A Year in Provence ought to be subtitled "Mr Mayle's Well-Padded Diary". Its 12 monthly chapters focus on the renovation of an old house. The book's Big Question is, "Will the work be finished by Christmas?" Why shouldn't it be finished? Mayle's builders had only the universal fault of not coming when they said they would. They did not rip him off, leave him with "cowboy" problems to sort out or behave badly. In the end, they do finish the house (of course) and they club together to present the author with a huge antique stone planter as a farewell gift.
Too much builder's bottom is as unappealing a sight in Provence as it is in Pontefract, so Mayle gives his readers a welcome break by talking about food and wine - and taking them shopping for the same. Then, as his year rolls on, he visits various places around and about and observes different social customs and behaviour. Tourists - French (ie, Parisian), German and English - are mocked and used to contrast his idyllic part of Provence with other places that are swamped and irretrievably spoiled by them.
For Mayle, the most interesting people in his universe are local characters - including, of course, those builders. They are dealt with gently and uncritically. His dealings with his neighbours are good and they are also seen as "good" people. This, of course, is the key to paradise for any English reader! Mayle claims that he really does have good, genuine neighbours - but careful reading shows that he doesn't actually see them very often...
There are obligatory comments on the state of French lavatories (foul and really Turkish!) and French driving habits (universally aggressively bad except after a good meal and a bottle or two). For serious seekers-after-information - would-be expats, for example - there's some warning stuff about dealing with French bureaucracy.
I found A Year in Provence contrived and superficial. Death gets a "passing" mention and burglary is referred to as a problem but is never seen to be one. Apart from that, everyone seems to be living in a demi-paradise of bonhomie, fuelled by excellent food, refreshed by superb - and cheap - wine, untroubled by unemployment, poor public services, old age, illness, loneliness, poverty, etc, etc. In fact, having read the book, I can easily imagine Your Average Middle-Class Man on the Clapham Omnibus putting down his copy, turning to his "missus", and saying, "Sounds just the place for us, Cherie..."