Au Revoir (8 page)

At first glance Jock's physical appearance is somewhat alarming. He's very tall with a large frame and a handsome thatch of silver grey hair, of which he is rightly proud. His face bears testimony to his passion for red wine and his reluctance to wear a hat during the long, hot summers of southwest France: to say he has a ruddy complexion is an understatement—it's brilliant scarlet. Jock's interests in life do not extend to being even vaguely concerned about his clothes or personal appearance. He's one of those blokes who prefer wellworn, comfortable gear; the only problem is that some of his clothes have been worn to death, with the fabric fraying at the cuffs and falling apart under the slightest stress. And there are many stresses. When Jock bends over it's not unusual to hear the ripping sound of fabric tearing apart. His pants are perilously suspended beneath his rounded belly, held up by a belt that is constantly in need of tightening. In winter, when he can wear a sweatshirt over his usual shirt, he dons braces and this means the trousers are less likely to take a nosedive.

‘I was born with no hips,' he laments at least twenty times a day while grappling to catch his strides before they drop to the floor. Sometimes, late in the evening, he isn't quite quick enough.

Jock's many female friends constantly chide him about the way he dresses. He sometimes doesn't get around to shaving for days at a time and he's been known to wear the same daggy clothes until they practically walk around on their own. I wonder to myself if he was dressed like this when he was a medical
reporter covering news stories in New York. I suspect so because he proudly tells me how, speaking at his seventieth birthday, our mutual friend Gil referred to him as ‘The King of Grunge'. He has a certain style about him. Jock style, like it or lump it. And I like it. Jock and I enjoy all the same things. He adores this part of France and doesn't for one second regret retiring here, in spite of the fact that his grasp of the language is still limited after seven years.

‘I keep thinking I've died and gone to heaven,' he exclaims as he proudly shows me around his patch of the woods.

I can't help but agree with him. We spend the first two weeks exploring the mediaeval villages and bastide (or fortified) towns that are the main feature of the Lot. We target villages where there are food markets or antique fairs, planning our evening meals (never less than four courses) and then buying the appropriate ingredients before repairing to a café or restaurant for beer followed by a long lunch. By three every afternoon I am ready to sleep off the food and drink for several hours before rising and starting again—I will need to detox if I keep this up. Jock is exceedingly generous both with his time and his wallet—he routinely insists on shouting me lunch and I regard his personalised insights into French life as a gift. I dub this high-spirited introduction to the region as ‘Jock's Tours of the Lot' and can't think of a better way to get established.

Jock and I once worked in the same newspaper building in Sydney in the early 1970s and although I remember his name and reputation clearly from those days, I feel certain that he barely remembers me. At that time I was a young reporter, just out of my cadetship and working on a trashy television magazine while he was a top-ranking showbusiness columnist. We often
rubbed shoulders at film premieres and television program launches, but never really mixed socially. Bumping along the leafy lanes on our sightseeing tours we reminisce nonstop and quickly discover a great many friends and colleagues in common. His anecdotes about his life and work are endless and hilarious, and I identify strongly with his attitude to life. Born in New Zealand in the wealthy country township of Wanganui, he started his career as a young newspaperman in the 1950s, then travelled to Sydney where he worked on various daily papers first as a reporter and sub editor, later as a showbusiness writer and columnist. The last sixteen years of his working life were in New York, where he was a columnist on a mass-circulation Murdoch magazine. He covered a wide range of topics, including health and medicine, and as a result is quite witty and knowledgeable on a vast array of subjects, from stomach ulcers to arthouse films. He loves good jazz music and poetry and antiquated television—I am forever catching him watching old reruns of ‘'Allo, 'Allo' and ‘Dr Who' on his satellite television.

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.

E
VEN 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 between 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.