French friends came to see us when we lived in up-country Provence. They complained that this was their third attempt: ‘We knew you must be at home,’ they insisted, ‘because the gate was wide open – but then we found everything shut up and no sign of you!’

We had, of course, not been at home. The gate was open because it was always left open, it being too much of an effort to open and close it whenever we took the car in or out, let alone when we went out on foot. For us, the open gate had no meaning, whether as indication or symbol. To our visitors its openness accorded with some kind of custom or, perhaps, etiquette that they carried with them.

The incident of the open gate reminded us that the French seem to take their entrances much more seriously than we do. Our gate was a purely functional closure, sturdy to the point of weightiness (another reason to avoid repeated opening and closing) but totally unostentatious. That of our Dutch neighbours, in contrast, was of wrought iron and elaborate design, and was customarily locked closed – causing the owners to lay down stone slabs as steps either side of the adjacent low wall for visitors to climb in to announce their presence.

Many other local houses had no gates at all: the openings to their driveways were closed with a chain stretched between two hooks on what might otherwise have been gate-posts. These were rarely secured with padlocks, unless the occupants were away for long periods, so that they presented little obstacle to vehicles and none at all to pedestrians. They were, apparently, largely symbolic as though the perimeter of the property must be marked continuously. Fencing, hedges and so on would be adequate to define most of the territory but it was not acceptable for the entry to have no such demarcation. Presumably a line drawn in the sand would have served as well, symbolically, though wind and rain would have necessitated regular renewal.

It is not uncommon to see very lordly gates of great height and breadth hung from tall pillars of stone, often topped with sculpted creatures of heraldic design, but with no fence, wall or even hedge on either side. Examples are often to be found at the entrances to vineyards. Since even quite small parcels of wine-growing land boast the titles of Château or Domaine, it is disconcerting to glimpse between the bars of these splendid entrances houses of extreme modesty. What makes their owners adopt a manorial bearing in their names and entrances when they are apparently content to enjoy a much lowlier status domestically? The gates offer no defence against intrusion, but their symbolism is clearly of a higher order than that of the stretched chain.

There are, of course, true châteaux to be found in most wine regions, but there the gates – and the high walls abutting them – are of a piece with the overall majesty. Do minor wine-growers feel that the triumphal gate is just a first step up the ladder to such grandeur, the walls and buildings to be brought up to the same standard as successful harvests permit?

So what is it about the French and their gates? Perhaps the answer lies buried deep in some part of the French psyche – in which case it will probably be forever closed to the curious foreigner.

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This article first appeared in the September 2006 issue of The Connexion, the newspaper for English-speakers in France. To order a free trial copy of The Connexion click here.