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Barjac

— Barjac consists of narrow streets, long shadows and the langorous, whispery silence of endless afternoons.”

Barjac is a patchwork of narrow streets and unexpected squares, long shadows and the langorous, whispery silences of endless afternoons.

With peace comes expansion and Barjac has long since outgrown the natural advantage of its hilltop position. Newer houses spread out along new roads, welling up like fresh water from the fountain basin of the town square, before petering out in the dusty plains beyond.

Barjac’s community mixes ever fewer suspicious locals and ever more leathery expats. Colourful posters in shop windows advertise events that always seem to take place after you’ve left. In the windows themselves are the fruits of artisanal activities, priced high enough that few visitors will trouble the windchimes hanging from the door.

The French spoken in Barjac sounds like French spoken underwater. You can count on one hand the people who look like people who live here, yet the town has two driving schools.

Last year, while passing through Roussillon I imagined that tourism was tolerated as a necessary evil, that when Summer was over life could start again like Spring postponed.

Here in Barjac, some of those who arrived as tourists have never left, to judge from the names on letterboxes. The distant march of the hammer and drill is getting louder. And to keep this town breathing, yet more tourism will be needed.

New life is being breathed into Barjac, but some may be uncomfortable with the form it’s taking.

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Barjac

A small, medieval town on the northern edge of the Gard, not yet completely swamped by tourists.