My name is Jos. I live in a small, quiet corner of France where the roads are empty, the plants grow wild and nothing ever really hurries. I share this life with Verena, two dogs named Ollie and Wills, and a red cat named Felli who walked in one day and never left. He seems to love the silence and stillness here just as much as we do.

I’ve been vegetarian for over twelve years. At some point I started looking beyond the supermarket, searching for ingredients that hadn’t been wrapped in plastic or shipped across continents. That search led me outside. Into the hedgerows, the fields, the forgotten edges. What began as a way to find food slowly became a way to live. Foraging connected me to place, to rhythm, to patience.

Sauvage Botanica didn’t start with a plan. It grew slowly, the way plants do. I began noticing things. A flicker of yarrow in the grass. The way elderflowers open at dusk. How nettles sting and heal at the same time. Writing them down helped me remember. Naming them gave shape to the days. One plant led to another. One question to the next.

I’ve always felt more at home with the overlooked. Forgotten herbs. Old trees. Objects that still carry the smell of a workshop or the rhythm of hands. There’s something in wild plants that asks for attention. And if you give it, they give something back. Something practical. Something mystical. Something old that still works.

I’m not a botanist or a herbalist. I don’t lead retreats or teach from a podium. What I share here is personal. It’s a mix of what I’ve read, tested, gathered and guessed. Some things I’ve tried for years. Others are still unfolding. I make mistakes. I change my mind. That’s part of how I learn.

Sauvage Botanica isn’t a project. It’s how I live. There’s no schedule, no strategy, no plan to grow. I gather when the season offers something. I write when I have something to say. I share what feels real and grounded. Sometimes that’s a recipe. Sometimes a field note. Sometimes a guide or a quiet object for the shop.

This is not about doing things perfectly. It’s about living in a way that feels rooted. Noticing what grows. Finding your own rhythm. Letting plants teach you patience, softness and the long way around.

If you’re someone who walks slowly, who stops to touch the bark, who likes the smell of damp leaves and old paper. If you find comfort in simple things and beauty in what most people walk past. Then you might feel at home here.

I’m glad you found your way to the sauvage.