A WINTER MARKET STRIKES A DIFFERENT CHORD.
For walking the dog or robbing a bank, you have to stay warm.
The True Heart of a Winter Market.
There are few better ways to experience the rhythm of life in a small French town than by braving its weekly market in the dead of winter. The summer crowds have long since evaporated, taking with them their sun hats, guidebooks, and incomprehensible attempts at ordering cheese. What remains is the Apt market in its truest form: a gathering of locals wrapped in thick scarves, moving with the efficiency and purpose of people who have done this all before and will do it again next Saturday.
It doesn’t matter if you are freezing, the public demand muffins.
Facing the Mistral Wind
Setting off for the market, my hands already questioned whether leaving the house was a terrible idea. The mistral wind, that capricious tyrant of Provence, had decided today was an excellent day to remind us of its dominance, funneling through the market stalls with the force of an unpaid debt collector.
Every member of the family has style.
Whatever the season, this is my favourite!
Forget about the temperature, flowers will cheer you up!
Melts in your mouth.
This lady always ensures you have some spice in your life.
If nougat won’t cheer you up, maybe a cigarette may do the trick.
What is your favourite sauce for mussels at lunch?
I don’t care what I look like in these. They are magic!
No matter the season, spoiled for choice.
Essentials for the Week Ahead
The market, for all its seasonal austerity, provided everything one could possibly need to survive until next Saturday rolls around. Bread so crusty it could double as a “defensive” weapon, honey from local hives, baskets of apples and pears that had somehow defied the elements to remain temptingly plump. There were fewer stalls than in the riotous summer months, fewer distractions, but that only seemed to highlight the essentials: good food, warm clothes, and the unspoken camaraderie of those who had shown up despite the wind’s best efforts to keep them indoors.
Scallops for days.
A Feast for the Senses
The spice stalls provided a visual feast, with mounds of saffron, cumin, and paprika standing in stark contrast to the gray cobblestones, their rich colors a reminder that, despite the season, the flavors of Provence never hibernate. At the fish stalls, the choices were bewildering: gleaming sea bass, trays of coquilles Saint-Jacques, and stacks of pink shrimp so fresh they appeared to be contemplating an escape. One vendor, seeing my interest, gestured toward an alarmingly large monkfish, its gaping maw ensuring it would never win any beauty contests. “For a picture?” he asked, with a grin that suggested he knew exactly how unsettling his offering was. Naturally, I obliged.
Sensory overload.
Just one of a dozen butcher’s trying to keep up.
The Butcher, The Baker, and The Cheese Maker
Thus fortified, I wove my way through the market, capturing the unfussy elegance of local commerce. The butcher’s stall was a particular highlight, its display of expertly trimmed cuts a stark contrast to the gracelessness of my attempts to navigate around a determined grandmother who knew exactly which côte de bœuf she was after.
Nearby, the cheese vendors displayed an impressive array of local varieties, from pungent wheels of Roquefort to soft rounds of fresh chèvre, their scents mingling with the crisp morning air. Wool vendors had positioned themselves strategically near these stalls, ensuring that anyone lingering too long over a particularly fragrant tomme would suddenly feel the need for a new scarf.
Considering the need for another scarf.
A Search for Warmth
An essential order of business? Warmth. While I’d like to say that I was drawn to the stall selling woollen hats and gloves purely for photographic purposes, the truth is that my fingers were rapidly losing all sensation. The vendor, a woman who had clearly mastered the art of layering, watched bemusedly as I fumbled to examine the neatly stacked knitwear before relenting and purchasing a pair of gloves that would allow me to continue without the risk of frostbite.
In the shade but yearns for the sun!
You always need a bag.
A Final Respite
As my fingers began to protest their exposure again, I made my way toward a final necessity: coffee. The small café at the square's edge offered sanctuary, its steamed-up windows promising warmth and, crucially, a lack of wind. With a café crème in hand, I watched as the market slowly began to wind down, the last of the shoppers retreating to their homes, baskets filled, conversations lingering. Next week, they would all be back, as would I, hoping for less wind but knowing full well that the mistral answers to no one.
For those seeking the true heart of Provence, Apt’s winter market is an experience—a place where the seasons dictate the stalls, the locals dictate the pace, and a well-timed visit captures it all.
I hope you have enjoyed today’s adventure to a local winter market. It was a pretty chilly yet enjoyable morning until my camera battery also decided it was cold and tired. All of the above images were captured with the Leica Q3-43. I can’t begin to describe how much I appreciate it. If you have a moment, please leave your thoughts or comments in the box below.
Live well!
M.
P.S. You can also find more of my posts as a contributing writer at:
