May 2006
There is a little house in a field, set
back from the road. Under the red tiled roof, patches of stucco have flaked away,
revealing the underlying stones and mortar, perhaps hundreds of years old, now exposed
to the southern sunshine. Sparrows flit in and out of a pocket in the rafters.
Tiny lizards scurry into crevices between the stones. This house greets us as
we leave the metropolitan region around Toulouse. We notice
it every time we pass. It blends into the wheat fields, immoveable, immeuble, oblivious to change, constant as
the seasons.
We are filled with a sense of calm. We have
felt calm since deciding to return here. In the south of France we
adapt to the rhythm of the place; we do not impose our own rhythms as we might somewhere
else. This is, perhaps, the overriding recollection from past trips to the Languedoc. This
rhythm is defined by the morning walk to the boulangerie for fresh breakfast brioches or croissants. We do not
buy bread for tomorrow – it will be hard by then – our daily bread is the rule.
It is defined by lunch hour, noon to mid-afternoon, when no
business except lunch (not even parking meters) is transacted. It is defined by
market day, here on Tuesday, there on Thursday, and then, only until mid-day,
for we do not conduct business during lunch. It is defined by the menus à trois services, crisp
tablecloths, cutlery changed unquestioningly between courses. It is defined by
the absence of stress, as we sip on a pichet
of rosé, sitting under a shade tree, safe from the semi-tropical noonday sun. If
this seems predominantly about food, then it is because food is a fundamental
part of the French culture. But the rhythm is also defined by the centuries
that separate antique and modern, by the barges on the Canal du midi drifting slowly as they have since the 1600s or the
ruins of the medieval Cathar castles standing guard for centuries longer on
hilltop after hilltop. It is defined by the seasons – the yearly cycle of the
grapes which, in turn, governs just about every other activity in this region.
Our internal clocks begin their inevitable
adjustment. We are a few kilometres out of Toulouse, yet we
seem to be light years from the fallen towers and flattened factories that
first marked this place for us. We are enveloped by the static and the enduring
in all their colours, blue skies, golden wheat, orange-red poppies, yellow genet (broom), bright green spring
vegetation, and by the rows of wide-leafed plane trees along the roadside
sheltering our drive from the midday sunshine.
We have been on the road for less than an
hour, and we start to see fields of grape vines, lined up in rows, like so many
toy soldiers, each sporting a fresh tuft of green leaves. They have flowered,
and embryonic grape clusters have already started to form. Somewhere outside of
Castelnaudary a sign welcomes us to the Aude, to the Languedoc, to the Pays des Cathars, once again. The
patchwork of vineyards, extending in all directions as far as the eye can see, is
an inevitable and essential part of this adventure.
We have rented apartment in Olonzac for
this trip. A mere 20 minutes away from our previous home in Ornaisons, Olonzac
is an important market town in the Minervois region. With its restaurants,
cafés, boulangeries, and services, people congregate from all over the region,
especially on Tuesdays, when the outdoor market fills in the main street and
winds up the narrow side streets into the heart of the village. With the
tantalizing aromas and colors of every imaginable fresh food being hawked alongside
household goods and antiques, it is impossible to wander away empty-handed on
market day.
A couple of kilometres away, the small village of Homps sits on
the banks of Canal du Midi. It was once an important shipping port for
Minervois and Corbières wines. Today, it is a major mooring stop along the
canal, providing fuel and water hookups for tourists at a spot wide enough for
boats to turn around.
The
British Invasion
We thought it had ended with the Beatles,
the Stones, and the Dave Clark Five, but, we soon discover that it is alive and
well in the Languedoc.
We arrive at our destination, Eloi Merle,
in Olonzac. Our hosts, Lynn and Glyn, used to own pubs in the UK, and left it
all behind to take over this old maison
de maître, which they operate as an eight bedroom B&B and 4
self-contained gites (literally,
country homes). When we arrive, the B&B is fully occupied by a cooking
school from Calgary, so Lynn and Glyn are living in the gite next to ours, and some of
their friends from England adjacent to them. Our television is Sky TV satellite from the UK. Not a
French station to be had.
Our gite is a compact and efficient one-bedroom apartment; however,
there are no compromises on the comforts. A sitting area with sofa and chair greets
us when we walk in. Behind, a kitchen counter stretches from one side of the
room to the other, the shelves underneath covered with a decorative Provençal
fabric. We find every appliance we might need for the next couple of weeks.
There are a table and two chairs for indoor dining as well. Upstairs, a queen
size bedroom and adjoining modern bathroom assure us of our comfort for the
next couple of weeks. Tea, coffee, and wine are awaiting us when we arrive. The
local wine is as delightful as any Minervois we have tasted. (Minervois La
Cruelle, Les Celliers d’Onairac, Olonzac)
We have a small table and chairs outside
the gite for al fresco dining. Behind a short stone wall is a large swimming
pool, curiously shallow, not exceeding four feet anywhere. Our host explains
that he wanted to be able to save anyone who got into trouble in the pool. A former pub owner, he notes also that
bathers can walk from one end to the other and not spill their drink. How can
you argue? (www.eloimerle.com)
Our first night out, we dine at En Bonne
Compagnie, in Homps. At times a restaurant, an internet café and a B&B,
this British-owned canalside establishment caters largely to travelers on the Canal
du midi. We both enjoy the duo of asparagus and
magret de canard appetizer -- grilled
green and white asparagus, succulent, sweet, and smoky, with tender bits of
duck on a bed of lettuce with a simple balsamic vinegar dressing. Neither of us
has tasted grilled asparagus before, and become instant converts. Our main
course, the rack of lamb, is tasty and tender, four large chops perfectly
cooked to the requested rosé, with an
unusual accompaniment of pommes
dauphinoises with leeks, a rich British adaptation of the French classic,
and delicious. The steamed shredded vegetables, sweet and still slightly
crunchy, complete the plates in style. We are served a sorbet Poires William
while waiting for dessert (a delicious chocolate bread pudding) and coffee. If
the fare sounds a bit heavy, the cool evening air on the terrasse makes us appreciate it even more. We do not recall having
seen the creamy leek and potatoes on any menu in France. But
this has been continental cooking at its finest. (En Bonne Compagnie, 6 Quai
des Négociants, Homps)
Behind us is a table of 12 people from England.
We discover from them that the chef of this restaurant has cooked for British
royalty. Beside us, we meet a couple from New Zealand with two young children. They are on a three-month tour, through Japan, China
(Great wall), Egypt (pyramids), Salzburg, Roman France (Avignon, Arles and Orange), and off to the Dordogne region of France and then England before returning home. It all sounds quite breathtaking. All in
all, this has been a delightful first evening in France,
even if hardly a word of French has been uttered.
The British connection does not end there.
Our hosts are well-known to the large expatriate and travelling British
community in this region of France,
and it appears to us that every English speaking person in the area drops into
the back yard at least once during our two week stay. We meet a couple of
schoolteachers from the UK. They have a property in Spain,
and are purchasing a house in Trèbes, near Carcassonne. They
also plan to go to Poland next year to look for properties there. We mention that we have
never been to Poland. They say that Canadians are so lucky to be able to travel and be
welcomed anywhere. We do not probe for further details, but do agree that we
tend to be treated well wherever we go. Another couple is departing and they
are looking forward to travelling back via Millau, in the Cevennes, and,
particularly, to cross the new 2.5 km bridge, the highest bridge in the world,
spanning the Tarn River. Why? It was designed by the British architect Norman Foster, of
course. The British connections never end. The gritty dialogue in Barry’s James
Lee Burke novel, set in Fargo, North Dakota, seems doubly rough in comparison to what we hear around us.
At one point, someone enters through the
gate and shouts out “Is this the British Embassy? This sticks as our private nickname
for our home. The English touches often amuse – High Street instead of Rue
Principale – pub instead of bar – but it doesn’t matter – our entertaining
hosts never forget that we are on vacation and here to enjoy ourselves and they
do not miss a beat.
Outside the gate, we leave our little
enclave and are immersed in French once again. We listen to Radio Nostalgie in our car – this
station plays oldies, alternating French (Dassin, Piaf, Hallyday, Adamo and
Aznavour) and English (Little Eva, Beatles, and what seems to be eternal Abba).
Today, we hear a familiar tune – it is from Hair – sounds like – the Flesh
Failures – but the words are French – it is what we thought – they are singing –
“Manchester, England England” – in French. Let the sunshine in – the invasion
is over!
Cathar
country
There is a superb vista along the road from
St Pons de Thomières to Olonzac, which winds around mountain peaks of the
Haut-Languedoc on its way to the Minervois. Around a bend, southbound, we are offered
a panoramic view of the entire Aude valley, with the Pyrenees at the south end,
directly in front of us, ending at Carcassone to the right, and at the Roman
city of Narbonne and the Mediterranean to the left, where the mountains are called the Corbières. In
between, the Aude River winds through a valley that supports one main crop –
grapes – and the vast expanse of small vineyards seems like a massive patchwork
of velvet and corduroy squares, depending on the orientation of the rows of
grapes, dotted with the orange-tinged villages. We can almost make out the
traces of the Via Domitia which brought the Romans from Italy to Spain
through Nimes and Narbonne.
We decide to venture into the Corbières,
massive outcroppings of limestone covered with scrub. Every little arable spot in
the valleys and up the slopes is planted with grapes. As we ascend into the
heights, the vineyards become rarer, yet we still pass little triangles of ground
amidst the slopes that are planted with the ubiquitous grape.
We are heading towards the remote mountain ranges where the 12th
century Cathars hid in their flight from the Inquisition. Little is left of
these settlements except for the thick stone walls of the massive fortresses that
gave them refuge. One of the largest, Peyrepertuse, looms in the distance. From
the highway, it is almost impossible to discern the chateau from the massive
limestone outcropping upon which it rests. It is even more difficult to imagine
how we are supposed to get there. We reach the village of Duilhac-sous-Peyrepertuse,
and pause for lunch. Six kilometres of hairpin turns await us as we start our
ascent on the road to the castle. The final stretch is done on foot. We climb
up the rock wall along a narrow footpath carved into the side of the precipice with
its 150 tiny and awkward steps. We expect a mountain goat would have second
thoughts here -- this is truly a cathartic experience.
From the top, nearly a kilometre above the
vineyards, the view is breathtaking. Perched on the edge, we can see across the
entire valley below, southward to the next Cathar ruin (Queribus), a mere bump
on a distant peak, and then to the Pyrenees beyond, which appear snow-capped. Villages appear as tiny clusters
of orange roofs dotting the deep valley, surrounded by the little green squares
of grapes. This region is appropriately named “Les terroirs du vertige” in deference to the awesome elevations. We
wonder how the inquisitors ever managed to find and overcome the Cathars,
perched so high above the roads. Yet they did.
The first records of Peyrepertuse date from
the 11th century. This castle, on the border with Aragon, was
a Cathar stronghold during the Crusades until 1224, and then was used as a
strategic fortress through many wars until the French Revolution, after which
it was abandoned. Today, the Chateau consists primarily of the exterior walls
and towers; about half of them remain. (We have seen real-estate ads for houses
“to renovate” that could be described similarly.) We can clearly see the
location of the main rooms, storage facilities, the old dungeon, the wells, and
the chapel, the latter being largely intact. The walls are pierced by narrow
windows used for defence in battle. We are full of wonderment at the story of
how the community thrived in such isolation. Further along the ridge, at a
higher elevation, is another building, the chateau and dungeon of San Jordi. We
see people scaling the narrow ledge and steps to get there, but we do not
venture out to it. We have a rugged descent facing us.
We are back on the road and continue south; we are now in the foothills
of the Pyrenees. The landscape has become forested; we see more trees than on any
of our other trips to France. We are heading into the Maury wine region, and stop at several
caves in the town of Maury to sample and buy this fine dessert wine that has
become one of our favourites, and, unfortunately, that we cannot get easily at
home.
The landscape changes again, and soon we turn
northward and find ourselves in the barren country of the Upper Aude river. The road is
at the bottom of a rocky gorge alongside the gushing headwaters of the Aude,
with massive rock carved by nature in all sorts of grotesque shapes.
We reach a junction. A sign points to a
narrow side road leading to Rennes-le-Château, a tiny village, 5 km away. Rennes-le-Château
was put on the map by rumours of mysterious buried documents and Catholic
conspiracies. The 19th century home of Bérenger Saunière, a key
player in the Holy Grail brouhaha currently dominating the popular press, is
now a gift shop, catering to the many thousands of tourists who annually invade
the hamlet, looking for hidden treasures.
That is not the rhythm of the Languedoc. With
visions of “Da Vinci Tour” busses parked all along the village roads, we continue
straight on to Limoux, where the espresso is an appropriate coda to our
afternoon, a fine stimulant for our tired muscles after the arduous climb to
Peyrepertuse’s dizzying heights.
Village
life
Villages experienced phenomenal growth during the 1800s, as rows of
uniformly stuccoed houses were built around medieval cores. According to an
article in the local newspaper, Le Minervois, village population has dropped by
over half in the years since 1900. There has been some new construction in the
last few decades, but these tend to be suburban-style houses outside of the
centres. In the village centres, houses may be left empty. Butcher shops and
boulangeries, once destinations of a daily village walk, are boarded up as
customers drive to the hypermarchés. The village cores need attention; this is providing
opportunities for investors eager to bring life back to these historical gems. Many
expatriates are jumping on the bandwagon. However, towns need bars and cafés,
places for people to congregate. Without these, there is little life outside
the stucco walls of the Languedoc row houses. And this is what gives Olonzac its special charm.
Glyn shows us a letter from the town to a
colleague of his requesting a permit to block the street to move into his home.
It appears, on the surface, as an example of bureaucracy; however, we see it as
a necessity of village life, centred around markets setting up and disappearing
as quickly, leaving the streets as clean as before, and bistros taking over
sidewalk space as stores and offices close for the evening.
Glyn invites us to the “pub” to join him in
a drink with Jean-Louis. Jean-Louis runs the bar in the Olonzac’s Hotel du Parc and it is his birthday
today. We meet some of the locals, all well-acquainted with Glyn. There is a
fellow who did a lot of work on Glyn’s house; he is pleased to have a
French-speaking tourist to talk to. Barry explains building styles in Canada;
they find it interesting that we put foundations under the surface to be below
the frost line.
..
and, of courses, …
If the rhythm of
the Languedoc is appealing, it is the food that sets it poles apart from other
destinations. In Quebec, we talk about la bouffe, the
pleasure of eating well, perhaps a bit sensually (but not quite à la Albert
Finney’s 1960s Tom Jones). However, the French take offense to this term, which
means, literally, “grub”. In the South of France, alimentation is a serious matter. A simple dinner
of fresh market fare -- salad, paté,
cheese, the ubiquitous baguette,
olives, and rosé wine – is a mini-feast.
On the terrace, of course.
With three fine restaurants and a few
cafes, we do not have to go far to dine out in Olonzac. One night, we go to La
Citadelle, a mere two blocks from our gite. Run by a husband and wife team, we
are presented at the start with a little assortiment
of tapenades to accompany us through
the menu. We enjoy a cassolette (little
casserole) of seafood, chunks of squid and other tit-bits of seafood in a tasty
court-bouillon and a gratin crust. In France,
we are expected to mop up the delicious broth with our bread, and risk
tempering our hunger if we do so, but it seems almost instinctive in this case.
The magret of canard with cèpes mushrooms is sweet and delicious. An assortment
of tiny cheeses follows, including chèvre in paprika, and another one rolled in
thyme. It is dessert time -- Denise jokes that she would have a bit of each. No
problem. She receives a delicious assortment of the current French standards, nougat glacé, crème brulée, tarte-tatin, and mousse
de chocolat.
Another night, at the Restaurant Bel
Minerve, one block the other direction, we feast on the crème de carottes, the
salade de chèvre, crème de langoustine, and kangaroo filet (raised locally on
the Montagne Noire). Then we go back to our gite for calvados with our hosts on
the terrace until the wee hours.
We try Chez Steff a few times. Just opened
with fanfare around the corner from our gite, this establishment brings the
fine restaurant count in Olonzac up to three. Steff is already known in town,
having run the café across the street. Like many restaurants these days,
Steff’s offers fine French fare and pizzas. Both are delicious.
We are seated next to a couple who are
speaking English but address the waitress in fine French. It turns out that
Joëlle is French but has lived in England,
and Steve is English and has lived in France
for a long time. Their paths crossed and now they live in a village near
Olonzac. They own a rental gite, but rentals have not been so good lately,
because so many English folks are buying, rather than renting. We chat until
our wine and coffee are depleted.
The food experience is an endless sequence
of taste treats. In Lagrasse, we discover tacaut, a white Mediterranean fish
which pleases baked in a tapenade coating. The anchovy and grilled pepper
appetizer is delightful. At the coast, the seafood reigns -- oysters and
escargots-de-mer at Marseillan-Plage, scallops with their roe and moules-frites
in Palavas-les-Flots. Steak-frites in Pézenas.
And food has fashion, too -- we see baked tomatoes, homemade mayo, and
ground cherries on our plates everywhere.
Many restaurants offer pizzas in addition to
the traditional three-course menu. Aside from a discreet McDonalds in Narbonne, there is
a virtual absence of fast-food restaurants in the area. There is also a
noticeable absence of roadside garbage in the region. So what if restaurants
are putting more pizzas on their menus?
The
rhythm continues
In the two weeks we have been here, the
leaves on the grape vines have filled in as they prepare to fatten up their
fruit. That is our measure of time. We now have to pack up the car and make our
way to the airport. We have not spent any energy on our real-estate project -
we specifically avoided going near Trausse-Minervois, where we were enchanted
by a small house for sale last year. Two weeks are hardly sufficient to unwind
from the pace of our work routines as it is. There is still another year before
Denise can retire and there are other regions to visit, too, and perhaps other
projects to consider.
We take a photo with our hosts and then Lynn disappears
into the house. We do not see her again before we leave -- she doesn’t say
good-bye. But we know it is only au
revoir.
We pass a little house set back in a field
along the road. Sparrows are still flitting and the lizards scurrying. It all
quickly disappears into the landscape behind us. But we are thinking back to
pub night. Jean-Louis’ teenage son walks into the bar. He is introduced to us and
immediately extends his had to Barry’s for a firm handshake, and then tilts his
head slightly in front of Denise. There is a pause, a brief hesitation, but then
it’s clear. We are more than just guests, almost family now, and she obliges
him with a two cheek kiss. That is the rhythm of the Languedoc.