to notice. I considered asking about the legality of nocturnal firearms, but a heated debate over the butcher’s far-right sympathies had already taken centre stage. As so often here, the volume was inversely proportional to the level of genuine disagreement.

Conversation veered towards Isabelle’s unfortunate Peugeot. Parked overnight in Malaucène, she’d assumed the midnight pops and bangs were early fireworks. Come morning, four cars including hers were charred husks. One, it was whispered, had been torched for insurance. When the brakes gave way, it rolled downhill into the rest. The explosions? Tyres.

Then the phone shrieked – volume cranked to eleven, or it would never have been heard over the din. It was Jean, a neighbour and, as it turned out, the source of the earlier gunfire. He wanted to know if anyone had seen intruders. The phantom truffle thieves were back.

Minutes later, Jean burst in, shotgun slung casually over one shoulder. “Quand mes chiens parlent…” he muttered cryptically – “When my dogs speak…” – leaving the threat to hang in the smoky air.

I hadn’t met Jean before. His complexion bore the distinctive hue of prolonged Pastis exposure. Forty-something? Sixty? Hard to tell. He launched into a breathless tale of truffle theft, rural espionage and canine clairvoyance, punctuating every twist with the wave of his shotgun. I instinctively ducked.

Partway through what resembled Rambo: The Agricultural Cut, Jean paused to check the weapon. Not loaded. I exhaled. Someone refilled his glass.

Two younger lads grabbed their own rifles from beside the door, ready to join the night patrol. God help any unfortunate soul out for a midnight stroll. I asked Laurent, our host, about the legalities. He reassured me they only tirent dans l’air – shoot into the air. I wasn’t convinced they knew which way was up.

Conversation turned, inevitably, to les Anglais. With barely a glance in my direction, the party erupted in laughter. I’d missed the joke. Probably for the best.

Apparently, the Baron family over the hill had sold a charming cottage to an English couple just before the financial crash. They’d retained a narrow strip of land right up to the house wall. The Brits, oblivious, signed the deeds. Two weeks later, the Barons arrived at dawn with a vine-pruning crew and a van full of radios. Every day. Loud. The Brits caved. The Barons sold them the sliver – at several times the going rate.

Eventually, we took our leave. Kids bundled into the car, NRJ radio blasting, we crept back down the track, headlights slicing through the olive trees. I prayed Jean and his militia wouldn’t mistake us for escaping truffle bandits.

We made it.

To friends, old and new – Bonne Année 2002

Post-scriptum – France Bleue News, 24/11/2025