Au Revoir

by Mary Moody

  While waiting for the car to be fixed I explore the shops for patchwork fabrics to blend in with the colourful selection I made in India. The cottons are beautiful, although quite expensive, and I buy some bright Provençal designs and some softer colours with the idea of making another small cot quilt for the grandchild who will be born while I am living in France. I am convinced that having a few sewing projects will help fill up the hours when I am alone, and prevent me from feeling too homesick.

  By Friday the car is finally ready and I pack my gear and load up the boot. Richard offers to take me for a test drive and with great confidence I leap into the driver’s seat and take off at speed. Of course the steering wheel, gears, controls and pedals are all on the opposite side of the car. I find it very difficult changing gears with my right hand, also to judge the distance from the centre line of the narrow streets that characterise most towns in France. My problem is not keeping to the right, but keeping too far over to the right so that the side mirror keeps banging into parked cars and traffic barriers. Richard screams in alarm when I nearly drive us into a ditch, he screams again when I narrowly miss sideswiping a van, and he shrieks in terror when I actually snap off the mirror on his side by hitting a barrier. I park outside his apartment and go in for coffee, my knees still knocking together in fright. Richard, though white as a sheet, cheerfully reassures me that all will be fine when I hit the open road. I am filled with dread when we finally set off in convoy—he will lead me to the nearest entrance to the motorway, called the péage, then I am truly on my own for the first time.

  8

  THE CAR IS CERTAINLY nippy, but I am only driving at about 50 mph as I enter the motorway. There are three lanes each way and I am sticking as far to the right as possible, my knuckles white as I grip the steering wheel in terror. Cars and trucks flash past me at what seems like 150 mph and the small car shudders with the vibrations as they pass. Then it starts raining—I haven’t a clue where to find the windscreen wipers and I’m too frightened to take my eyes off the road. I fumble wildly with various controls and eventually the wipers start up. Gradually I increase my speed and my heartbeat slows marginally. I keep telling myself, over and over, that in a week or so I will be laughing at this. That I will be driving with complete confidence and wondering how I could ever have been so frightened.

  As various road signs start appearing along the motorway I realise with apprehension that I haven’t the vaguest clue what they mean. How could I be so arrogant as to start driving in a foreign country without any knowledge of the local road rules or without any understanding of the traffic signs and signals? It’s lunacy. I feel completely overwhelmed by my own stupidity. At least I have had the commonsense to write out a list of towns and turnoffs which I must take to get to Arles in the Camargue region, my first overnight stay. I have decided to take three days getting to the southwest, firstly to ‘enjoy’ the drive and see some countryside, secondly to avoid getting stressed by driving too far on any one day. If only I had known that the sheer act of driving itself would have me in such a state.

  I stop for lunch at Aix-en-Provence but find negotiating my way in and out of the town and back onto the motorway quite alarming. By late afternoon I see the sign for Arles and cheer myself on. After driving in and out of the town four times, finally, a good hour later, I see the sign to the hotel where David and I have stayed before—The Hotel Gauguin—a comfortable two-star with tall windows and shutters that open onto a gorgeous square. I park in a narrow space with great difficulty, book in and leave in search of a bar. In the shadow of the 2,000-year-old Roman amphitheatre, I find a place where I quickly knock back two huge beers—twice the size of a traditional pint—to the amazement of the proprietor. I feel I need a large hit of alcohol to steady my nerves after the harrowing drive, and it’s a reward for having survived my first day alone. So great is the quantity of fluid in my bladder that I need to pee three times before I am fit to wander the back streets and squares in the balmy twilight. Arles is a beautiful city—David and I loved being here eight years ago. There is evidence everywhere of Roman occupation. Apart from the amphitheatre where bullfights are still held regularly in the summer, there is a magnificent Roman theatre which stands by a shady park in the centre of town; there are Roman baths and Cryptoportiques, dark and gloomy underground corridors that were excavated for reasons still not clear to archaeologists. Arles is where Vincent Van Gogh lived for two years, frenetically producing more than two hundred paintings during this short period; indeed this was the place where he finally lost the plot and sliced off his ear, to the dismay of the locals who petitioned for him to be institutionalised. Fellow artist Gauguin lived with Van Gogh during part of this period, which is why so many streets and buildings bear his name—including the hotel where I am staying. Being close to Spain, the city has a distinctive Latin atmosphere. In the square where most of the restaurants are located, flamenco guitarists and dancers wander between tables, busking for francs as diners quaff litres of local wine. It’s sheer bliss for an exhausted Australian woman.

  Back at the hotel I realise that I have been given the same room that I shared with David on our previous visit. Like many old hotels, the rooms have been bastardised by the inclusion of a small bathroom in one corner to cater for foreign tourists’ desire for an ‘en suite’. The aperture to the shower recess is so narrow that David became firmly wedged getting in, and I had to free him by liberally applying soap to his belly, after I managed to stop laughing. But only now do I realise just how ridiculously small the bathroom is, typical however of so many two- and three-star French pensions. I sleep very soundly but wake with some dread of the day ahead.

  It’s funny how in long-term relationships the partners take on different roles and stick to them. David has a naturally good sense of direction and is always confident when driving in foreign countries so I have always left this onerous aspect of our travel to him. I have never been good at map reading and navigating, so he has always plotted our routes on driving holidays and I have assisted by staying awake and chatting to keep him alert while keeping a constant eye on road signs and directions. I have from time to time done a little of the driving—mainly on motorways—but only after he has planned everything and made it easy for me by getting us up and going in the morning. Now I need to take responsibility for all these issues alone, so I carefully study the map over breakfast and make a list in large writing of all the towns I will need to pass through to reach tonight’s destination. I have decided to abandon the motorway and go across country, in the hope of less traffic and that there will be more interesting things to see along the way. I really feel a need to prove to myself that I am limited only by my own fears. Surely I am capable of driving across France alone, given that the maps are easy to read and the sign posting is excellent? My main ally is good concentration—I keep saying over and over to myself, ‘Pay attention, pay attention,’ because I realise that keeping my wits about me is essential if I am to avoid taking the wrong turn. I love the way the French have erected huge blue arrows to remind drivers in which direction to enter a roundabout: there are roundabouts all over rural France and with so many English tourists swerving all over the roads it would be total chaos if the arrows were not there to jog tired drivers’ memories. I know that I would be having to think twice every time I approached a roundabout if that blessed blue arrow wasn’t there to reassure me. I later read in an English newspaper that a survey of English travellers to Europe found that sixty per cent of drivers don’t understand French road signs and are uncertain about how to approach a roundabout. Knowing that there are lots more drivers like myself negotiating the local roadways certainly doesn’t fill my heart with confidence.

  Before leaving Arles I dash out to visit the Sunday market and buy some small gifts to take to Jock, who is my only contact in the southwest and who has kindly invited me to stay until I find a place of my own. The Arles market is wealthy and busy and I settle on some spicy sausage, various cheeses, larg
e bunches of garlic and shallots and a jar of regional honey. I also buy myself a colourful woven shopping basket which will be useful during my stay—I loathe using plastic shopping bags.

  The trip to Albi is a relative breeze and with every hour behind the wheel my confidence grows. The weather also clears and the countryside is certainly beautiful. I bounce along, feeling chuffed with myself as each town on the handwritten list sitting on the dashboard rolls by. France is a feast for the eyes after the bleak and burdened human landscape of India. In India, except when we travel high in the mountains, it is almost impossible to find a view that is totally appealing—there’s always a corner of ugliness or sadness or destruction to spoil the frame. In France it’s hard to focus on anything that isn’t an absolute delight for the eye to behold: neatly bordered pastures of brilliant green, fat and healthy livestock, stone villages that are charming in every possible way.

  When the sign to Albi appears I congratulate myself once again on my sheer brilliance and even though I have a repeat performance of driving in and out of the town for half an hour before I finally find a parking space, I feel for the first time that I am in control of the situation. It feels strange having an ongoing dialogue with myself about the ups and downs of this journey because I am so accustomed to vocalising my every thought to whoever is by my side. Being alone means that I am constantly talking to myself instead—sometimes even out loud—discussing the details of my surroundings and predicaments.

  The cheap hotels in the travel book prove impossible to locate, hiding down incredibly narrow back streets where only experienced drivers would be intrepid enough to venture. Presumably that’s why they are cheap—they are totally inaccessible. So with some guilt I book into a relatively expensive hotel which has a prominent car park. I overcome my feelings of guilt pretty quickly because the bathroom is sheer bliss with a huge bathtub where I sit and soak, feeling triumphant. In the warm evening air I wander through this beautiful and ancient city, visiting the imposing Gothic cathedral—the Basilica Cecile—where, since it’s Saturday evening, I manage to catch a religious service. The cathedral is reputed to be the largest brick building in the world and there certainly are a lot of bricks to be seen from every angle. It took two centuries to build—from 1282 to 1480—and it looks more like a giant fortress than a place of worship. Inside, however, the frescoes and theatrical organ, which is being played, quite take my breath away. Afterwards I saunter up and down side streets looking for a regional café and eventually discover one that is also way over my budget, but decide what the hell. I order an expensive carafe of rosé and my first cassoulet of the journey. It has been grilled under a flame so that the portions of duck and sausage are deliciously crispy. I couldn’t feel happier.

  The following morning I allow a couple of hours to explore Albi, thinking that I will no doubt return at some stage during my long stay. Albi is famous as the birthplace of the unhappy Toulouse-Lautrec, and in spite of the fact that after deserting it for Paris he spoke most scathingly of this elegant city, they have put together a fantastic museum in his honour. I find a covered market which is rather disappointing in its selection of foodstuffs compared to Arles, but I still manage to pick up some interesting looking cheeses.

  Well fed and rested I set off for Jock’s house filled with renewed confidence, singing ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ at the top of my voice because I can’t get any reception on the car radio. Jock has given me quite specific instructions on how to reach his village from Cahors, where I stop before finishing the last leg of my journey. Cahors is an ancient town which I remember driving through a few years ago with David. It will be my nearest town during the six months I am in the southwest, so I wander around and take in as much as I can. There are two large squares in the old part of the town, an imposing cathedral that took more than four centuries to build, and what must surely be one of the most beautiful bridges in the world, which spans the fast-moving Lot River. I decide to eat a light lunch before descending on Jock, and find a warm-looking café that is packed with Sunday lunch families. The menu is vast and I opt for a dish of choucroute, saucisson and pommes. I recognise sausages and potatoes as part of the dish, but am amazed when it arrives to discover the choucroute is actually sauerkraut. I am presented with a vast plate piled high with cabbage, seven or eight different types of sausage and potatoes, enough for at least four people. I struggle to get even halfway through the meal. Knowing I still have a little way to drive I decide against drinking alcohol, but a large cold beer would have been perfect.

  On the last leg from Cahors to St Caprais I don’t falter once, and following the given instructions I take only forty minutes to reach the village. Jock is waiting out the front with his two, half-wild black village cats, Shagger and Minnie the Moocher. I can’t believe it—at home I have a fat black female cat, also called Minnie the Moocher. Jock gives me a kiss on each cheek in typical French style and within ten minutes I am sitting at his dining room table clutching a glass of local Cahors red. The adventure has just begun.

  9

  JOCK’S RETIREMENT RETREAT in the Lot has been affectionately dubbed ‘Jock’s Trap’ by his friends, with a handmade pokerwork sign beside the front door and letters posted from Australia and New York addressed accordingly. It’s a simple old stone house in a small fourteenth-century village that time seems to have forgotten. Half the buildings are deserted and there is no shop or café, just an incongruously modern glass phone box and a mailbox that’s emptied every day except Sunday. Jock discovered his dream house empty and derelict one summer eight years ago when he was holidaying with his oldest friends, the Barwicks, who have a house nearby and have been coming to the southwest for their summer holidays for more than thirty years. Originally the little house was no more than two rooms and a barn for the animals, but with help from friends and local tradespeople it was lovingly transformed into a comfortable home, with cream walls and pale terracotta-coloured ceramic floor tiles. Jock converted the old barn into a simple kitchen and the vaulted roofline into a second-storey addition, with two bedrooms and a bathroom. Immediately I love the house, and also Jock, who turns out to be one of life’s great discoveries.

  At first glance Jock’s physical appearance is somewhat alarming. He’s very tall with a large frame and a handsome thatch of silver grey hair, of which he is rightly proud. His face bears testimony to his passion for red wine and his reluctance to wear a hat during the long, hot summers of southwest France: to say he has a ruddy complexion is an understatement—it’s brilliant scarlet. Jock’s interests in life do not extend to being even vaguely concerned about his clothes or personal appearance. He’s one of those blokes who prefer wellworn, comfortable gear; the only problem is that some of his clothes have been worn to death, with the fabric fraying at the cuffs and falling apart under the slightest stress. And there are many stresses. When Jock bends over it’s not unusual to hear the ripping sound of fabric tearing apart. His pants are perilously suspended beneath his rounded belly, held up by a belt that is constantly in need of tightening. In winter, when he can wear a sweatshirt over his usual shirt, he dons braces and this means the trousers are less likely to take a nosedive.

  ‘I was born with no hips,’ he laments at least twenty times a day while grappling to catch his strides before they drop to the floor. Sometimes, late in the evening, he isn’t quite quick enough.

  Jock’s many female friends constantly chide him about the way he dresses. He sometimes doesn’t get around to shaving for days at a time and he’s been known to wear the same daggy clothes until they practically walk around on their own. I wonder to myself if he was dressed like this when he was a medical reporter covering news stories in New York. I suspect so because he proudly tells me how, speaking at his seventieth birthday, our mutual friend Gil referred to him as ‘The King of Grunge’. He has a certain style about him. Jock style, like it or lump it. And I like it. Jock and I enjoy all the same things. He adores this part of France and doesn’t for one seco
nd regret retiring here, in spite of the fact that his grasp of the language is still limited after seven years.

  ‘I keep thinking I’ve died and gone to heaven,’ he exclaims as he proudly shows me around his patch of the woods.

  I can’t help but agree with him. We spend the first two weeks exploring the mediaeval villages and bastide (or fortified) towns that are the main feature of the Lot. We target villages where there are food markets or antique fairs, planning our evening meals (never less than four courses) and then buying the appropriate ingredients before repairing to a café or restaurant for beer followed by a long lunch. By three every afternoon I am ready to sleep off the food and drink for several hours before rising and starting again—I will need to detox if I keep this up. Jock is exceedingly generous both with his time and his wallet—he routinely insists on shouting me lunch and I regard his personalised insights into French life as a gift. I dub this high-spirited introduction to the region as ‘Jock’s Tours of the Lot’ and can’t think of a better way to get established.

  Jock and I once worked in the same newspaper building in Sydney in the early 1970s and although I remember his name and reputation clearly from those days, I feel certain that he barely remembers me. At that time I was a young reporter, just out of my cadetship and working on a trashy television magazine while he was a top-ranking showbusiness columnist. We often rubbed shoulders at film premieres and television program launches, but never really mixed socially. Bumping along the leafy lanes on our sightseeing tours we reminisce nonstop and quickly discover a great many friends and colleagues in common. His anecdotes about his life and work are endless and hilarious, and I identify strongly with his attitude to life. Born in New Zealand in the wealthy country township of Wanganui, he started his career as a young newspaperman in the 1950s, then travelled to Sydney where he worked on various daily papers first as a reporter and sub editor, later as a showbusiness writer and columnist. The last sixteen years of his working life were in New York, where he was a columnist on a mass-circulation Murdoch magazine. He covered a wide range of topics, including health and medicine, and as a result is quite witty and knowledgeable on a vast array of subjects, from stomach ulcers to arthouse films. He loves good jazz music and poetry and antiquated television—I am forever catching him watching old reruns of ‘’Allo, ’Allo’ and ‘Dr Who’ on his satellite television.