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| Un Suffisance de Baggage |
You can tell when you’re down south – the D-roads
are narrower and there’s no centre line any more. But there’s plenty of sunshine
and fresh air, and the eau de fag has
been replaced by the earthy smell of eau
de poo (of the bovine kind) and the fragrance of freshly-cut hay. Along the
verges there are still some heads of cow parsley, determinedly thrusting
upwards in defiance of the farmers slashing them to the ground in late spring.
Here and there a few poppies still bloom, but it’s a bit late for them. Across
the patchwork of green, golden yellow and brown fields, the towering peaks of
the Pyrenees rear up, some still with
the remains of their white mantles of snow clinging to their tips. The corn is
just reaching knee-height, while every now and again yellow saucers pop up in a
sea of green. Another week and the fields of sunflowers will be bright yellow …
The wheat is almost ready to harvest; you can see the breeze ruffle its
surface, leaving the heads nodding gently as if in agreement. In the distance
raptors wheel and float, taking advantage of the warm updraughts, while
scanning the fields for an easy prey. In the villages, despite the closed shutters and
the slight look of abandonment, tall hollyhocks bloom profusely in the most
inhospitable places, making a mockery of my futile efforts to grow them in my
perennial border, while carefully tended plots of vegetables show an early
promise of a bountiful harvest.
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| Déja Vu dans le Salon |
It’s here at Camon where this adventure started
twelve months ago, where, sitting after dinner in the 18th century
salon and feeling rather mellow, we hit upon the idea of travelling en famille one more time. And what a
pleasure it has been – to sit and have dinner together each night is such a
precious luxury. And for us to share some of the things we love about Camon - A visit to the weekly market at Mirepoix, where
everything imaginable is offered for sale. The rumpled looking leather worker
with the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth who makes belts to
measure on the spot, while next door a wiry cutler bicycles away furiously on his wooden
grinder, the rhythmic thump of the pedals accompanying the whine of a knife on
the stone. And then there’s the most wonderful fragrances wafting through the
air – the smoked saucisson and air-dried hams, the ripe cheeses and the divine
flat peaches, and the sweet, sticky smell of huge, thick wheels of nougat,
spread out in a rainbow of pastel shades, bursting with fruit and nuts and sold
in huge wedges, wrapped carefully in waxed paper.
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| Le Bathroom des Parents |
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| Transfixed by Le World Cup |
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| Roquefixade |
There was also a visit to La Roquefixade, where
somehow we got tangled up in a serious bike race – with a few hair-raising
moments for the driver and some expletives from a couple of riders
…. But the
stress and the subsequent climb in the sticky heat were worth the view …
And finally a long march in the freezing cold,
pitch black caves to see the magical prehistoric paintings again.
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| James surveys the peak at Roquefixade |
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| Our Niche Goddess |
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| Château de Foix |
We never fail to be surprised by the treasures we
unearth, or the stories behind them – usually found quite by accident, and very
much enjoyed. In this case it was the Château des Fiches, one of life’s
pleasurable surprises. Not far from Camon, but off the beaten track, at the end
of a curving pot-holed drive, it was not clear that we had indeed arrived anywhere
but at a ruin. A small, quite plain two-storey building, desperately in need of
repair, with two small wings of indeterminate age stood before us. A door that
had seen better days opened on to a tiled hall, where a woman, who had perhaps
also seen better days, was waiting for custom. We were it. She turned out to be
part of the family, and took us on a wonderfully personal tour of first the
library, with its travelling commode shaped like a pile of books on a small
table and the earliest book dating from the early 1500’s; then the spacious
kitchen from the 1600’s, still with its original fireplace, complete with attachments
for the spit and a potager – a stove for making soup. And then upstairs via the
oak stairs to see the pièce de résistance
– a room with the most amazing painted ceiling we have ever seen. Picture a
vast room, with all but one of its windows shuttered, with dusty terracotta
tiles on the floor, stained plastered walls and a few decidedly shabby pieces
of furniture dotted forlornly about the room, and above, an almost mediaeval
ceiling made of many huge beams running across the room, with narrow spaces
between them. On every beam, beautifully painted, with almost perfect detail,
there was an unbelievable menagerie of all kinds of birds and beasts, with a
unicorn and some dragons adding a few touches of fantasy. They were all linked
together by rococco swirls and curlicues and interspersed by cartouches showing
everyday country scenes. There are no clues as to the provenance of the master
painter (and most likely an assistant), other than an over-sized snail that
appears in some of the cartouches and it seems that there are no other ceilings
in existence like this one. But what is even more amazing is that in the room
next door where the ceiling fell down, another ceiling has been revealed, this
time done in the style of Delft ceramics … and there are perhaps others in the
house waiting to be revealed, although sadly, due to lack of finances, they are
not likely to be found.
And so it’s back to Paris (because as we all know,
all roads lead to Paris – going cross-country here is not allowed), so we can
all go somewhere else … Katja to München, James and Estee to London and we will
explore the Île-de-France …
À bientôt,
Su
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