A prescription for happiness

The importance of the pharmacy in French village life, free-sample shade, and a simple and delicious recipe for slow-roast lamb.

One of my favourite places to stand in a queue, seemingly endlessly, is at one of our two local pharmacies, particularly on market day, when it feels as though the entire southern Hérault has descended to pick up their prescriptions. Not only is this excellent for my French vocabulary (trellis hernier: truss; oral hygiene: hygiène buccale; orthopedic insoles: semelles orthopédiques; whiplash, le coup de lapin), but it’s the best place to eavesdrop on local chatter and catch up on events, especially if those events are who has heat rash, diarrhoea, constipation, thrush or athlete’s foot. No one seems to mind having profoundly intimate conversations in the public arena of the queue, and the answer to everything seems to be a suppository, apart from for le coup de lapin, and even then I am sure there are its advocates.

The pharmacy is a soothing haven, its aisles carefully organised, curated even, to use the modern idiom. Along with the usual plasters, cotton wool, deodorants and toothpastes, there are shelves and shelves of vitamins and potions designed to enliven and refresh. One of my friends says, “Ye shall know a nation by what it worries about in the pharmacy – the Italians, liver and draughts, the French, hair and dieting, Germans, poo”. And while she is spot on about the hair and dieting (shelf after shelf of magic boxes, all claiming to detox, burn fat, make you look 18 again, if only you were woman enough – they’re all aimed at women – to submit to a two-week course of certain misery), there are also dozens of different cures designed to destress the liver, many of them containing artichokes (“L’artichaut contribute au bien-être du foie” – artichokes contribute to the well-being of the liver).

Magnificently understated pharmacy in Frontignan.

There also appears to be an obsession with heavy legs, which I didn’t realise was even a thing outside of the cardiopulmonary ward. A couple of years ago, my friend Kay worked for several days as the caterer for a television company in the South of France, which meant she was on her feet from early morning to late at night providing breakfast, lunch and dinner for the cast and crew in the fierce summer heat. By the end, she was lead-legged and exhausted. Step forward, our hero the noble pharmacist, who prescribed a cocktail of soothing, cooling creams to put the spring back in her step. The one I’ve picked out in our own pharmacy, should the dreaded jambes lourdes befall me in this heat, contains a delicious melange of vine leaves, mint and blackcurrants, which truly sounds good enough to eat.

One of the reasons for the long queues and the even longer chats, is because in France, the sort of fairly basic medication that we in Britain are trusted to pick up for ourselves off the supermarket shelves or in the corner shop, are kept behind the counter to ensure people don’t accidentally overdose by mixing different kinds of pain killers. Pharmacies here are virtually hallowed ground, their flashing green signs marking them out as clearly as a bell tower on a church. They guard fiercely their exclusive right to sell medicines which means you won’t even find anything as unremarkable as a packet of ibuprofen or paracetamol in any other shop.

And while we’re here, let’s talk about paracetamol. Even those English residents who extol the sparkling, reassuring beauty of French pharmacies quickly recover from their coup de foudre when it comes to this most ubiquitous of painkillers. Because pharmacies ensure their over-the-counter pill pushing is a closed shop, basic medicines are sometimes much more expensive than at home.

When I had Covid last year, along with lots of gentle advice to rest and drink plenty of fluids, several of my neighbours warned me that a small packet of pain killers we could pick up for about 50 pence in an English chemist’s could easily cost four or five times as much. All that friendly chat comes at a cost. Facebook groups for Brits living in France can get quite exercised by it, scandalised even. Many of them return from trips to Britain with a big Boot’s shop squirreled away among the Marmite and marmalade.

It's not all a world of pain. While many of our visitors, the female ones at least, are certainly keen on visiting the Canal du Midi, the Noilly Prat chais, and all the little port-side restaurants, almost all of them want to visit a pharmacy. Immediately, I will unpack in a minute… This isn’t due to overindulgence in local delights (though sometimes it is, admittedly). It's because for some of us, they hold an almost irresistible allure. The olive oil soaps! The creams for all of the different areas of the face! The promise of magic, miracles even.

Once, I visited a pharmacy in Sète with my friend Fi and we got ourselves into such a high old state of excitement at the fine selection of fig-scented shower gels our voices may have risen above the level deemed proper for middle-aged ladies in search of a gentle yet exfoliating bathtime treat. The shop assistant did not look delighted at our presence, but when we arrived at the till with our haul of fruity soap, she still, purse-lipped, loaded the neat little string-handled paper bags with handfuls of samples – another almost-guaranteed highlight from a pharmacy visit.

No such thing as a free sample, when it comes with a side order of shade.

It was only when we got into the car and began to look through our treasures that we realised every single one of the sachets was labelled for peau très abimé, talons crevasses, ultra-reparateur (very damaged skin, cracked heels, ultra-repair). Given our remarkable state of decrepitude, it’s astonishing we managed to enter the shop unaided. The assistant’s shade was as dry as, apparently, my epidermis. I’ve learned to keep the noise down since.

I don’t know if it’s the long days of sunshine, the habit of walking or cycling on their daily errands, good food and wine, or the combination of drugs and unguents that keeps so many of the people in the village looking en pleine forme well into old age. I do think this prolonged vitality is in part down to the sense of social cohesion built on never missing a chance to have a chat whenever possible, wherever possible, whether that’s on the terrace of the Marine Bar or in the queue at the pharmacy. That, and never being afraid to say suppository.

Roast shoulder of lamb with lemon and anchovies

You know it’s done when you can carve it with a fotk.

I love this sort of one-dish recipe, where the meat and potatoes cook together, and all you need to add is a green vegetable – if you want – and a salad. For me, it’s the best kind of weekend cooking. After a little prep, the oven does most of the work for you. I use a shoulder of lamb here, but you can certainly use a leg if you prefer.

Serves 4-6