May in France: Blossoms, Strikes, and Sacred Days

Ah, le joli mois de mai — the lovely month of May in France! 

If I had to choose one single month to be in France, just one, I wouldn't even hesitate. 

It’s May. Always May.

There’s just… something about it.

Something in the light maybe.

Or the way the air changes.

Warmer, yes, but also softer. Less heavy than summer, less grey than April.

It’s like the whole country takes a deep breath and stretches its limbs.

And me? I want to be right there, in the middle of it.

Watching the chestnut trees bloom, brushing past a hedge of lilacs, sipping something chilled on a terrace while everyone else does the same — as if we’ve all silently agreed that May is the moment we start living again.

And here’s the thing: some of my most vivid memories in France were made in May.

Not the carefully planned, highlight-reel kind of memories.

I’m talking about the messy, sun-drenched, slightly chaotic sort that you don’t even realise are special until you find yourself daydreaming about them a year later.

Like that time I got lost in the vineyards of Burgundy because I took the wrong turn at a roundabout and ended up discovering a little chapel in the middle of nowhere.

Or the freezing picnic I had on a hilltop in Lorraine — in May! — because I thought it was warm enough for shorts. (Spoiler: it wasn’t.)

There was Savoie too. Those Alpine meadows.

I remember one morning there, everything smelled like wet earth and wildflowers.

The grass was still damp, and the mountains were still wearing their snowy crowns.

And Provence? Well, that’s a whole story in itself.

Warm wind, rosé before noon, and villages that look like someone designed them for a film set and then forgot to make them less perfect.

Anyway. All that to say: May in France is never just May.

It’s a time of movement. Of blog trips and wanderings, yes, but also of stillness.

Of noticing things. A wisteria climbing a stone wall. A glass of something cool sweating in your hand. The smell of fresh bread when every shop but the bakery is closed for yet another public holiday.

And somehow, it all makes sense.

Oh — and the muguet. But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. We’ll get to that.

The Blooming of Spring

You can smell May in France before you can see it.

It starts with lilac. That thick, sweet scent that seems to wrap itself around corners and follow you down cobbled streets. 

Then it’s wisteria, dangling in purple cascades from old stone facades — sometimes so abundant it looks like it might pull the house down with it. I’m not exaggerating. 

One year in Alsace, I stopped in my tracks in front of a half-timbered house completely swallowed by purple vines. It looked like a fairytale had exploded.

And just when you think you’ve seen it all — bam! Coquelicots. Poppies, I mean. 

Fields of them, blazing red in the sun. It’s the kind of colour you can’t photograph properly.

I’ve tried. It never looks the same as when you’re standing there, squinting into the brightness, shoes slightly damp from the morning dew, bees doing their thing like they own the place.

What’s funny is, for all the clichés about spring, it doesn’t feel cliché at all when you’re in it.

There’s something so… sincere about French spring. 

Maybe because people live it. They don’t just talk about spring being lovely — they act like it’s lovely.

They slow down. They sit longer on benches. They open windows that haven’t been opened since October. Even the cats look smug in May.

And the cafés — oh, the cafés. If you’ve ever been to France in May, you’ll know what I mean.

It’s like someone hits the play button after a long winter pause.

Tables spill out onto the pavement, rosé returns to the menu (and to everyone’s glass), and waiters somehow become less grumpy.

Not friendly, let’s not push it — but definitely less grumpy.

There’s this lovely background hum of life happening: kids riding bikes, couples bickering about which cheese to buy, tourists getting sunburnt on the first day.

And for me? May is when I stop rushing.

I walk more. I look up more. I do that very un-British thing of not checking the forecast because — whatever.

If it rains, it rains. But most of the time, it doesn’t.

The sky does that pale blue thing that makes you believe in holidays again.

Honestly, if May had a soundtrack, it wouldn’t be a song.

It’d be the sound of bees, distant laughter, and chairs scraping gently on the pavement.

It's May, Joli mois de mai as this song says! ⤵️

Maia and Mary – Sacred Femininity in May

Here’s something I didn’t know for the longest time: the month of May is named after a goddess. Maia.

Sounds obvious once you hear it, right?

But for years, I never really thought about it.

May was just… May. Blossoms, bank holidays, that sudden craving for strawberries.

But there’s more to it than that.

Maia was a Roman goddess — not a loud or dramatic one, like Venus or Diana. No, she was quieter.

A goddess of growth, fertility, things that rise slowly and softly, like the sap in the trees.

She was associated with spring, with abundance, with the earth waking up.

The Romans honoured her at the start of the month — right when everything begins to feel alive again.

Enters Mary

And then, centuries later, the Catholic Church sort of… gently slid her aside and placed Mary in her spot.

Different figure, different story — but oddly similar spirit.

May became le mois de Marie, the month of Mary.

A time for devotion, processions, rosaries, and flowers on tiny home altars.

It’s not as common today, but in more traditional towns or villages, you still find blue ribbons on statues, or a candle burning in front of the Virgin in a side chapel.

So yes, May in France is about spring, and sunshine, and life bursting back into colour.

But it’s also about that feminine thread — the nurturing, blooming, sheltering kind of presence — whether you call her Maia or Mary, or just think of her when the lilacs start to fade.

A Nation on Pause – The Public Holidays of May

If you’ve ever tried to get anything done in France in May… good luck.

Honestly. Half the time, it feels like the country just puts up a little “be back later” sign and vanishes.

France has a thing for May holidays.

It starts with May 1st, Labour Day, which is also the day of lily of the valley — more on that soon, I promise. That one’s taken very seriously. Marches, protests, flower stalls.

Then comes the 8th — VE Day, marking the end of WWII in Europe. There’s usually a ceremony at the war memorial, maybe some old men in medals, and definitely another day off.

Let's make the bridge!

And then — as if two weren’t enough — you get Ascension, which always falls on a Thursday.

Which means… yep, people make the bridge (faire le pont).

It’s this wonderfully French invention: if a public holiday is near a weekend, you just go ahead and take the day in between as well. Like a polite little hop over the working week.

The final one, if Easter came early enough, is Pentecost Monday. That one’s a bit slippery. Some companies treat it like a proper day off, others don’t. There was a whole reform a few years ago that confused absolutely everyone. I still don’t really get it.

Anyway, the point is — don’t try to plan anything too ambitious in May.

Trains get booked up, restaurants close randomly, and shops… well, shops just do what they like.

And it’s not laziness. It’s rhythm.

France has this deeply ingrained understanding that life isn’t just about productivity.

May is about being outside, seeing family, sipping wine, getting a bit sunburnt. The work can wait.

And you know what? They’re not wrong.

Lilies, Lyrics and Old Proverbs

I wasn’t surprised the first time someone handed me a sprig of lily of the valley in France. I grew up with the tradition.

As a child, I used to pick muguet in the forest with my parents, early in the morning, often when the ground was still damp and the air carried that sweet, unmistakable scent of spring.

So when the florist wrapped it in foil, tied it with a red ribbon, and handed it over with a gentle “C’est pour le bonheur,” it wasn’t new to me — but it still touched something deep.

That quiet little ritual. The simplicity of it.

The way it says I’m thinking of you without needing anything more.

1st May in France is a day of flowers. 

Not showy bouquets, but these tiny white bells on their green stems — muguet — humble, fragrant, a bit nostalgic.

They don’t last long, and maybe that’s the point.

They bloom, they’re shared, and they fade — like so many May memories.

Turns out this tradition goes back centuries.

King Charles IX apparently received a sprig of lily of the valley in 1561 and decided it was such a lovely gesture that he’d give it to the ladies of his court every May Day.

Fast forward a few hundred years, and somehow it got mixed in with Labour Day, trade union marches, and working-class solidarity. Only in France can a national holiday be both floral and revolutionary.

And people still do it! You’ll see little old ladies selling muguet on the pavement (they’re allowed to, just for that day), schoolchildren handing it to teachers, colleagues exchanging it with awkward smiles.

It’s sweet. A bit old-fashioned. And weirdly touching.

French Songs About May

Now, if you’re looking for a soundtrack to this strange little day, there’s a song. Actually, two.

One is called Le temps du muguet — a French adaptation of a Russian melody that somehow became deeply woven into the country’s emotional fabric.

It’s one of those songs that makes people go quiet when it comes on.

Not sad, exactly. Just... wistful.

It talks about the time of lilies, the time of love, the time of remembering. 

The other song is older: Voici le mois de mai.

A cheerful folk tune that bounces along like a spring lamb.

It’s light, full of birds and flowers and youthful joy.

You can hear it in schools, or sometimes at village fêtes, sung a bit off-key and with laughter in between the verses.

French Sayings About May

Now, if there’s one thing the French countryside never runs out of — it’s sayings.

Weather wisdom, moral advice, obscure rural metaphors... all rolled into short little phrases that rhyme (or almost), passed down like recipes, and sometimes just as unreliable.

Most of them make sense — but only if you live in a temperate climate in the northern hemisphere, and even then, they tend to bend the truth when it suits them.

Take this one, for instance:

“Au mois de mai, manteau jeté.”
In May, the coat is thrown away.
Lovely image, right? Except it completely ignores the Ice Saints, and that time I nearly froze at a picnic in Lorraine.

Or this well-known rhyme:
“En avril, ne te découvre pas d’un fil ; en mai, fais ce qu'il te plaît.”
In April, don’t remove a single thread; in May, do as you please.
It sounds liberating — but the second part is always said with a kind of knowing smirk, as if to say: go on then, wear your sandals... and enjoy that cold.

There’s a whole bouquet of May sayings, and they’re not always kind:

• “Mariages de mai ne fleurissent jamais.”
  May weddings never blossom.
  Still whispered by older generations, especially grandmothers with a mysterious glint in their eye.

• “Le mariage du mai ne se dure jamais.”
  A marriage in May never lasts.
  Bit brutal, that one.

• “Si le dicton dit vrai, méchante femme s’épouse en mai.”
  If the saying is true, a wicked woman marries in May.
  I don’t even know what to say about that. Misogyny disguised as folklore?

Then there are those that feel oddly poetic:

• “Mai, mois fleuri, mois béni.”
  May, a blooming month, a blessed month.

• “Mai, mois de fleurs, mois de pleurs.”
  May, month of flowers, month of tears.
  See what I mean? Full of contradiction. Like someone couldn’t decide if May was a celebration or a curse and just left it open-ended.

Some try to sound cheerful but feel vaguely threatening:

• “Mai froid n’enrichit.”
  A cold May brings no riches.
  (Tell that to the grape growers.)

• “Mai pluvieux, laboureur joyeux.”
  Rainy May makes a happy farmer.
  Especially if you’re not the one knee-deep in mud.

• “Mai pluvieux marie le laboureur et sa fille.”
  A wet May weds the farmer and his daughter.
  Don’t ask. I have absolutely no idea what that means, but I love the rhythm.

• “Fais provision de confiture en mai et août.”
  Stock up on jam in May and August.
  That one, I can get behind.

And then you get the more… atmospheric ones:

• “Femme de mai plaît toujours.”
  A May woman always pleases.
  Whatever that means. Sounds like someone fell in love on a spring day and made a proverb out of it.

• “Pendant le joli mois de mai, couvre-toi plus que jamais.”
  During the lovely month of May, cover up more than ever.
  See? May giveth, May taketh away. Sunshine in the morning, goosebumps by lunch.

In the end, these sayings are like the month itself: unpredictable, charming, a little contradictory, and always better when heard from someone with muddy boots and a cup of strong coffee in hand.

Travelling in May – What You Should Know

May sounds like the perfect month to visit France.

And most of the time, it really is.

But here’s the thing — you’ve got to go with the flow.

Because May doesn’t care about your itinerary. It does its own thing.

Let’s start with the weather.

Most years, it’s glorious.

Winter is gone for good, and you feel it.

There’s a softness in the air, a smell of cut grass and warm stone.

The sun starts sticking around past 7pm, cafés set their tables outside, and suddenly everyone’s wearing sunglasses like we’re on the Riviera. Even in Normandy.

You get those first hints of summer heat, the kind that make you open the windows wide and forget your jumper on a café chair.

But then — bam! — a thunderstorm.

Or a morning that feels like March again.

The Ice Saints

And then there are the Ice Saints — les Saints de Glace.

I didn’t just hear about them. I lived them.

The first time we experienced it for real was when we were living in our little village up in the Alps.

Spring had truly arrived — or so we thought.

The cherry tree was in full bloom, the grass had that bright green glow, and the whole valley looked like it had finally shaken off winter for good.

And then... well, the Ice Saints showed up.

Out of nowhere, the temperature dropped, and by morning, everything was white. Snow. In May. 

It didn’t last long — just a day — but it was enough to turn our spring postcard into a winter one, and to remind us that up there, you don’t mess with tradition.

The old folks had warned us: don’t trust the weather before the 13th of May. They were right.

Now, whenever I see cherry blossoms in the mountains too early, I get nervous.

Because if you’ve ever watched snow fall on spring flowers, you’ll know... it’s beautiful, yes, but also a little heartbreaking.

Apparently, in France, there’s this old belief that between the 11th and 13th of May, three saints — Mamert, Pancrace, and Servais — bring one last burst of cold.

Farmers used to dread them. A surprise frost could wipe out blossoms, vines, you name it.

And here’s the wild part: even modern meteorologists admit there’s some truth to it.

Not always, not everywhere, but still... enough that I now side-eye the sky every 12th of May.

So yes — May is beautiful. But it’s also unpredictable. 

Tips for visiting France in May

Pack layers. Bring sun cream and a raincoat.

And maybe don’t plan your wedding, your tomato harvest, or your first picnic of the year for the second week of the month.

Oh — and mind the holidays, too.

I’ve said it before, but it’s worth repeating: May in France is basically a jigsaw puzzle of days off, long weekends, and spontaneous closures. You don't want to turn up at a village museum on a Thursday afternoon, only to find a sign that said, “Closed exceptionally due to long weekend.”

Still — that’s part of the charm, isn’t it?

You learn to slow down, to roll with it.

To sit longer at lunch. To take the scenic route.

To accept that France in May has its own rhythm, and you’re just a lucky guest.

Conclusion – A Month of Contrasts

May in France… it’s never quite what you expect, is it?

It’s soft and bold. Peaceful and noisy.

Sunny, stormy, sacred, and rebellious — all in the same week, sometimes the same day.

It’s a month where you can watch a parade of union flags in the morning and buy a sprig of lily of the valley in the afternoon from a kid who probably doesn’t even know why he’s selling it.

You get churches dressed in flowers, vineyards holding their breath, and cafés whispering promises of summer.

You also get strikes, delays, shops that close “just because”, and a dozen proverbs that contradict each other — and somehow, it all works.

It’s all part of the same rhythm. The same country. The same beautiful, exasperating, very French month of May.

For me, May is the beginning of movement.

I don’t know how to explain it. I start looking at train timetables again. I dig out my walking shoes.

I plan nothing, and end up going everywhere.

Paris, Lorraine. Savoie. Burgundy. Provence.

Places I know, places I think I know, and places I didn’t mean to go at all but ended up loving anyway.

And every time, something small sticks.

A scent. A saying. A road I didn’t take, but still think about.

That’s what May does. It leaves traces.

So if you’re ever wondering when to visit France — if you can stand a few raindrops and the occasional train strike — come in May.

Don’t plan too much.

Take the side road.

Order the cheese.

Buy the flowers, even if they wilt in your bag.

Sit longer than you should.

And whatever you do — don’t trust the forecast.