Doing Nothing (and Everything) in the Beaujolais

There’s a special kind of summer holiday I’ve come to love in France. One where you arrive convinced you’ll be bored out of your mind—and by the last day, you don’t want to leave.

The first day in the Beaujolais, I always feel guilty that we slept in. I worry everyone will leave without us, that the day is already slipping away.

I open the windows to look out at vineyards rolling in every direction, hear the birds screaming at sunrise as they chase away the crickets that chirped all night, then swiftly close the shutters again to trap in the cool air. In a few hours, the sunny Beaujolais will be hot.

Once I shuffle downstairs for coffee, I’m stuck on one thought: What are we going to do all day?

There’s truly nothing to do.

Which is, of course, the point of spending a holiday in the French countryside.

Coffee and croissant outside on the left. Brioches aux pralines roses and brioches aux pépites de chocolat at breakfast on right.

I carry my breakfast—viennoiseries or yogurt with fruit—out to the edge of the little forest next to the house and settle into a transat, waiting to hear what the “plan” is. I am restless that first morning.

My American instincts whisper: shouldn’t we do something?

But by day three, I surrender.

Days stretch and soften in the Beaujolais. Some days we play tennis. Other days we hike through the woods up toward Avenas to catch a breeze and admire the valleys below. We bike. We fish in shallow rivers behind crumbling châteaux, catching grasshoppers for bait because the trout aren’t tempted by store-bought worms. We pick fruit off the trees.

Matt’s cousin, a genius at inventing games, once had his kids set up a “museum” and charge 1€ for chalk drawings. We got stickers for entry, like we were at The Met. Matt, ever the activity scout, might suggest we race remote control cars on dirt paths or try the floating aqua park he found in the next village over. One year, he taught me to drive stick in a rec center parking lot. (I stalled.)

After a few days, anything becomes enough to fill a day. A game of cards. A tiny errand. A walk to pick blackberries along the side of the road. You’re not really looking for “something to do” anymore. You’re just saying yes to anything that’s a conduit for passing the time all together.

But amid all of this, it’s food that really shapes the contours of the day. It’s always delicious, always enough for ten or more, and deceptively simple.

Lunch is often a salad with some seasonal vegetables and mozzarella; maybe some tabouleh; slices of terrine, pâté en croûte, or ham from the local butcher; and baguette. Every time, I’m convinced there won’t be enough for 10+ adults and several kids. I watch the plates dwindle in mild panic, certain we’ll run out. But no one ever leaves hungry.

Just when I’m sure it’s over, someone emerges with a course of yogurt or faisselle (similar to cottage cheese and popular near Lyon), then cheese, then fruit or a few scoops of ice cream. And there’s always a tart for ten that miraculously appears, either baked with spoils from the garden or from someone who just happened to swing by the pâtisserie.

By the end, we’re all full in a gentle, satisfied, I-could-lie-down-now kind of way.

So we do.

It’s straight into the transats for the slowest hour of the day. Everyone drifts into the garden and, without a hint of guilt, admits they’re sleepy. We form a loose circle in the sun, digesting, dozing, murmuring to each other about nothing. Someone quietly, kindly disappears to make espressos for the group, and if there are kids around, they get the honor of delivering each tiny cup to the adults on a serving platter.

In the afternoons, we swim or play more sports or do nothing but read in the shade or actually nap because we’re tired and there’s nowhere to be. But at 7:30 or 8 pm, the group reconvenes for dinner—usually for a barbecue or a long lazy meal, or to make an outing to a guinguette or big Bastille Day village fête.

It’s the best, with fireworks echoing in the valleys, people eating hot dogs and fries at picnic tables, and a DJ blasting French hits into the night as people swing dance until we wander home with flashlights. Or we linger at the table playing round after round of tarot with tisane made from lemon-verbena or mint or sage clipped fresh from the garden.

We get home late enough to open the windows again, letting in a few mosquitos, yes, but also the crickets and a cool breeze.

By the last day, French feels easier, my skin is bronzer, my body is sore from hikes and tennis and runs, my stomach is overstuffed in the best way. I replay those dusk walks through the vineyards, late-night tarot games, and slow afternoons where the smallest thing feels like more than enough entertainment.

I leave every year thinking: the French got something right about summer leisure. This is what a holiday should feel like. Feet dirty. A few mosquito bites (and even a wasp sting this time). Communal living, made-up games, meandering conversation. And no checklist in sight.