the gauls

Maylise asked me if i knew what gauloise was, I said they were cigarettes, they are, but more properly, the ancestors of France, the gauls!! Oops. Anyway, she had been out with the hosts for the evening and had seen signs to a museum last night, on their way back from a concert (I had slept again, trying to shake off a cold) that looked as if it could be interesting. A replica gauloise village, it was pretty impressive, with smokehouse, carpenters, blacksmith, coinmaker, weaver, clothmaker, potter, bronze cast maker........... all in their low steeply pitched thatched barns, complete with sleeping quarters in each and most with live demonstrations which was excellent and completely in french. It is getting a little bit easier to understand. More reminders of Maori, the shapes of the buildings and their uses, though out of very different materials and a complete lack of metal down under, more stone though. Some interesting similarities and a fascinating visit.

watching

I have been watching them since i arrived, a several fields away. Every time i thought I would get the opportunity to go and see them something happened. We worked late, Pascale had some errand to run, the weather threatened rain, or there was just not enough time.

Still, they were there, not going anywhere, waiting till i got the chance to go and see them. We frequently went out in the car, to town, a concert, the market or to the mountains and I saw others in fields throughout the region and I got close, but that was in the car, always going somewhere, en route from one place to another, never for the purpose of a visit. Some that we passed were old and fading, heads facing the ground, disappointed that their time had passed. Others bright and new, rising up towards the sky, enjoying the sunshine and benefiting from the recent rains. There were plenty of them, I guess they like the climate here.

Finally, after nearly two weeks, i got the chance to stop and see them at close hand. It was Sunday, a day without work and Maylise had gone for an afternoon nap following an unusually large lunch with plenty of wine. Surprisingly for me I had plenty of energy, usually wine at lunchtime is more than enough encouragement to take a siesta. But not today. I took a bicycle and set off for an afternoon in the french countryside. Heading out and down the road, remembering to be on the correct side, more difficult on a bicycle than in a car, I took the route that I knew would take me passed their field. To the bottom of the valley, over a little bridge with a stream and turning right at the crossroads. About one hundred yards or so and there they were. I left the bicycle on the verge and went over to take a better look. They were magnificent, tall and proud. Amazingly all facing the same way, just as you see them in photographs, all in neat lines just as they had been sown. Some were taller than others, but on the whole, one huge, deep carpet of sunflowers. Vitalite. (for those of you that remember)

the sunflowers

up the mountains

Maylise and I took a trip into the mountains to look at old churches, I think that she quite likes them, and to get some mountain air. We managed to get plenty of both. I am fascinated by the old buildings, the architecture and the work that must have gone into construction would have been enormous, it’s just the religion bit that I don’t get. All that toil, effort and money spent on grand buildings for worship when people were living in squalor and poverty, barely managing to scrape by in their tiny cold and drafty houses. (I suppose not much has changed in some places through the years) I imagine how much better their lives could have been if all that effort had been spent on well being and enjoyment instead. Castles and forts are different in a way, they are more for protection and survival, though with less religion, there would probably have been less to fight about in the first place. Enough!!

The mountains were amazing, I always like mountains, the air and the views and the enormity of the landscape, but I was amazed in a different way this time. I was looking at the ground. They, whoever they are, always go on about the mountain pastures in summer and how diverse and colourful they are. I agree, and I have only seen one.

We walked up a steep valley, above the tree line, snow still lurking in the shaded areas, probably from an avalanche, judging by the amount of debris sticking out of it, along the line of a mountain stream until the going got too steep, then zig zagging up a narrow path through the lush green grass. Well, it looked green from a distance, but up close, there was much much more than green. And so many plants that I recognised from gardens back home. Blue geraniums, bugles, campanulas irises and violets. Yellow wallflowers, pink alpine dianthus, white astrantia........ , plenty of others that I have never seen before as well. So this is where they all come from, well, most of them I expect. Some have probably escaped from gardens and become naturalised over the years, but the rest have evolved on the slopes, covered by snow every winter and bursting into life each spring. Some covered the whole slope, others restricted to bands across the hillside, maybe to do with altitude, or sunshine or the soil beneath the dense vegetation, it didn’t matter, I just enjoyed being there ever so much more than I had expected to, even at the start of the climb.

We got far further than we had initially expected to get, the mountain hut by the car park a mere dot on the landscape below. As far as the sign that said 29km to the next town, I can’t remember the name, but it must have been in Spain and I knew that we weren’t going to go that much further. Just a little way, to the foot of a cascade, to enjoy the cool draught of moist air, brought down by the tumbling water, for a breather, a cool drink and a few minutes to take in the enormity of one small corner of our tiny planet. Wow.

Going down was much quicker. We feasted on wild blueberries and, later on, collected enough wild strawberries to take back to the house to go with dessert. Enough that is, to get that wonderful flavour and add colour to a bowl of creme frais, a little demerara sugar to provide some crunch, it finished off the meal rather well.

Pascale & Christian

A proper rustic, run down french farmhouse, complete with french people, just what I had been expecting. The building almost looked deserted from the outside, though many french houses do. Walls with bits falling off, old wooden shutters on rusty hinges, not a lick of paint for years. The garden, or, more aptly described, land around it had a neglected air about it too. Plenty of garden shrubs in no particular order, some scrubby grass with long stalks all over it, mounds of brambles, elder trees and long grass going to seed everywhere. The whole place looked a mess.

First impressions. My outlook has changed since I first arrived. There is plenty of method in the initial madness, and good reason for most of it, though it is still appears to me like a form of organised chaos.

Pascale and Christian have been here for several years and are slowly restoring another part of the farm to live in using traditional methods. They live in the main building, but as it is sound, have done very little to it as there is so much else to do.

They are also passionate about providing for themselves from the land and have a vast potager where they grow all their fruit and vegetables. Seeds are very expensive in France, so they collect some seed from everything that they grow for the following year and also extra to swap with others. That explains all the plants that have been left for far too long, just one or two, in strange places, I guess the end of a row at some stage. Huge towers of parsnip plants that have gone to seed, similar clumps of lettuce, carrots, parsley etc etc. All waiting in the sunshine until the seeds are ready to harvest. I spent several hours painstakingly clipping dry heads off brown stems and carefully putting them into trays ready for sorting and storing. They are also active in keeping rare and heritage vegetables going, government regulations here, and I guess throughout the EU are making it more and more costly to register varieties, and, if not registered, it is forbidden for the seed of those varieties to be sold. Thankfully there is an active seed exchange movement that helps to limit the demise of such old and treasured varieties.

The brambles have arrived to cover over piles of earth and subsoil that remain from excavations to dig a large pond and install rainwater storage tanks. The water is saved from the roofs for irrigation and the excess ends up in the pond. The subsoil is clay of a quality that is ideal for traditional building methods. Crushed, sieved and mixed with chalk and dry stalks from the long grass, it makes a durable plaster like substance and also a traditional mortar. Sieving the clay isn’t that much fun, but using the resultant product is interesting and gives great, rustic results. The brambles are just there for the berries and because there is too much else to do. As are the elders, the flowers are used in conserves and wine, as are the berries, and to make a mixture that is supposed to ward off colds and promote a healthy respiratory system. The wine cleared the cold I arrived with in a couple of days and the concentrated jam is taken every morning for breakfast, either in coffee or on bread.

Christian is another tomato fan. During the summer, when he has finished working, you can find him in the potager tending his pride and joy. He grows 100 heritage varieties every year, changing about twenty so that they can try something new and also to increase their seed collection. It has been great to learn so much more and, more enjoyably, to be here as the first fruit ripen and are ready to eat. Tomato salad almost every meal. Excellent.

My french has improved dramatically, although the enormity of completely understanding a second language is something I think I will just admire. Just when I think that I am getting to grips with a subject, it changes and I am at a complete loss again. A couple of days later most of the vocabulary that I had discovered has gone and been replaced with words that are no longer immediately required. I am sure that it is getting easier every day. Perhaps I will stay a while longer if my visa does not appear and at least get a decent accent going. That, I suppose, will depend on finding other french hosts, they are few and far between.

fireworks

Carcasonne

A must see destination on my itinerary. I had read a wonderful book during the depths of my despair a couple of years ago about a narrow boat that made its way from somewhere in the Midlands down to London, across the Channel and then through France to Carcassonne. I loved that book, i think that it gave me hope and I needed to visit whilst i was in the area. The main canal marina happened to be right outside the station, so i couldn’t really miss it. My plan was to dump my bags somewhere and scoot round the town for a couple of hours before continuing on to Toulouse for the night. No bag place, so i had to take everything with me. NOt too much bother apart from the fact that it was heading on 30 degrees and humid as hell. I sweated buckets and cursed my less than minimal luggage decisions, though not for long, make it a challenge, I told myself, something to rise against and overcome. It became easier after that. It was July 14th, the biggest national holiday in France and the place was packed. Narrow streets again, this time with thousands of people and stalls outside the shops, making the most of the holiday feeling. Sales everywhere, a reflection of the current economic climate, yet a fun and carefree atmosphere. I headed off in the wrong direction to the old town, checking after a while and having to turn back on myself. Once on the right track, decided that i should pop into the tourist information centre and grab myself a map. You know that the most famous firework display takes place this evening I was told. Over the castle, people come from all over france to see it. Decision made, i would stay here if i could get a room and see the spectacle.

A dorm room in an old convent, just outside the old city. Just what i wanted, and only £16 for the night, sheets were £3 extra but that was fine. I dumped my bags and went on an exploration of the old town. As with everywhere else, the crowds were amazing, the old town, within the ramparts were like a tube platform at rush hour, a mad crush everywhere. The town was great to see, though jammed with tourist shops and overpriced eateries. I did the rounds and escaped back down the hill into relative tranquility and more comfortable stroll, sans back pack. I had gathered that it would be prudent to get a decent spot to watch the fireworks fairly early on. People had started gathering in numbers when i came down the hill, so I had a bite to eat, purchased further provisions for later and made my way back to the river bank opposite the castle and found a near perfect spot. Perfect that was for the view, it was already rather busy and my place was on a steep, grassy bank under the shadow of the Pont Neuf and settled in. It was only half past four. I watched the hoards gathering on both sides of the river, children playing games and adults with their picnics and beers for a while. My Stephen King book of short stories came out and a couple of hours went by. My perfect spot was beginning to be on rather a steep angle, progressively more difficult to keep comfortable, but i had it now and wasn’t about to give it up. There was a rather lumpy rock to lean on that helped and the occasional couple of paragraphs standing up eased my aching seat. Folk kept arriving and most of the grass disappeared under their rugs and coats. I ate some more food and watched the pigeons for a while, gathering under the bridge then taking off and circling again for a while, I bet they were wondering what was going on, all these people disturbing their usual quiet evening.

Thankfully it was rather cloudy, else i would have fried, or shrivelled like a sun dried tomato, it was a lovely afternoon, turning into a very pleasant evening. The gathering continued to swell, more so now as it was beginning to get dark, more from the clouds than nightfall, but that came too, eventually. Kids started letting off little fireworks over on the far bank, creating a piss take of Oohs and Aahs from people around me, though I doubt they heard on the other side. The book came and went, short story after short story consumed, to pass the time as well as for enjoyment. It became dark and the lights went on, illuminating the bridges and the castle in an orange glow. That got more exclamations from the crowd and further people wound their way through the seated masses in search of a patch on which to sit. My extravagant patch continued to shrink until i could have leaned on my neighbours in any direction, I did keep space in front of me to stretch my legs and my bag tucked up by my side, provisions, book and camera ever handy. Voices of many nationalities ebbed and flowed about me in ever changing volumes, Italian, German, English and several other indistinguishables, all eager to catch the amazing spectacle that was soon to break loose. Fire ball poi swingers entertained across the water and tiny fireworks continued to be set off, crackers close by under the bridge giving everyone a start from time to time.

Then the illuminations dimmed and went out all together and a quiet descended on the crowd. A little later a slow hand clap indicated that they were beginning to get restless. THat worked and a single starburst lit the sky. Followed several seconds by another, then another leaving slow moving puffs of smoke to drift off across the night time sky. Then it really began, a volley of shots went out, barely visible tracers rocketed into the sky over the battlements and all at once the sky was filled with light, huge chrysanthemums of bright white light, arcing outwards and upwards in all directions, bathing the area in an eirie glow. The river worked a treat, doubling the effect with reflections from its glistening surface. This was going to be one hell of a show. Red followed white, then greens and blues. A constantly changing theme of starbursts for several minutes and then a bit of a lull. Multi coloured rings of light, like diagrams of the planets in orbit, great circles with stars and flowers inside, and then huge red lovehearts filling the sky. That really triggered some grand appreciation. Fans of buzzing and crackling spirals leapt from the ramparts, huge plumes of single and multicoloured explosions, green over red, then blue over white and just because it is France, red white and blue again and again and again. More high in the sky explosions big stars re-exploding into smaller stars, some screetching, others cracking like thunder, deafening out the Oohs and AAhs from all around. Simple columns of white, probably thirty in all, plain, then topped with red, changing to green, then orange and purple, then red and gold faster and faster, more and more intense and then it died. Right down to a red glow, as if the castle itself was on fire, it started on one tower then spread slowly, with smoke billowing, to the ramparts and to all the other towers right across the hill until the whole of the skyline was burning, or so it seemed. The red glow continued to glow and the smoke continued to billow for a good while, every thing was calm, the sky was still and the crowds were quiet, and it continued to glow. Probably for about five minutes, a good interlude, time to recover and prepare for the next visual onslaught. It eventually came. Cascades of silver, from the tops of the towers and along the ramparts, pouring down like rain, cold wet rain, extinguishing the glow like water would have done, returning the castle to stone. Then up into the sky again, more balls and stars, slowly to start with, then gathering pace, just like before, only different. Clever waves of light, moving from left to right across the sky then back again, in greens then blues then oranges and reds, constant or fading leaping and jumping, ever reflected in the river below. THe display built itself into a frenzy, larger and larger bursts of colour, layer upon layer of effects into the finale, first gold chrysanthemums lighting up the sky, dying in a rain of glittering particles, a few to start with then more and more, exploding and raining down until you couldn’t distinguish between them fading momentarily before being replaced with the brightest ever of silver stars, huge globes of lights, one on the left then one on the right, centre, left, right, fill in the gaps and repeat faster and faster, louder and louder until there didn’t seem to be any space left for more and with one last almighty explosion the whole thing came to an end.

The spectators went wild, whistling and clapping, shouting and cheering, then almost immediately began to disperse. Within ten minutes the grassy bank was clear of people, the rain began to fall and everyone headed home. I marvelled at the fact that i had patiently waited almost half a day for half an hour of visual heaven and even more so when i got to street level to see the roads filled in all directions with thousands and thousands of people. It had been worth it for me, and by the looks on their faces, i can confidently say for most of them too. I got myself a well deserved carton of Frites from a stall on the way back up the hill, only £2.50, a real bargain, they were delicious, let myself into the convent, upstairs to the dormatory with its parallel rows of beds, had a quick shower and slept quite soundly till the next morning.


Will add photos when I find a faster connection - been waiting an hour for them to arrive.................