The Mill of Camandoule in Fayence (Var)

The Mill has existed, in one form or another, since the 17th century.
The aqueduct that carried the waters of the Camandoule to the mill most likely dates back to Roman times. Ancient roof tiles were discovered during the construction of the swimming pool.

The water powered the large paddle wheel, which can still be seen behind the window at the entrance of the restaurant. It was then discharged through a channel beneath the terrace before flowing into the Camandre River. The word “doule” is a Provençal diminutive; Camandoule therefore means “Little Camandre.”

Originally, this old mill was probably part of Fayence under the protection of a Monsignor who lived in the village. When the Arab conquerors arrived in the 16th century, the inhabitants took refuge on the hill where they built the village that can still be seen today. However, it was impossible to move a mill. In 1834, the mill was rebuilt more or less in its current structure. This date is engraved on one of the large stones in the lounge. Stones of this same size were imported from Tuscany and used in mills all the way from Menton to Sète.

The Moulin de la Camandoule produced olive oil with Mr. Tardieu until 1946. He was one of the wealthiest landowners in the Var region. His sisters, two elderly ladies, had little interest in the mill.

At the end of 1954, the mill was purchased by the Coste family, who restored it to operation. Mr. Coste became the last miller of the Moulin. The severe frost of 1957 caused irreversible damage to olive trees throughout Provence, destroying all hope of harvests for many years. He continued to cultivate the lands of Camandoule, producing melons, apples, and cherries. These fresh fruits were highly appreciated by the local people. The Coste family sold the mill in 1964.

Olive Oil Production and the Meaning of the Room Names

The olive trees were beaten with long poles to knock down the ripe olives. The olives were collected in burlap cloths and placed into large straw baskets before being transported to the mill by ox cart.

At the mill, they were measured in wooden containers called “Tinéon” before being carried to the storage area, which today is the Tabatière room. Two of these containers can still be seen in front of the Écurie room, where the miller once kept his mules.

In fact, “Tabatière” was the name given to the small wooden channel through which the olives entered the large grinding stone.

This channel can still be seen in the lounge descending from the ceiling, above which is the room now bearing the same name. Formerly, this area was called the “houarie,” where olive growers gradually stored their harvest. During the pressing season from December to February, nearly thirty tons of olives could be stored there.

Because of this tremendous weight, Mr. Tardieu had the revolutionary idea in 1900 of reinforcing the ceiling with steel beams. He conceived the idea during a visit to Paris where he admired the construction of Mr. Eiffel’s new tower.

The First Cold Pressing

The olives were crushed by the large millstone until they formed a thick paste. The paste was then placed into woven straw mats called “Escourtins,” which were stacked beneath the presses in the lounge. Originally, there were four presses, though one was later removed to make space for a doorway.

This first pressing produced Virgin Olive Oil, the highest quality oil. It flowed through channels beneath the presses and was collected in steel containers called “Estagnon.” One of these can still be seen above the bar in the lounge near the wooden barrel.

Naturally, the more pressure applied to the Escourtins, the more oil was produced. However, since the third pressing represented the miller’s profit, clever millers tried not to extract too much during the earlier stages in order to retain oil for themselves.

The remaining residue in the Escourtins was called “Grignon.”

The Second Cold Pressing

The Escourtins were then emptied and cleaned of the remaining residue. The paste was mixed with hot water in order to burst the oil cells that had not broken during the first crushing.

The same pressing process followed until the oil rose to the surface. It was then carefully skimmed using a shallow steel dish with a long handle called a “leaf,” one of which can still be seen hanging on the wall in the lounge.

This second pressing still produced very high-quality oil.

The work was extremely demanding because of the heat. At lunchtime, the hungry workers toasted bread in pans used to heat and drain the oil. This was called a “Casseton,” while the wooden fork used to grill the bread was called a “Roustide.”

The Third Process: “Ressance”

The final stage consisted of washing the remaining olive residue in the second mill, which is now part of the present-day restaurant.

The residue was stirred with a large fork called a “Rabaillot” until the pits descended through a small channel leading toward the current kitchen. The remaining skins were then placed into new Escourtins and pressed one final time.

The resulting liquid flowed into the “Infers,” underground cellars where the oil floating on the surface of the basins was collected. This oil represented the miller’s profit.

The final remains were stored in wooden barrels with two handles called “Brouquets” and sent to Marseille to produce the famous “Savon de Marseille” (Marseille Soap).

Letter from the Last Miller of the Moulin

June 25, 2007

Fifty years ago, I was twenty years old and beginning my working life.

A curious expression, “beginning one’s working life,” as though before the age of twenty I had never done anything. Yet my earliest true memories — those forever engraved in my mind — date back to the age of six, during the German occupation of Paris. Between the ages of six and twenty, for someone supposedly “inactive,” I could tell countless stories. Here is the one I promised you.

Once, I told you that I had always been fascinated by mills, whether windmills or watermills. That is not entirely true. I became fascinated by them only after operating one myself for several years. It was captivating.

I was twenty years old. It was in Provence, in the Haut Var region between Draguignan and Grasse, more precisely in Fayence. The village clung to the top of a hill overlooking plains where roses, jasmine, lavender, vineyards, and olive trees were cultivated.

Fayence was a charming Provençal village with its large square shaded by plane trees. In the evenings, the older villagers gathered there to play pétanque while drinking pastis. There was a restaurant, a small grocery store, a butcher famous for his caillette, and a bakery whose fresh fougasse melted in your mouth.

Fifty years ago, life was pleasant in this little Provençal village.

Along a dirt road leading toward Seillans stood a property bordered by a river called the Camandre. The property was named the Moulin de Camandoule.

That name alone evoked all the fragrances of Provence: thyme, rosemary, lavender, aioli, and olive oil.

The mulberry-lined driveway ended at what was said to be a Roman aqueduct. Passing beneath one of its arches, you arrived at the house: a true Provençal farmhouse with a ground floor and upper story, protected from the mistral winds by thick walls and narrow shuttered windows.

In front of the house stood a large basin shaded by an old mulberry tree, used to irrigate the vegetable garden stretching down to the river lined with poplars.

At the Moulin de Camandoule, olive oil was produced.

There were actually two mills.

The main mill stood beside the farmhouse, where the finest olive oil was made. Hidden in a tall narrow chamber, a massive paddle wheel powered by the aqueduct water drove the entire mechanism.

Inside, the mill seemed frozen in time. A gigantic granite stone rotated around a thick oak beam inside a tiled basin. Opposite stood three huge wooden presses placed inside stone alcoves.

The atmosphere was unforgettable: the roar of water against the paddles, the cracking of olive pits beneath the stone, the creaking belts, the hiss of the presses, and above all, the incomparable fragrance of crushed olives filling the air.

When the pressing was complete, slices of bread were grilled over vine branches or olive residue embers, rubbed with garlic, and soaked in freshly pressed olive oil. They were accompanied by rosé or red wine while hunters grilled thrushes scented with rosemary and thyme.

Even the taciturn Arnéodo, the miller with cold blue eyes and his eternal hand-rolled cigarette hanging from his lip, would smile during those moments.

For three years, I lived a dream life at the Moulin.

Then one winter night, disaster struck.

Snow fell continuously over the Var region, followed by temperatures dropping to minus fifteen degrees Celsius. Within hours, every olive tree in the region froze.

The mills had to close.

One morning, I saw Arnéodo standing there with a suitcase in his hand.

“You know,” he said, “a mill without olives…”

“I understand,” I replied.

I paid him his wages. He slowly walked toward the door.

“Arnéodo…”

He stopped and turned around.

“I will miss you.”

For a brief moment, I thought I saw his blue eyes cloud over and his cigarette tremble slightly.

Now, fifty years later, as I write these memories, I know I will never again smell that incomparable fragrance of fresh virgin olive oil, nor see that river of golden oil cascading from the presses.

And I know I will always miss the Moulin de Camandoule.