by Keggie Carew
THE LAST THING
It is Sunday, 11 September to be precise (having consulted the campervan diary), and Jonathan and I and our two dogs, Frida and Jessie, are driving west across France in our campervan. We have been visiting some friends in Aubais near the Camargue, who run painting holidays for people who want to paint horses. For years I have been seduced by photographs of the wild white stallions of the Camargue charging through water and spray, but I had no idea how searingly hot it can get in this part of France, so we are now heading west to higher ground where we can camp under shady poplars and find cool rivers to swim in. And as we are driving along listening to Bill Callahan singing ‘One Fine Morning’ we have an idea. A dangerous idea. To return to a place, a very special place, a place locked into our hearts as the idyllic impossibly sublime heaven-on-earth best camping spot we have ever found, on the best camping holiday we have ever had, where everything, everything went RIGHT. Uh-oh.
‘Should we?’ I ask Jonathan.
‘Why shouldn’t we?’ he replies, nonplussed.
‘Well, you know . . .’
But he doesn’t really. He seems a bit cavalier, a bit too trusting, not au fait with the ways of the world. Sod’s world. Because I am thinking this could be courting disappointment. Big time. And yet . . . it was the most wonderful place. Dare we? Or should we leave it there untarnished in our memories, pure and perfect and safe, to see us into our dotage. But the name has been uttered, and the elemental force and the folly of desire to taste Arcadia once more has been unleashed; the tight spiral of good sense is already unspiralling, and as we both know, it is unstoppable now. That tiny village in the Lot Valley beside its cool clear tributary nestled under its limestone cliff, where the swallows wheeled in the evening’s last blushed rays of the day’s sun which flooded the rock face into a glowing opalescent shell pink. Oh! And the perfect camping spot, our spot, beside the cool running river, under the tall poplars with their rattling leaves, just a flower meadow away from the medieval village with its clock tower and honeyed-stone buildings huddled together, entwined by grape vines over patios where chickens scratched in the dry dust. And the boulangerie that baked its bread from flour ground in the mill across the street, which still rolled its great wheel in the cool clear river, beside the swans’ nests and the hidden holes of kingfishers.
And more! Only the best, authentic, real French traditional restaurant in the world (for us anyway), just as a French village restaurant would be in your wildest dreams. But it wasn’t in our dreams, it was impossibly lovely, with a trained grapevine over the sun-drenched patio, which let the sun cascade through like flickering minnows and was home to an avian world of chattering sparrows who hopped about and chirruped and stole crumbs off the tables. And the restaurant was full of French people, which was a good sign, and a scattering of pilgrims, for the village was on the Santiago route of Coquille St Jacques. It was run by an elderly sister and her elderly brother, and had been in the family through generations and hardly changed, and just outside the restaurant, the elderly brother parked his old Citroën Traction Avant – an antique Citroën with gleaming paint and polished chrome, and sweeping wheel arches like giant eyebrows, on whose walnut dashboard he kept an old French magazine dated 1921. And next to his antique Citroën he parked an ancient scooter and sometimes an old bicycle because he was passionate about old vehicles.
What a scene. It looked heavenly and it was heaven, and Frida and Jessie were allowed to sit under the table and watch the sparrows hop about. And even better, there was no menu, which hooray meant you didn’t have to worry about choosing the wrong thing. We were just brought course after course of French things on plates, and a basket of homemade bread made from the village-milled flour, which was put on your table with a pitcher of wine, and everyone was given the same thing, starting with a cold platter of charcuterie and spears of freshly picked asparagus, and then it was grilled aubergines and peppers, followed by slow-cooked lamb stew with caramelised onions and garlic and, and, and sautéed potatoes, and then a homemade clafoutis of plums, oh, oh, and then a yard of cheeses of different shapes and sizes and smells and textures, which of course was when Jonathan ordered the marc, which lit up his reddening face, brighter and redder, as we slid back into our chairs saying, right now, right here, this must be the best place in the whole world and we are in heaven. We remember it so well. Those Canadian pilgrims who told us they had read about this very place in American Gourmet twenty years ago and had always wanted to come and now they were here, and how amazed they were that it was everything they’d read and dreamed about. And we oohed and ahhed and chinked our glasses as sparrow wings whirred above.
And then the river, oh the river! Rowing upstream in our inflatable Canadian canoe (which carries all four of us and a picnic) as far as we could, then gliding back along its secret winding world through tunnels of trees, past ducks and coots, keeping an eye out for roosting bats under the old stone bridges, past ancient cave dwellings built into the high rocks. We have held it in our memory, with its smells and sounds. Frida in the front, leaning on my leg, two paws on the gunnels, literally shivering with excitement as red squirrels leapt from branch to branch, her eyes bright, her ears twitching, listening acutely to the lapping and quacking and flapping of creatures of the rivery world. The iridescent flash of a kingfisher across our wake, its peeping cry. Kingfisher, martin-pêcheur. Perched in the shadows on an overhanging branch, we hold it in our mind’s eye with its eye intent on a glimmering shadow in the water. The music of the water remains with us, its ballet of aqua light, its quivering mercury skin, its mysterious dark pools. And, ah yes, the day we met some walkers with a donkey in the village square, who took us with them on their afternoon hike into the hills along the narrow goat paths where mountain oaks dropped acorns and wild boar foraged; how we walked along together with that natural ease of travelling strangers, until we found a shepherd’s stone shelter where we shared their homemade plum cake and plum cognac.
Oh, yes, that holiday was etched indelibly, every detail, every nuance, almost otherworldly. The holiday where everything blossomed into more than itself. The sun shone, the swallows wheeled, the kingfishers fished, we even spotted an otter swimming across the river then disappearing into its holt. We rowed after its trail and peered into the dark wet riverine hole, amazed. Each morning I swam through the first fallen leaves and each evening we sat on our camp chairs, with our cold rosé and salted cashews, watching the swallows in thermal updrafts, as the sun sank into its pinks and violets, and the yellow sulphur lights of the huddled village came on one by one illuminating the clock tower, warming the stone as if lit by fire, as if from another time. It was impossibly romantic.
*
We drive along remembering, the road rumbling beneath our tyres, Bill Callahan singing ‘Drover’. We must be mad. Could we really countenance going back?
Jonathan wants to know what we are going to do, because if we are going, we need to turn off the motorway very soon. But the closer we come to the turn-off, the bigger the dilemma becomes. It is almost like testing a sacred law, for surely we must safeguard the memory and leave it in its perfect box? Yet here we are, greedily wanting more. I am reading the map, my head and heart in combat, because there is still time to back out now, but if we are going, we will need to turn off in about ten minutes. But of course I know. We both know. The spell has been invoked. And ten minutes later the indicator light is flicking and we have left the motorway. And while I am full of excitement I am also full of dread.
With each mile the expectation increases, as does the dread. I go through every scenario. Out loud. Jonathan silently driving. It is foolhardy. The campsite will be closed. The weather will be terrible. There will be a new building development in the village with cement mixers and dumper trucks. The road will be being dug up and tarmac lorries will be coming and going. There will be hunting dogs barking relentlessly in a large cage on the hill. There will be an electric storm bringing down all the power lines,
so loud generators will be set up chugging out noise and fumes all day. Madame and her elderly brother will not be running the restaurant, they will have retired . . . or worse. What else will be amiss? I rack my brains for every scenario, either to prepare myself or – and I am not sure which is more accurate here – in the superstitious belief that by naming it, it can never happen.
Everything I can think of. Almost like a game. Like I-spy.
‘We don’t have to go,’ Jonathan says.
But we do. And I lather myself up into intestinal knots. One hour, two hours, well on the way. Too late to turn back now. Road signs begin to indicate our proximity. We are entering the terrain. We drive on, almost silent. By now I am convinced that if the campsite is still there, our spot will definitely be taken by campers from hell, with loud thumping music and shouting all night, or wild Italian schoolchildren, or thirty German bikers, or a stag party of English louts. Tomorrow there will be a mistral blowing. And worst of all, the restaurant will be shut. Fools are we to think anything could ever live up to that hallowed time.
And now we have turned onto the road that runs along the actual valley itself. And the sun is shining. Fifteen kilometres to go. I am holding my heart in my mouth, I’ve almost stopped breathing. Really, my nervousness is ridiculous. Closer and closer. Past each bridge, past each village. I can hardly speak. I know around this next bend will be the village sign. My eyes are craning out. And there it is! And it looks surprisingly just like the village I remember. I can see the tops of the poplar trees of the campground. And the camp sign . . . it is there, and yes, it is open! And I can already see there is no one in our favourite spot! I am like a child, impatient to get in there and grab it, thinking at any moment someone else might sneak in front of us and get there first.
We pull up outside the little office reception, ratchet the handbrake on, and go in. I am almost dancing on the spot. The man in reception is watching rugby. Jonathan jokes with him, something about rugby, ho, ho. Come on, come on. It takes all my willpower not to run down to the river and stand childishly on our pitch marking it out as bagged territory. And we hand in our Irish passports, proud of the Éire and the gold harp, as if it has anything to do with us, not English, no, no. And we fill in the form and look out the window to check the registration of the van, and then, at last, we hop back into the campervan and cheer and drive down to our spot. We park between the two poplars facing west for the last rays of sun, making a meal as usual about backing into the exact right spot. We unpack our camp chairs, click them out, slot the camp table together. Haul the inflatable canoe off the roof rack. Chain our bikes to the tree. Feed the dogs. And then we all go down to the river for a christening swim, and it is as beautiful as I remember, and the four of us slither in, Frida following me and Jessie swimming after a stick, and we have it all to ourselves and everything is dreamy and sublime, the water tea-coloured, and every now and again the muscled back of a fish is caught by a shaft of sun. The dogs roll in the grass, the bottle of rosé and salted cashews are on the camp table, the swallows wheel in front of the cliff, and we nervously toast the evening and the village and the right decision to return, as slowly the lights come on, still sulphur yellow, and the village glows like honey in front of us. No roadworks. No generator. No howling chasse dogs. No development. No cranes. No noisy neighbours. For tonight . . . The fear, of course, unspoken, is that it will be the restaurant that disappoints.
In the morning, after my swim, during which I stubbed my toe on a submerged log thinking the river deeper in my normal getting-in place than it turned out to be, we meander across the flowery meadow to the village with our shopping bag. The mill is still working, the boulangerie still open, the shop is still there. The boucherie van is in its normal position. Nervously we cross the road for our first view of the restaurant. And it is still there! And it is open! And the Citroën Traction Avant is parked outside. With the 1921 magazine on the dashboard. And we bound up the steps and Madame is there, and we smile madly and book a table for lunch under the vines. And we skip back home to our camp with our shopping bags full of wine and cashews and cheese and apricots, and blow up the canoe. Silly to doubt, to be so fatalistic. What is wrong with me? Expecting the dark hand of fate at every turn. Everything is fine. Everything is dandy. It is sunny and I get out my watercolours and float turquoise pigment in watery blobs onto blank postcards; and then we walk to the restaurant, which is as full as ever with French people and pilgrims, the vines full of sparrows, and the sun filters through, flickering like a Renoir onto the tables, and we have charcuterie with melon, a pitcher of rosé, a basket of homemade bread, and then comes entrecôte with garlic and French fries, and then a platter of cheese, and then poire au chocolat and some chocolate almond things and creamy things. Delicious and heavenly, and Frida and Jessie are complimented on their good behaviour, and how lucky, we say we are, again.
And we are a bit tipsy with the wine and the sun when after lunch we haul the canoe down to the river, because we have forgotten the right place to get in and somehow have chosen a muddy place full of sticks and logs which I don’t remember from before, and Frida gets stuck in some mud, and the canoe gets stuck, but we push it out and row down past the camp and into the tunnel of trees. But we are too sleepy to row far, so we drift back and decide tomorrow will be the day of The Big Canoe Adventure. Today will be the sleeping day. So we haul the canoe out, and we watch the swallows circle, and snooze as the sun goes down.
The next morning, a little later than my planned eight o’clock before-breakfast swim, I pad down to the river bank, and I stop. And I stare. I stare, because the bank is there, the trees are there, but the river . . . is gone. The river isn’t there. And I can’t compute it. And it isn’t possible. But it is possible. Because that is what is front of my eyes. Rather, not in front of my eyes. I stare, discombobulated. When I say there is no river, I mean that there is no river water, nothing flowing, just a few pools in a landscape of mud and branches and stones and exposed logs. It is now a slick worm-channel of ex-river, its path is still there all right, but not the river itself. This was not a stream that could just evaporate in the sun, it was a tributary of the Lot, a proper river, thirty feet across. With fish in it. I stand and stare. I blink. It is impossible.
All that cool flowing earth water, with its earth smells and earth-cold velvet caresses, gone? I look away and look back. It is still gone. And I am still in the same place staring. I don’t know what to do. Slowly, I turn, and then leadenly make my way back to the campervan. I stand in the door.
‘What’s the matter?’ Jonathan wants to know.
I don’t bother to explain. ‘Come with me,’ I say.
We both walk down to the river bank. Even now I am hoping it isn’t true. We cannot work it out and we can hardly believe it. You really had to see it with your own eyes. It almost feels as if I have caused it with my ridiculous worrying. It is a visitation from the serve-you-right River-Draining God. No canoeing today, no finger trailing in the water’s wake. No Frida quaking at red squirrels leaping from branch to branch. No kingfisher flash. Breakfast is hardly appealing, I cannot do anything until we have got to the bottom of this. We trudge listlessly along the no river to the boulangerie. We ask.
The mayor (it’s always the mayor in France) has drained the river to fix the weir and barrage where the fast water channel of the mill race has undermined it. It has been years in the planning and this is the week. I was unaware that a river can be disappeared in such an alarmingly short amount of time – its flow, its pace – but somehow it has been. Of course, there is nothing we can do about it – this week, the week of our return, out of all the weeks in the last four years, is the week of the barrage repairs, and there will be no river for the entire duration of our stay. The river is off. It has been redirected, like a detour, to God knows where, and I have no idea what the kingfishers do, what the otter does, what the fish do. But I know this is the holiday that will always be remembered for the last thing one could p
ossibly ever have imagined, the impossible thing, the river that vanished. In the campervan diary I draw a scratchy black ink sketch of our campervan packed up and ready to leave. And off we go.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to my friend and agent, the incomparable Patrick Walsh, whose explosive bellowing laugh I’ve been fortunate to hear on so many occasions during the course of this book, and whose vast reserves of wisdom, good humour and generosity never cease to amaze me.
I am lucky to have the judicious Simon Thorogood as my editor, and thank him for his thoughtfulness, guidance and care. Thank you to the astonishing hawk-eyed Leila Cruickshank, my copy-editor. And to Jamie Byng and the good ship Canongate for welcoming me on board. Thanks to Will Atkins for editorial comments. To John Ash for everything. To Patrick Harpur. To Jamie Telford and Jane Gifford for a contribution towards the camel. To Michael Neill, Jocelyn Pook, Graeme Miller, Trevor Stuart, Adam Dant and Ned Holland. My thanks (and apologies) to all witting and unwitting participants in these tales.
Most of all, thank you to Jonathan Thomson, fall guy, semi-patient husband, best friend.
‘Delightfully original’
New York Times
‘A masterpiece’
Mail on Sunday
‘Truly beautiful’
Observer
