A Red Ribbon in Pomarède

Holidaying in the south of France felt like stepping into the pages of Mary Moody’s memoirs. Long

before I boarded my flight, I had devoured her books Au Revoir, The Long Hot Summer, and Last

Tango in Toulouse. Each one painted the countryside with such colour and intimacy that I felt

compelled to trace her steps.

Mary’s story has always fascinated me. Once a presenter on ABC Gardening Australia and a well-

known journalist, she seemed to live a structured life in Australia. But her memoirs revealed

another side: her yearning for independence, her turbulent love affair, and her deep affection for

the villages of southern France. Through her words I could almost smell the lavender, hear the

cicadas, and taste the rustic lunches she described with such warmth.

One book in particular, Lunch with Madame Murat, sent me on a pilgrimage. Mary described Chez Jeanne, a no-frills truck stop in Pomarède, where the formidable Madame Murat served hearty fare to locals, truck drivers, and curious travellers. On a sunlit afternoon, my husband Paul and I found ourselves walking into that very restaurant.

The dining room buzzed with farmers and drivers tucking into generous plates. And then, as if the

book had spilled into real life, I recognised a face. Daniel—and by his side, Gillette, his faithful

dog—had both been immortalised in Mary’s memoir.

Summoning courage, I introduced myself in faltering French. Daniel spoke no English but smiles

and gestures bridged the gap. Over a long lunch of duck confit and salad, he suddenly extended

an invitation: would we like to visit his home in a nearby hamlet?

Paul and I exchanged a look—could we really follow a stranger into the countryside? Jokingly, we

reassured each other he didn’t look like an axe murderer. Curiosity won out, and soon we were

weaving through fields and stone villages in Daniel’s wake.

His hamlet turned out to be a scattering of houses, tucked between vineyards and farmland.

Daniel welcomed us like family. He proudly introduced us to neighbours: one led us into his

underground cellar where we sampled his homemade vintage, rough but brimming with character.

Another, whom Daniel called “the rich American,” waved us in, and we exchanged numbers and

emails as travellers do.

From Daniel’s patio, the view stretched over vineyards like a postcard. Back inside, he told his

story in fragments of words, photographs, and gestures. We learned he was once a French

Legionnaire, later a Formula One mechanic who worked around Jack Brabham, and—almost

unbelievably—once the lover of singer Joni Mitchell. His home told its own tale: walls adorned with

art, memorabilia, and the treasures of a colourful life.

Daniel’s devotion to Gillette was touching. He spoon-fed her natural yoghurt, sprinkled with sugar,

as though it were the most natural ritual in the world.

Conversation flowed in a patchwork of gestures and translation apps. I explained I was a travel

writer; Paul tried to convey his profession as a dentist. That proved harder—until Daniel suddenly

leapt up, disappeared into the bathroom, and returned holding a toothbrush and floss. We all burst

into laughter.

Hours slipped away, but eventually we had to leave. A long four-hour drive awaited, and our flight

back to Australia was the next day. We hugged Daniel goodbye, touched by his hospitality, and

drove off beaming with pride that we had embraced such an adventure.

An hour into the journey, Paul patted his pocket and groaned—his phone was missing. He had left

it at Daniel’s. The problem was, we had no address. We had only followed him blindly from the

restaurant. With no choice, we contacted the “rich American,” who confirmed the phone was safe.

Relieved, we turned the car around.

When we arrived, Daniel was waiting with a twinkle in his eye. He ushered us inside once more.

The table was set for dinner, and what we fondly remember was its simplicity—tinned sardines

and crusty bread, sliced with his enormous legionnaire’s knife. And there, in the centre of the

table, wrapped in a shiny red ribbon, lay Paul’s mobile phone. The gesture was so simple, yet so

touching—it felt like something from a film.

That moment is etched forever in my mind: the laughter of strangers turned friends, the clinking of

glasses, the warmth of a man who welcomed us without hesitation.

Travelling through the south of France, I understood why Mary Moody kept returning. Beyond the

vineyards and stone villages lies a deeper treasure—the generosity of people like Daniel, the

serendipity of encounters that change how you see the world. Mary’s books had opened a door,

but Daniel flung it wide.

And so, when I think of the south of France, I don’t just think of lavender fields or medieval

squares. I think of a retired legionnaire, his yoghurt-loving dog, and a mobile phone wrapped in red ribbon.

________________________

Donna Martin, the Progressive Traveller, grew up in a large Australian family with little opportunity to travel. At 17, she won a trip to Japan—her first taste of international adventure—followed years later by a journey through Europe with her new husband. These early experiences ignited a lifelong passion for exploring the world and its many cultures.What began as personal travel journals for family and friends has since grown into a thriving travel blogging career. Today, Donna shares stories that inspire others to explore, believing wholeheartedly that “travel is the only thing you buy that makes you richer.”