Other than in Paris—where I suppose if you want to stay somewhere really nice, you just have to put up for paying correspondingly for it—we really lucked out on our rentals for the trip. We’ve determined from this experience that we prefer comfortable country living, with dark night skies, and quiet if any neighbours.

Living in small villages does mean limited privacy: you quickly get to know (by sight anyway) your neighbours on the street, what their daily patterns are, what music they listen to, and even what topics they discuss at the dinner table. In Nézignan, Gaston got in touch with his inner nosy Parker. He’s worse than madame next door. He would perch himself at the table by the window on the second floor and every time there was noise or movement on the street, he would stick his head out and find out what was going on: “Ah, madame’s domestic aid has arrived precisely on time this morning: I wonder what radio station she will be listening to this afternoon?”; “Madame down the street with the baby has just stepped out for her third smoke this morning: she doesn’t look happy today;” “Monsieur across the way slept in this morning: did you hear his big yawn? Oh, and there, you can see him through his second floor window in his PJs, scratching his belly;” “Monsieur, husband of madame with the baby, is out walking their pug. He went to the bakery and is bringing back today’s pain.” For more details on our Nézignan neighbours’ lives and habits, please contact Gaston directly.

Villages also mean church bells. Now, that sounds like it should be a charming and desirable thing to have where you’re vacationing. Well, in Nézignan, the bell would ring each hour twice: once on the hour, and then after a 30-second pause, again—just in case you had missed the dissonate, high-decibel, cracked-bell series of kuh-LANGs the first time round. Fortunately the dead of night also corresponds to the small-numbered hours, so the overall number of kuh-LANGS while you are trying to sleep in the bedroom at the very stuffy back of the 500-year-old, formerly part of the local St-John’s hospice, townhouse that continuously sheds stone dandruff from its walls and ceilings is less than during the day.

The apartment we rented in Paris partly shared a courtyard with a chapel, but they rang the bells only for service on Sunday morning, at a reasonable hour. Gaston who was determinedly sleeping in that day didn’t even hear them. However, the other courtyard that the apartment overlooked was also overlooked by tenants who had a big, noisy party on the Tuesday night/Wednesday A.M., and a dinner party above that part of the apartment on the Monday night. (Dinner starts at 9 A.M. at the earliest in Paris, so this event went on ‘til the wee hours.) That courtyard was also undergoing repairs to its ancient stucco as a result of wet damage, so at 7:30 every weekday morning, the clattering and pounding began. Fortunately, our bedroom, with its mattress that had never been flipped and that had been peed on by previous renters once too often was overlooking the chapel courtyard, so we had sleeping arrangement options: the folded up futon in the living room was far more comfortable, and I usually camped out there at some point during the night—unless the noise quotient was too high.

 

From October 2009

Gaston and I have had further, positive revelations on the question of la nourriture: French public markets. Les marchés are nothing like Granville Island’s sanitized vegetable warehouse outlet. Here, local or at least regional producers selling their specialties of the season predominate.

Our first market was on a rainy day in Gourdagues. It didn’t really prepare us, as there were only maybe eight vendors, and we were still leery of unidentifiable animal bits stuffed inside retained bowels and of course the overwhelming question of cheese (i.e., where to start?). Then, a few days later we visited Uzès during their mega Saturday market: the usual food suspects × 20, produce, wines of the region and spirits made by little old monks and nuns, honey, jam, candy, crafts, toys, clothing (made in N. Africa or SE Asia), carpets, tableware and bedroom linen, fabric, notions, lotions and potions. There was so much market we couldn’t see the town’s bastide at all. I’m told Uzès is a jewel of a town, but who could tell? There were so many people, we country colts just whinnied and shied away, thinking, “What’s so great about these French marchés anyway?”

Uzes marché

Then we encountered the Monday market at Mirepoix: enough vendors and purveyors to keep it interesting and varied; not so crazy you have to keep your hand on your wallet.

That’s when Gaston and I discovered that would never survive as trout in a fishing stream: give us a nibble and you’ve hooked us. Some stinky goat cheese made high in the Pyrenees: hmm, yum—nous voudrions 250 milligrams, svp. Oh, you must try the same thing made with cow’s milk—much milder. D’accord, some of that, too.

saucissons, Mirepoix marché Some saucisson made with herbes de provence? Oh, also try this, avec cèpes (a mushroom), and oh, this, avec tomates secs: and before you know it, we’re proud parents of a lumpy ring that looks uncomfortably like a third of a metre of stuffed intestine. Mm-mmm. And that’s the one we bring home.

Today, with me translating between him and the vender at the market in Bessans, Gaston bought some green olives in fresh minced and whole garlic, some new kalamatas, and a couple of big fistfuls of green olives pickled with pimentos. This was after he sampled all of the eight varieties on offer, so obviously he was exercising restraint.

marché
The nice thing about mid-size markets (50–100 vendors) is that it’s big enough to have all the good stuff from miles around, but neither are you so busy keeping track of each other that you miss the local characters.

Now we’re on our way to becoming market junkies. When we come into a strange village/town on market day, with no idea where to find the goods, now we know to look for and follow the people with empty baskets and to go against the flow through the streets of people with full baskets. It’s a sure way to find market-central anywhere.

It’s just possible that if you planned your week around visiting the larger food markets in a region, you could just maybe get away without buying any groceries for the week. But what’s the fun in that?

Besides, how could you possibly pass up bringing home enough seductively-scented paella, scooped fresh from the cooking pot, for lunch? Or maybe you should have the couscous with sauce instead? Or the bouillabaisse, loaded with fresh seafood from Perpignan. And then, for supper, the roast farm chicken, with roasted potatoes and green peppers, with a nice green salad on the side for your own sausage-making mechanism.

Bon appetit,

montsegur pog, France, by SMair

Montségur fortress sits atop the mountain pog. It’s a steep climb up to see the remains.

When you greet people here in the deep south of France, they reply to your “Bonjour” with what sounds like “Bonjeu.” Good game. Not the Sorbonne-approved elocution Mme Abdel-Kadar required of me and my classmates those many years ago, but an appropriate greeting to a person on vacation.

We’ve been seeing a fair amount of bilingual signage lately: The regular French, and also the Occitan equivalent. For instance, in Belloc, a village near our country rental, the blue sign at the turn to the Mairie says rue de l’Occitane; the red sign right below says roux de l’Occitanie. The name Belloc is also Occitan; in French—and apparently 700 years ago after the French overran the region—it was Beaulieu. In fact, any village name you encounter in the south that ends in oc or ac or ec has Occitan origins. Including Lautrec or Salazac…

The word for peak—as in mountain peak—is the delightful sounding pog.

A few days ago, Gaston and I slogged up the pog at Montségur (translation: Mount Secure) to look at what’s left of the fortress. Not much: the lower bit of the original keep, some walls where the medieval village had clung to the slope, and the curtain walls (called pregnant walls in French: murs enceinte—which rerouted my translating neurons to “retaining walls” for a number of days, for the obvious symptom connection. Pregnant pause… okay, never mind.). Hard to believe 600 people lived there—even if there had been multiple floors on which to stack them all.

view from Montsegur, France

The Cathars would have seen French troops approach from miles away.

And a long way to go for fresh water.

But the view is spectacular: they would have seen those Catholic hordes coming from miles up the valleys around.

On the way down (“Bonjour,” “Bonjour;” “Bonjeu;” “Bonjeu”), we passed the tortured faces going uphill of all those French people who supposedly never formally exercise, doing their patrimoinic duty.

The site is close to the pilgrim way through the south to Santiago di Compostela, and is something of a pilgrim site in its own right. The last Cathar fortress to stand against the Catholic and French hordes, it withstood a months-long siege by some 10,000 troops. In March 1244, the Cathars surrendered. Approximately 220 were burned en masse in a bonfire at the foot of the peak when they refused to renounce their faith.

Approaching the fortress of Montsegur, France

The forbidding final approach to the fortress.

La Roque-sur-CezeWe’ve found the prettiest village in France. Officially, it’s only one of the prettiest this year and only for the past six years.

At the top of the hill is a real medieval chateau in which lives a real (presumably French, as they don’t like to sell significant symbols of their patrimony) family. I don’t know if they are of the same line of seigneurs de la Roque-sur-Cèze as the one who lived there in the 12th century, and set off to rescue the princess of Verfeuille (another picturesque walled town, about 15 minutes away driving) when he heard she was abducted.

He was successful, by the way, but on the return to the-Rock-on-the-Cèze-River (and why he was bringing her there, when he should have been bringing her home to the bosom of her loving family is a question only modern cynics would ask), she fainted at the chapel of Saint Sauveur. He awoke her with a kiss (the panacea for all damsels in distress at the time…. Or maybe it was the “kiss” that was the problem) and asked her to marry him. I’m sure that made her feel much better.

St-Sauveur Chapel

St-Sauveur Chapel, above St-Gély

Because of this legend, the chapel has a reputation of bringing happy-ever-after to all lovers. The chapel hill is also where the monument to lost and deported victims of WWII stands, so some of the ecclesiastic ruins display graffiti from those who fought in the war.

WWII memorial, St-GelyHope and grief, on one hilltop.

 

La Roque-sur-Cèze is one river valley and one hill away from the chapel. Judging from the names on the post boxes, the former-seigneur’s village owns its recent renaissance to an infestation of Brits. Brits with loads of moulah. Even the streets are cobbled. Ce n’est pas typique.

For instance, in another picturesque bastide (medieval walled fortress town) on a hilltop across the Cèze valley in the other direction (west) from St-Gély, Cornillon has asphalted over the cobblestones of its twisty, windy, narrow streets. I can only presume this is why the last time it was officially named “one of the prettiest villages in France” was in 2006.

It’s so darn picturesque here. Medieval buildings, “perched” villages, cafes with awnings and abrupt waiters perfunctorily serving you café ou vin (but who also remember exactly what you ordered the first time in when you wander in again two days later), and field upon field of vines.

St-Dominique sign Fanjeaux

Saint Dominque habita ici de 1206 a 1215

Carved into the wall beside the front door of Fanjeaux’s abbey is the announcement: St-Dominique habita ici de 1206 à 1215. Dominic (or Domenge, if you prefer the Occitan language) came to tour the region at the behest of the pope, bringing his warm and personal touch to interrogating and torturing Cathar heretics as part of the Inquisition—initiated when the military end of the Albigensian Crusade seemed to French king and RC pope to be taking too long. With the good saint’s assistance, the process quickened significantly, and the Cathars disappeared: through a combination of being forcefully converted to Rome-approved doctrine, slaughtered, burned alive at the stake, or made to take part in other block-party events arranged specially for them.

Ah, yes, the good ol’ days, when personal belief and expression were mandated by politics. (Oh, wait, that’s today, too!)

Walking up the rue du Chateau, in Foix, France

Walking up the rue du Château, Foix, France

Historically significant persons are frequently commemorated this way in France. Small signs may appear on the corners of buildings in Paris, alerting those who stop and read that such-and-such a member of the Resistance was shot by German authorities in the vicinity, or that some painterly bon vivant or other starved in the garrett there, or that a particular literary sage wrote his first poems/essays/novel at the corner table in that cafe.

Contrast those announcements with the plaque on a house on Foix’s rue du Château: Ici, Gaston Fébus n’habitait pas. Gaston Fébus did not live here.

Instead, Gaston Phoebus—or more to the point—Gaston the FABULOUS!, comte of Foix and Béarn, lived for a short time up the hill in the chateau—a curious, imposing, three-towered pile of stone looming over the town.

Foix chateau looms

It would have been difficult to escape the feeling of being watched in the town of Foix when the chateau was occupied.

The old boy had quite an opinion of himself, fancied himself a poet and musician, as well as God’s gift in the physical looks department. Think Hank VIII with fewer wives. In keeping with the commemoration theme, one would think good ol’ Gasser would have personally placed a commemorative plaque on the exterior wall of his own chateau, at the very least. But, as with so many people who have to resort to PR personnel and marketing specialists to convince the world of their superior personal qualities (something St-Dominic didn’t bother with, but then he had all of Rome, a couple of armies and – oh, yes – a few burning stakes behind him to convince the populace of his charms), Mr. FABULOUS! was a tad insecure. He may not have had Hank VIII’s marital problems, but he did have his own share of family issues. These, he resolved as Henry would do 150 years later—simply by doing away with them: brothers, sons, etc. (Alas, my love, you do me wrong…)

Mr FABULOUS! and his surviving relatives decamped from Foix, part of the kingdom of France since the Albigensian crusade, to Béarn, then still an independent state, to pretend they too were still independent of the various French kings Louis. His fancy castle on the hill became a prison at about the time of the French Revolution. This is why the buildings and towers survived, with new wall decorations in the form of graffiti, and stylish grillwork over the windows to keep the burglars out—or in, as the case may be.

Antique window grills to keep prisoners in, Foix chateau, France

The castle became a prison after the French Revolution. Security was a problem even then.

We’ve had a few busy days exploring the Ariège/Hers region. We’ve climbed many, many spiral staircases up towers—always corkscrewing to the right: apparently built that way to disadvantage attackers, who most likely would be right handed and therefore unable to maneuver swords effectively around the tight bends—slipped up and down rain-slicked cobble streets, gazed out at rolling, wooded foothills, and eaten both good and not-so-good meals.

 

Upon waking at la Maison des roses on our first day in St-Gély, about 20 minutes west of Bagnols-sur-Cèze in the south of France, we were up with the roosters. Before the roosters. And at about 9:00 A.M., right when the village was stirring, Gaston announced he was in need of a nap: jet lag was taking its toll.

view-of-st-gely

St-Gély on the valley bottom at the left; Corneillon on the hilltop to the right

Two hours later, he was awake and ready to walk the three kilometres through wood and vale into Gourdagues for groceries. But—ah!— it was Sunday: We managed to catch the bakery just before it closed, but were too late for the supermarket. Half the week had passed before we amassed ingredients for a green salad.

As Mrs. Plaskett said to Helen Sawyer Hogg on the subject of incessant afternoon-tea engagements in Victoria in the 1920s and 1930s: “It has quite simply ruined my digestion.”

France pretty much shuts down at noon on Sundays. This is, of course, the case any day of the week. At midi, which lasts from noon until 2:00 P.M. at least, the only creatures that stir in the country’s towns and villages are cats, lizards, and visitors such as ourselves who haven’t figured out the French daily rhythm. And, on Sundays in deep France, you often don’t even have the post-siesta opening hours to look forward to.

However, after about a week of getting it wrong, in Fanjeaux, a village perched on the north edge of the Sault plateau about 20 minutes from Mirepoix, we found a wee salon du thé serving through the prolonged lunch hour. It opened its doors across from the back door to the Dominican abbey.

view-from-fanjeaux
Defenders of the faith at Fanjeaux’s Dominican abbey would have literally overseen miles of countryside.
The church and abbey themselves were firmly closed until 3:00 P.M.; Fanjeaux is a pilgrim town, being not only one of the way stops along the route through France to the via Compostela but home also briefly to Saint-Dominic. Church and abbey offer the faithful hope for refreshment on Sunday afternoons.

When we met up with Jason, whom Gaston had hired at Kananaskis Country 15 to 20 years ago, for supper on our one evening in Paris, he warned us about French mealtimes and their implications on the rest of one’s life if one does not abide with traditional working hours. He’s been in Paris for a few years now, working with producers and musicians there, as well as producing his own tunes in his studio, and he said it took him many, many many months to parse out the few cafes—mostly ethnic—in his faubourg, Montmartre, that remain open during the afternoon’s dark hours.

“I had to. Sometimes I don’t get out of the studio until 3:00 or 3:30, and after working for seven or eight hours straight, I can’t wait until 7:00 P.M.” Like many Parisians, Jason doesn’t cook much at home.

Not that any self-respecting restaurant in France would be ready to serve a guest at 7:00 P.M. Sure you can go in (with a reservation, bien sûr) and have a leisurely aperitif or two, but the staff are going to be bustling around you preparing for the evening for at least another half hour. It unlikely they’ll ask you for your order much before eight. But then, in France, they don’t rush you at the end of the meal by presenting the bill until you ask for it.

Since the early days in our vacation, we have adapted to local rhythms. Gaston now gets up in time to walk down to the bakery in our current village for croissants au beurre still warm from the oven. The neighbour’s dog, which greets him noisily and annoyingly on his return gets me up. We’re up and out the door for the morning’s adventures by 10:00 A.M., which is the earliest you can expect anything to be open around here. We’ve had a number of al fresco picnics on the side of the road while traveling from point A to point B. We consider that clever and efficient use of the extended noon-hour, which shows how un-French we are.

However, by the time the French lunch time is over and everything is once again open (by 3:00-ish, if you’re thinking commercial establishments), my lunch-time blood sugar levels start to dive. That, combined with the heat at the hottest part of the day and the searing sunshine and the day’s increased traffic on the roads, makes for clenched, knotted jaws and headaches for one, perhaps both, of us. Not completely adjusted, in other words. And the latest we’ve managed to eat supper at home is 7:00 P.M.