by Mary Moody
Looking closely at her face, I estimate that Mme Dalmas is no more than a few years older than I am. She is small, dark-haired and dynamic. I try to compare our lives as women of a similar vintage, but it’s quite impossible. She has barely moved from her home since birth, and while she and I have both reared children while working simultaneously, there the comparison ends abruptly. Her entire life has revolved around the farm and her family. She tends a large vegetable garden which supplies them all year round and is so productive that armfuls of leafy greens, tomatoes and pumpkin are given away to friends and neighbours—Jock is certainly a beneficiary of this largess. Mme Dalmas also keeps a large flock of hens for eggs and meat, and rears ducks and geese each summer for making confit and other poultry-related delicacies. She is responsible for a flock of sheep which she moves from meadow to meadow almost every day. She has a small dog to assist her, and as there are no fences except for the main holding field, she has to watch them for literally hours every day, seated on a cushion, reading a magazine. I often see her keeping an eye on her charges from under a tree in the late afternoon dappled light. The sheep follow her voice quite obediently, though the dog doesn’t appear nearly as well trained.
Mme Dalmas cooks two large, hot meals a day in the French tradition for her family—a son who works the farm with his father and the daughters still living at home. There are soups, terrines, pâtés and stews, and always a dessert. She doesn’t drive and seldom leaves the village to shop; her bread is delivered and a grocery truck comes calling every Wednesday morning with the basic necessities—cleaning products, butter, sugar and flour. A butcher’s van also delivers various cuts of meat that the farm itself does not provide. I never see her at the weekly markets in Prayssac or Cazals—she would be far too busy to take time off for marketing. She works from dawn to dusk, and I never see her without a smile on her face and a warm greeting. There are only about twenty people living in St Caprais, and many of them are quite elderly and live alone. Mme Dalmas takes food from her pantry to many of them. She is a vital link between the different village families.
There are several ruined buildings around the village, with doors and shutters that have fallen away with time, although there is also a large old building that has recently been quite beautifully restored. There are some handsome houses only occupied in the summer by holidaymakers, and a holiday let, known as a gite, that is rented out to Dutch and Germans on a regular basis. The restaurant across the road, the one where I celebrated my birthday, is the only focal point attracting outsiders into the village on a regular basis. The streets are narrow but are used constantly by farming vehicles moving from one field to the next. During the height of summer when the wheat and maize are ready to cut, a combine harvester somehow squeezes around the main corner—Jock is asked to move his car from the front of his house so that it can rumble past. I am constantly amazed at how these massive tractors and earthmoving machines negotiate the narrow streets designed for simple carts.
Just outside the village is a moss-covered washing place that links into the stream, where women once came daily to launder their clothes and linen. In the village itself are two small squares where community meals and celebrations are held at various times of the year. Outside the door of every occupied dwelling are overflowing pots and tubs of geraniums, petunias and begonias that stand out so wonderfully against the warm, buttery stonework. Not far from Jock’s house is a neatly tended old cemetery with high drystone walls and quite elaborate family crypts. In a levelled sandy area near the cemetery boules is sometimes played by those villagers who have the time in their busy farming schedules. Occasionally we newcomers indulge in a game amongst ourselves, playing more noisily and with far less skill than the locals.
As I drive or walk around the countryside that surrounds St Caprais the odd modern building or house not quite in keeping with the old style appears from time to time. Otherwise the scene is consistently one of mediaeval villages or perfectly groomed fields of maize or wheat. The livestock gleam with glossy coats and bulging bellies, unlike the pathetic emaciated and worm-riddled herds I saw on the trip in India. The countryside, when I first start exploring in late spring, is more perfect than a picture postcard could ever depict. After early rains the crops are galloping ahead and after a week of hot and sunny weather, the hay has been quickly harvested and rolled into giant ‘boules’ around the fields for gathering and storing at a later date. The hay can’t be stacked in barns for several months as the heat generated within each boule is dynamite and can easily self combust; they must be left out until they start to break down before being stored for the winter months.
All around the landscape are stone walls, and almost every one has a rose growing against it, mostly deep vermilion or scarlet: it is the perfect colour against the bright light and piercing blue sky. The odd white or pale pink rose seems wishy washy and out of place by comparison.
St Caprais is set at the conjunction of several small hills, giving it views to the surrounding farmland. This was planned initially so that all approaches to the little town would be visible, to give the villagers time to rush inside the fortified church should strangers or enemies approach from any direction. The church has no windows and sombre metre-thick walls just for this purpose. The aspect also means that as I walk or drive towards St Caprais from any perspective I see the church prominently towering above the domestic dwellings. So often the churches are by far the most imposing structures in a small settlement. There is one corner approaching St Caprais that leads from the washing place up past several neatly farmed meadows, and every time I drive or walk it, no matter what time of day, my heart simply soars with pleasure as I round the corner and the village suddenly comes into view.
I have to admit that moments of sheer, unadulterated delight such as this are few and far between in my ‘real’ life. I certainly love driving out through the Australian countryside and have a deep love and appreciation of both the bush and the cleared farmland. But I seldom feel such a lurch of happiness at a view or vista as I am experiencing here in France. Perhaps it’s just an unaccustomed sense of exhilaration, having cast off my responsibilities and allowed my emotions finally to run free.
12
BEFORE THE 1960S THERE were very few foreigners living in southwest France, however with the decline of the population and the gradual awareness in the outside world of its superior weather and cheap property prices, the situation has dramatically changed. Old deserted chateaux and farmhouses have been snapped up as holiday homes by English and Dutch families, eager to spend part of each summer in rural retreat. The farming families generally found adjusting to their foreign neighbours difficult at first, but were soon delighted to see derelict buildings being restored to their former glory, and quickly came to appreciate the economic benefits of a slightly expanded population, even if they were English. Tradespeople have benefited by getting work restoring roofs and chipping render from ancient stonework for newcomers who prefer the look of exposed stone rather than grey concrete render. Plumbers, tilers, electricians and glaziers are suddenly in demand, and the local cafés, restaurants and alimentations (general stores) have also enjoyed a revival.
In my dreaming and fantasising about living in France—long before setting off on this adventure—I visualised myself mixing with very few English-speaking people. I imagined days, even weeks, passing without a single conversation in my own language, and anticipated having constant contact with French speakers that would vastly improve my language skills. I expected to spend many hours sitting alone in cafés; I would also spend long, quiet evenings reading, writing and sewing, and enjoy vast stretches of solitude. This was going to be my thinking time.
Nothing could be further from my life now in St Caprais. Within hours of parking my car outside Jock’s Trap I was sipping red wine with a handful of his English-speaking expatriate friends, and now as the days and weeks roll by the numbers of new people I meet multiplies dramatically. There are New Zealanders and a
scattering of Americans, Canadians, South Africans and Australians who have chosen to spend either their retirement or a part of every summer in the Lot. I find the mix of English speakers as diverse in character and personality as in any blended community, with the usual sprinkling of eccentrics and misfits who are invariably more comfortable when away from their native habitats. A lot of the English who have chosen to settle permanently in this part of France have not spent the vast majority of their working lives in the UK, and have therefore found it difficult to adjust to the reality of settling back in their homeland on a full-time basis. The appalling English weather gets to them, as does the way the ‘old country’ has changed so dramatically these last few decades. Those I meet who are just on holiday for a month or two seem to be in permanent party mode, hosting lunches, dinners and drinks parties to make the most of the abundant food and wine, not to mention the gorgeous weather. So this is why, within a week of arriving, I find myself in a nonstop rush of social engagements, lurching from one laden table to another, from drinks parties to four-hour lunches to suppers where we don’t even sit down to eat until well after 10 pm. All of this requires a tremendous amount of stamina because it involves quaffing copious quantities of wine and beer. Over three weeks I realise I haven’t had one night ‘in’ before midnight, and my waistline is rapidly starting to exceed the limits of even my most capacious jeans.
Jock’s oldest friends are the Barwicks. These are the people he visited every summer from New York until he ‘got the bug’ and bought a French cottage of his own. David and Margaret Barwick fled New Zealand in the 1950s and initially lived in the UK where David, a lawyer, joined the British Colonial Service (later renamed the more politically correct Department of Overseas Development), and took his family to various far-flung postings. Over a period of forty years they have lived and worked in outposts including Africa, the British Virgin Islands (where David was the Governor) and the Caymans (where he was Attorney General). On retirement the Barwicks originally planned to spend half the year in the Caymans and half in France, but have ended up as full-time residents of the Lot, living in a sympathetically restored farmhouse and barn. They have one of the best gardens around—indeed to my delight I learn that Margaret is a semi-retired garden designer. During her long career, apart from planning and establishing two botanical gardens in the tropics where they were posted, she spent several years recently writing the definitive book on tropical trees. Their garden is very untypical of rural France. It has deep beds and borders spilling over with glorious roses, fragrant perennials, and gaily flowering annuals crammed into every nook and cranny. There are sweeping lawns and climbing roses and clematis that have been allowed to shoot up into trees and over archways in flowering profusion. Margaret and David are also both keen artists and the garden reflects their understanding of colour and texture in planting combinations. There are splashes of brilliant scarlet among beds of yellows and oranges, and areas where the cooler purples and blues predominate. Margaret constantly runs the garden down, saying it is totally unplanned and full of clashing colours, but to my eye it is a gem hidden behind high walls and wrought iron gates. By contrast, the farmers’ gardens are just trees and lawn with the odd climbing rose and potted geranium, so finding a complex English country-style garden is quite a thrill.
Like most people who retire to the Lot the Barwicks love to eat and drink and socialise and are therefore, in my view, very easy people to fall in with. They certainly work hard in the garden during the day, but love to ease off in the late afternoon for casual drinks or dinners at a colourful table set out on the lawn just near the kitchen door. In their retirement they have also become dedicated vegetable gardeners, with a large potager in the French style that is overburdened with produce at the height of the season. We feast regularly from their garden, harvesting tomatoes and lettuce, beans, beetroot, sweet corn, carrots, eggplants and capsicums. It’s almost TOO much—in fact they tell me that the family motto is ‘Only Too Much is Enough’, which suits my hedonistic holiday tendencies. Their farmhouse is called Les Mespoules and it is nestled in a hamlet of farms just a short walk from St Caprais. Any time I drop by, except perhaps first thing in the morning, the bar is open.
The Barwicks’ older daughter Jan also lives in the region. She is blonde, beautiful and married to a landscape gardener called Philippe, who is one of the few people I can struggle to practise my very bad French on. Philippe has a thriving business looking after the gardens of both locals and part-time holiday residents and he has a wonderful way of working with the rough-hewn stone, constructing impressive drystone walls and even recreating a broken down shepherd’s hut, which has become a major feature in one of his client’s gardens. Philippe experiences totally different gardening problems to those I am accustomed to dealing with in Australia, and I love listening to him talk about his daily landscaping trials and tribulations. Moles are a major nuisance, especially on formal lawns or areas that have been smoothed over for croquet or boules. The nurseries sell a repellent with a cute picture of a mole on the package, that is inserted into mole hills and apparently makes them want to leave town in a big hurry; Philippe also uses some vicious-looking traps that fire a metal bullet into the mole’s skull as it burrows gaily along, unaware of impending disaster. Deer that nibble and ringbark young trees are also a problem, and many new plantings require elaborate tree guards during the first few years of their life. The deer adore the sweet young bark, and can destroy an entire garden planting in just a few hours. Many of the gardens are open, without any form of fencing, and there is always the risk of cattle getting in, or worse still, wild boars, which can turn a manicured lawn upside-down in a matter of minutes. Because a lack of water has never been a critical problem, mulching hasn’t really caught on yet in French gardening, so I enjoy giving Philippe some background information about all the mulching methods that we use so extensively in Australian gardens. Within a few weeks of my arrival he starts experimenting with mulch, and certainly finds it boosts plant growth and helps to keep the weeds down.
Philippe is often helped with his landscaping work by Jan who has come to love gardening and, being a clever, artistic type, has developed a great natural skill for putting plants together sympathetically in beds and borders. Her use of colour in both flowers and foliage adds greatly to the charm of many local gardens which Philippe constructs and maintains, mostly for expatriats who prefer English-style landscapes with their deep flower beds and borders. I find Jan and Philippe to be great fun, and we spend a lot of time together exploring some of the local tourist attractions and joining in village feasts and celebrations.
One afternoon, while Jan’s younger sister Miranda and brother-in-law Tim are visiting from America, we set out to explore the amazing underground river system known as Gouffre de Padirac, which is located over the border into the Dordogne. Gouffre, which means ‘hole’, refers to the incredible gaping entrance to this maze of river caves which is thirty metres in diameter. In ancient times the darkly mysterious hole, which is nearly one hundred metres deep and seems to have been created by some huge volcanic explosion, was believed to be the entrance to hell. This explains why it wasn’t explored and revealed to the public until relatively recently—the late nineteenth century, in fact.
We descend by lift and stairs to the base of the chasm, and despite the fact that it’s nearly forty degrees outside, once in the caves we need to rug up with warm jackets—inside, it’s a constant thirteen degrees all year round. Romantic shallow timber boats, manned by gondoliers dressed in period costume, take us winding through a section of the caves, giving a humorous commentary which Jan cheerfully translates for our benefit. There are more than twenty-two miles of caves in the system, but the ninety-minute tour takes us to just a few of them. The lighting that has been set up to highlight the most dramatic and cavernous limestone formations is very dated, with ugly wires strung from one glaring bulb to another; it was obviously established many decades ago and has never been improved
. I wonder how it must have been for those early explorers brave enough to enter the depths of this river system, seeing it all for the first time by candlelight. It’s a most extraordinary place, and very popular with tourists in the height of the season. We are fortunate to have visited before the school holidays, when apparently it’s not uncommon to queue for several hours just to get in. The boatmen are the sons and grandsons of the first boatmen to take tourists through the cool depths of the Padirac river system, and the rights to man the boats (and collect the huge tips) are passed along from father to son; it’s a highly prized profession. Our boatman seems to think it’s amusing to rock the small vessel violently while we are negotiating some narrow but deep passageways, which doesn’t please Miranda, who finds the entire experience quite claustrophobic. We are more than happy to find our feet back firmly on rock, and clamber quickly up to the brilliant light and warmth of the summer afternoon.
I find it refreshing to come in contact with people who know absolutely nothing about me or my background. The people of Jock’s social set have no idea where I fit into the world. They have no concept of my parents, my husband, my children, my home or my work. We so often categorise people according to the trappings of their life, making judgments based on preconceived notions of where they fit into the social scheme of things. Here I am simply an anonymous woman from the other side of the world. Unattached, without any baggage, I have no status. In a sense it is like being a teenager from a small country town who longs to escape to the big city where nobody knows who they are. No nosy neighbours or friends of the family to report back on any misdeeds or misadventures. It’s such a novel sensation being an unknown quantity after five decades of being my father’s daughter in the world of journalism; my husband’s wife in the film industry; my children’s mother in the local school community; the gardener’s friend in the world of television lifestyle shows. Here I am just me. It’s wonderful.
