by Mary Moody
When Jock shouts me lunch and I make noises of protest he invariably says, ‘But I’ve got money I haven’t even spent yet.’ He sometimes suggests it can be my turn next time round, and we’ll go somewhere much more expensive. When I agree without hesitation to his proposal of a drink at the local bar or a meal at a nearby restaurant he declares, ‘You’re easier to get than a packet of Rothmans.’ Jock is generous to a fault and kind-hearted—nothing ever seems to be too much trouble. He never fails to surprise and amuse at dinner parties. I’ve seen a pair of conservative ladies blanch when he suddenly bursts into verse:
‘Hooray, hooray, it’s the first of May,
Outdoor fucking starts today.’
Jock has developed an extensive network of English-speaking friends who are never surprised to see him turn up with a visitor in tow because his house has, quite understandably, become a regular holiday destination for a raft of ragged overseas colleagues—both men and women—who enjoy his unending hospitality, warmth and wit. We scoot around the country lanes together, dropping in unannounced here and there for an aperitif, filling our days and evenings with nonstop eating, drinking and sightseeing. I keep saying to myself that I must start taking walks or getting some form of exercise, but it’s very hot and sitting in the cool of Jock’s house with its tiled floors and thick walls sipping a chilled rosé seems like a much better idea. Already my pants are getting hard to zip up, not a good beginning when I have firmly imagined that this long, relaxing break from work will have me returning home looking slim, tanned and thoroughly well rested.
Not long after arriving my fiftieth birthday looms. It feels odd being so far away from home for such a landmark occasion, but I am determined to enjoy it regardless. Jock’s in the know, having been emailed by Gil, and we discover that there is to be a special lunch in the restaurant across the road from his cottage, so it couldn’t be more perfect. We can eat and drink as much as we like, without having to drive anywhere afterwards.
The morning of my birthday is cold and overcast. I spend more than half an hour talking to my family in Australia who are having a typical Sunday roast dinner to celebrate my birthday as well as David’s, which falls two days before. The previous day was the winter solstice in Australia and the annual Winter Magic Festival in Katoomba has apparently been a great success, with our grandchildren donning fancy dress for a street parade and an evening of fun at the local pub which has left some members of the family feeling a little hungover. Hence the lateness of the midday birthday meal. I speak to everyone properly for the first time since I left home, except for Eamonn who is still refusing to talk about me or acknowledge me on the phone. David says he’s just being a typical sulky six-year-old, but I recognise his feelings of abandonment, and that his silence is a form of punishment. He’ll get over it I’m sure, but I find it a bit painful knowing he feels so miffed.
Jock is preparing a caviar mousse and we have put champagne on ice for the drinks party to be held after the lunch, with a group of seven of Jock’s wayward friends along for the ride. The restaurant across the road doesn’t operate on a regular basis, however in order to maintain a current liquor licence it is legally obliged to open at least four times a year. The solution is a series of monthly Sunday lunches, with the set menu being distributed by pamphlet ten days ahead of time. Jock’s assorted friends arrive at midday for a drink. They are a funny lot—two elderly retired English couples living nearby, an English man of middle years restoring an old house, and a raging Scottish couple who are down for a month to work on their barn. The meal, which is typical of the region, starts with huge steaming bowls of garlicky chicken soup and noodles with chunks of country-style bread. The charcuterie course is overwhelming, with several choices of pâté and terrine plus crudités based on tomato and raw carrot. The poulet plat du jour, chicken served with verjuice and creamy potatoes, is followed by a crisp salad, then an elaborate cheese board and an even more elaborate dessert, a fruity flan with lashings of cream. The wine never stops flowing and the local liquor is passed around with our coffee. Called ‘eau de vie’ it’s made from pears or plums and it’s nothing more than firewater, but somehow as it sears down my throat, it rounds off the three-and-a-half hour epic eat-a-thon.
Weaving out into the afternoon air we return to Jock’s courtyard for the champagne and caviar party. I feel quite delightfully unsober, but several in the group are really starting to look much more the worse for wear, lurching and slurring. More of Jock’s friends arrive bearing gifts, which is quite a surprise given that I have known them less than two weeks. But somehow they have already tuned into my Australian sense of humour, and the gifts reflect this: an Aussie bush hat with swinging tampons instead of corks; a vulgar barbecue apron with false plastic breasts, featuring unseemly slogans in French. It’s good to see a strong thread of bad taste running through French culture. I sleep soundly after my birthday party and wonder the following morning what form the celebration would have taken had I stayed at home. Most probably it would have been a Sunday lunch for the immediate family of fifteen which I would have planned, shopped for and cooked, with David clearing up and doing the dishes.
One thing I puzzle over while I am staying at Jock’s is the way in which I position myself to sleep now that I am alone in a bed. Instead of spreading myself out and luxuriating in the space that’s suddenly available, I curl up on my usual side and never venture onto the other side of the bed at all. The sheets and pillowcases on David’s side of the bed remain smooth and untouched. I assume it’s just a force of habit, after so many years of accommodating his shape alongside me. But I wish I could thrash about and make use of the entire bed space, rather than keeping so tidily to one side.
10
EVEN QUITE WELL-TRAVELLED friends, who are familiar with Provence, the Dordogne, Normandy and the Loire valley, are rarely aware of the department known as the Lot. Indeed, before I arrived, I had seen it on the map and largely dismissed it as a rural no-man’s land; which it is, in the sense that it lacks overdevelopment and industrialisation. But what it lacks in modernity and sophistication it makes up for tenfold in old-world charm and grace.
This is one of the oldest parts of France, rich in history and steeped in a cultural and agricultural tradition that is still very much in evidence to this day. It’s a hidden treasure, although now that the Dordogne has become over-popular with tourists, and with foreigners buying second homes, eyes are turning to this tranquil place. The department takes its name from the free-flowing Lot River, which winds through vineyards and townships and is crossed at various points by wonderfully romantic ancient stone bridges.
Tranquil is exactly the right word for the Lot, because this area is the least populated in all of Europe, with a current head count not very different from that of Roman times. It was not always so, because during various phases of its history, the Lot boasted thriving towns and villages and a very rich economy. Now, however, it has suffered the fate of rural areas all over the world—an exodus of the young population who, once educated, seek larger towns and cities and a more modern lifestyle. It is their loss.
The way in which France is divided into various territories can be very confusing, because it hasn’t been neatly portioned into states with well-defined borders, and there are layers of names, some dating back to Roman times, which are still in use in conjunction with modern names. The southwest of France, for example, is also known by the ancient name of Aquitaine, but in many maps, weather charts and newspapers it is also called Suds Ouest. Within the southwest are several departments including the Lot, which also carries the ancient name of Quercy.
Likewise the department of the Dordogne is also still frequently referred to as Périgord, its name from ancient times. The region has been peopled since prehistoric times and archaeological evidence shows that the warm valleys dotted with caves must have been the most favourable environment for the evolution of human species in all of Europe. There are well over one hundred decorated caves dated betwe
en 30000 and 10000 BC in southwest France, some of which are open to the public during the summer season. Visiting them, you get a spine-tingling feeling realising how long people have walked on this part of the earth, almost as long as the Aboriginal people are thought to have inhabited Australia. Modern farmers still turn up flints and other prehistoric tools when they plough their fields—they rise to the surface if it rains immediately after ploughing—and it’s not uncommon to see a small collection of museum pieces decorating a shelf or coffee table.
In the past the landscape here has been called harsh and even savage, possibly because of the wild and arid limestone plateaux known as causses. Here the natural vegetation is scarce and windswept, but although the soil is said to be poor I don’t find the fields and vineyards reflecting a lack of richness. All around I see scrub oak and junipers, fields of corn, hillsides dotted with healthy-looking sheep and cattle. There are duck and geese farms in evidence outside most villages, and brilliant hopper bins of bright orange corncobs for fattening the animals for market.
During the sixth to fourth centuries BC, when it was known as Gaul, many regions of France were invaded by Celtic tribes. Cahors remains the largest town in the Lot and early records show that it was originally a settlement during these pre-Roman times, named after the Gaulish tribe Cadurcii. When I stop to wonder why I feel so at home in this foreign place, I consider this Celtic link. As a pure Celt of Irish, Welsh and Scottish extraction, I feel that my genes may somehow be shared with the descendants of the ancient tribespeople who ran like savages across this land when it was barely touched by human habitation. They were small and dark like the people of Wales, and the people here in the Lot look similar to them to this very day, with Roman blood mixed in of course. Maybe my connection to this place goes back far further than my connection to Australia. Or so I fantasise. With my red hair and pale, freckled complexion, however, I certainly look nothing like a local.
The period of history that is most fascinating is the twelfth century, when Eleanor of Aquitaine presided over her French and English kingdoms from here, constantly travelling with her vast entourage in and around Quercy on her journeys. I manage to get hold of a recently published biography of Eleanor, just released in the UK, and pore over the details of this amazing woman’s life. So many places that I am familiar with are mentioned in the book, including Cahors which was seized for Eleanor by her husband, the English King Henry, in 1159; Rocamadour, where she made a pilgrimage bearing rich gifts in the middle of the century; and nearby Puy-l’Evêque where in 1138, while still married to the French King Louis, she attended a religious festival. It almost makes me shiver to imagine how this place must have looked during her reign; this sense of continuity, this seamless link with history, appeals to my imagination so much. You could easily shoot a film about Eleanor in any one of a number of old towns and villages in this region, and they would appear very much as they did when she was alive. Just take down a few power poles and remove the odd satellite dish and you could be right there by her side. I often experience a strong feeling of this when I am exploring nearby towns and villages, especially midweek when the streets are so often bare of people and there are few cars around to ruin the mediaeval images I love to conjure in my mind’s eye.
Even older are the Neolithic remains of human dwellings and religious sites that can be found in and around ordinary towns like Prayssac. Jock and I are taken on a guided tour of these by a lively American couple who make a living writing outrageously witty travel guides. Dana and Michael, who have made their home here, have studied the entire southwest of France in detail, and their knowledge of its history is undoubtedly more extensive than many of the locals, whose families have been living here for generations. Following their car, we drive past a bland modern housing development on the outskirts of Prayssac to reach an amazing circuit of ancient structures known as dolmens, which resemble small versions of Stonehenge with massive platform rocks suspended on hefty uprights. In the same area is a circle of menhirs—huge rocks that have been thrust into the ground as upright pillars, also known to have had strong religious significance for the ancient people who lived here. There’s a rock-carved niche, known as ‘Caesar’s Armchair’, and a most unusual gariotte, or stone shepherd’s hut, with two chambers instead of the usual single shelter. We are astounded to think of these treasures just sitting here in the woodlands, unprotected and largely ignored. The fact that so few people seem to know about the dolmens and menhirs probably helps to preserve them, but I wonder if the people living in the rather plain modern houses just down the hillside are aware that their tract of land has such a rich and mysterious history.
As my interests lie so much in the survival skills and daily lifestyle of ordinary people, I am attracted to a guided tour of farms that is advertised at one of the tourism offices. Again I drag Jock along for the ride, which involves driving our own car and following a bilingual guide through the winding country lanes around Belvès, a hillside township about half an hour from St Caprais. The tour includes lunch at a ferme auberge, or farm restaurant, which serves food that is actually produced right there on the farm. Our tour begins with a detailed look at a tobacco farm; the tobacco industry was once the mainstay of the region but is now falling from favour because of the changing tastes of smokers. The dark-leafed heavy tobacco variety grown successfully for decades is now no longer desired because smokers prefer the lighter and paler leaf varieties that simply don’t do as well in the local soils and climates. As the farmer points out, growing tobacco is a tremendously labour intensive task, and one which also uses a lot of chemicals because the crops require frequent spraying against pests and diseases during the main growing season. Driving around the southwest, I often see empty tobacco-drying sheds—they are always taller than the local barns with timber-slatted sides that are opened, like louvres, to allow gentle breezes through while the crops are hanging to dry. Fields that were once used to grow tobacco have now been turned over to maize or wheat as farmers try to keep up with the changing pace of agriculture. In the morning we also briefly visit a goat cheese farm, where the friendly goats crowd around us and try eating our loose clothing and camera bag straps. The smell of goat urine is quite distinctive, and I always think it carries over into the cheese, which is why I prefer the more subtle flavour of sheep cheese.
Our lunch at the local ferme auberge is an eye-opener. All eight of us are invited into the family dining room after being given a brief tour of the farm and its buildings. I am totally besotted with the old but reliable bread oven in the barn, built of stone with a rounded back and chimney; it once baked crusty loaves for the entire hamlet, and now bakes fresh bread for the restaurant at least three times a week. Just about everything that passes our lips has been made on the farm. There’s a strongly alcoholic aperitif made from plums, chicken soup with noodles and, of course, great chunks of fresh cooked bread. There are crudités from the garden and large portions of roasted duck—from the same family we have just seen shuffling around the poultry pen. The red wine is also made on the spot, and is quite light and aromatic compared with some of the heavier Cahors-style wines. After the required five courses we are back on track to visit a goose and duck farm where the most famous delicacy is produced: foie gras. I am not actually looking forward to this part of the tour, having heard so many grim stories about the suffering of the poor birds. However the agony is minimised with just a short demonstration of force feeding—I feel certain that when it’s done to a mass of birds the effects would be more distressing. The victim goose on show is quite cheerful as the tube is inserted into his gullet, but is incapable of getting back onto his webbed feet after the dose of corn has been pumped down his throat.
We are then taken through the whole production line, and fortunately there’s no slaughtering during our visit. Still the smell of blood remains in the air, and when at the end of the tour we are offered a tray of foie gras, I can’t participate, especially after having stuffed my face so heartily
at lunchtime. The others, however, do not share my queasiness and tuck in as though they haven’t eaten for a week.
I am constantly impressed by how uncomplicated the lives of the rural people seem to be. In many ways they are without the unnecessary trappings that we regard as essential. Their lives follow the seasons and the harvests and as a result their needs are very straightforward compared to those of people who live in the city. Even though they now have all the modern conveniences of electricity, phones, computers and email, a modern pace does not seem to impinge too much on the ritual of their daily lives. Lunch is probably the most important thing in their daily agenda. I can’t help but admire this attitude.
11
JOCK’S SMALL VILLAGE IS typical of hundreds. Those buildings of St Caprais not empty and derelict are occupied mostly by farmers, both active and retired. The church, with its Romanesque apse raised in the fourteenth century, is externally austere yet reveals some faint but fascinating murals on the interior walls. There was gossip for some years that the murals would qualify the church to be classified as an historic monument, but they turned out to be not quite as old as the villagers had hoped. They are greatly treasured, regardless. There are drystone tiles, called lauzes, in the apse, also dating back more than seven hundred years. The bell is still rung twice a day—to call the farm workers in for lunch at 12.15 and again at sundown for dinner, which is well after 9 pm in the summer and as early as 4.45 pm in deepest winter. The ringing of the bell is the self-imposed undertaking of the village’s most prominent farming wife, Madame Dalmas, whose husband Claude is a direct descendant of one of the oldest families in the area. The Dalmas family has been ringing the bell ever since the full-time priest left, more than fifteen years ago.
