Au Revoir (9 page)

In the past the landscape here has been called harsh and even savage, possibly because of the wild and arid limestone plateaux known as causses. Here the natural vegetation is scarce and windswept, but although the soil is said to be poor I don't find the fields and vineyards reflecting a lack of richness. All around I see scrub oak and junipers, fields of corn, hillsides dotted with healthy-looking sheep and cattle. There are duck and geese farms in evidence outside most villages, and brilliant hopper bins of bright orange corncobs for fattening the animals for market.

During the sixth to fourth centuries BC, when it was known as Gaul, many regions of France were invaded by Celtic tribes. Cahors remains the largest town in the Lot and early records show that it was originally a settlement during these pre-Roman times, named after the Gaulish tribe Cadurcii. When I stop to wonder why I feel so at home in this foreign place, I consider this Celtic link. As a pure Celt of Irish, Welsh and Scottish extraction, I feel that my genes may somehow be shared with the descendants of the ancient tribespeople who ran like savages across this land when it was barely touched by human habitation. They were small and dark like the people of Wales, and the people here in the Lot look similar to them to this very day, with Roman blood mixed in of course. Maybe my connection to this place goes back far further than my connection to Australia. Or so I fantasise. With my red hair and pale, freckled complexion, however, I certainly look nothing like a local.

The period of history that is most fascinating is the twelfth century, when Eleanor of Aquitaine presided over her French
and English kingdoms from here, constantly travelling with her vast entourage in and around Quercy on her journeys. I manage to get hold of a recently published biography of Eleanor, just released in the UK, and pore over the details of this amazing woman's life. So many places that I am familiar with are mentioned in the book, including Cahors which was seized for Eleanor by her husband, the English King Henry, in 1159; Rocamadour, where she made a pilgrimage bearing rich gifts in the middle of the century; and nearby Puy-l'Evêque where in 1138, while still married to the French King Louis, she attended a religious festival. It almost makes me shiver to imagine how this place must have looked during her reign; this sense of continuity, this seamless link with history, appeals to my imagination so much. You could easily shoot a film about Eleanor in any one of a number of old towns and villages in this region, and they would appear very much as they did when she was alive. Just take down a few power poles and remove the odd satellite dish and you could be right there by her side. I often experience a strong feeling of this when I am exploring nearby towns and villages, especially midweek when the streets are so often bare of people and there are few cars around to ruin the mediaeval images I love to conjure in my mind's eye.

Even older are the Neolithic remains of human dwellings and religious sites that can be found in and around ordinary towns like Prayssac. Jock and I are taken on a guided tour of these by a lively American couple who make a living writing outrageously witty travel guides. Dana and Michael, who have made their home here, have studied the entire southwest of France in detail, and their knowledge of its history is undoubtedly more extensive than many of the locals, whose families have been living here for
generations. Following their car, we drive past a bland modern housing development on the outskirts of Prayssac to reach an amazing circuit of ancient structures known as dolmens, which resemble small versions of Stonehenge with massive platform rocks suspended on hefty uprights. In the same area is a circle of menhirs—huge rocks that have been thrust into the ground as upright pillars, also known to have had strong religious significance for the ancient people who lived here. There's a rock-carved niche, known as ‘Caesar's Armchair', and a most unusual gariotte, or stone shepherd's hut, with two chambers instead of the usual single shelter. We are astounded to think of these treasures just sitting here in the woodlands, unprotected and largely ignored. The fact that so few people seem to know about the dolmens and menhirs probably helps to preserve them, but I wonder if the people living in the rather plain modern houses just down the hillside are aware that their tract of land has such a rich and mysterious history.

As my interests lie so much in the survival skills and daily lifestyle of ordinary people, I am attracted to a guided tour of farms that is advertised at one of the tourism offices. Again I drag Jock along for the ride, which involves driving our own car and following a bilingual guide through the winding country lanes around Belvès, a hillside township about half an hour from St Caprais. The tour includes lunch at a ferme auberge, or farm restaurant, which serves food that is actually produced right there on the farm. Our tour begins with a detailed look at a tobacco farm; the tobacco industry was once the mainstay of the region but is now falling from favour because of the changing tastes of smokers. The dark-leafed heavy tobacco variety grown successfully for decades is now no longer desired because
smokers prefer the lighter and paler leaf varieties that simply don't do as well in the local soils and climates. As the farmer points out, growing tobacco is a tremendously labour intensive task, and one which also uses a lot of chemicals because the crops require frequent spraying against pests and diseases during the main growing season. Driving around the southwest, I often see empty tobacco-drying sheds—they are always taller than the local barns with timber-slatted sides that are opened, like louvres, to allow gentle breezes through while the crops are hanging to dry. Fields that were once used to grow tobacco have now been turned over to maize or wheat as farmers try to keep up with the changing pace of agriculture. In the morning we also briefly visit a goat cheese farm, where the friendly goats crowd around us and try eating our loose clothing and camera bag straps. The smell of goat urine is quite distinctive, and I always think it carries over into the cheese, which is why I prefer the more subtle flavour of sheep cheese.

Our lunch at the local ferme auberge is an eye-opener. All eight of us are invited into the family dining room after being given a brief tour of the farm and its buildings. I am totally besotted with the old but reliable bread oven in the barn, built of stone with a rounded back and chimney; it once baked crusty loaves for the entire hamlet, and now bakes fresh bread for the restaurant at least three times a week. Just about everything that passes our lips has been made on the farm. There's a strongly alcoholic aperitif made from plums, chicken soup with noodles and, of course, great chunks of fresh cooked bread. There are crudités from the garden and large portions of roasted duck—from the same family we have just seen shuffling around the poultry pen. The red wine is also made on the spot,
and is quite light and aromatic compared with some of the heavier Cahors-style wines. After the required five courses we are back on track to visit a goose and duck farm where the most famous delicacy is produced: foie gras. I am not actually looking forward to this part of the tour, having heard so many grim stories about the suffering of the poor birds. However the agony is minimised with just a short demonstration of force feeding—I feel certain that when it's done to a mass of birds the effects would be more distressing. The victim goose on show is quite cheerful as the tube is inserted into his gullet, but is incapable of getting back onto his webbed feet after the dose of corn has been pumped down his throat.

We are then taken through the whole production line, and fortunately there's no slaughtering during our visit. Still the smell of blood remains in the air, and when at the end of the tour we are offered a tray of foie gras, I can't participate, especially after having stuffed my face so heartily at lunchtime. The others, however, do not share my queasiness and tuck in as though they haven't eaten for a week.

I am constantly impressed by how uncomplicated the lives of the rural people seem to be. In many ways they are without the unnecessary trappings that we regard as essential. Their lives follow the seasons and the harvests and as a result their needs are very straightforward compared to those of people who live in the city. Even though they now have all the modern conveniences of electricity, phones, computers and email, a modern pace does not seem to impinge too much on the ritual of their daily lives. Lunch is probably the most important thing in their daily agenda. I can't help but admire this attitude.

J
OCK'S SMALL VILLAGE IS
typical of hundreds. Those buildings of St Caprais not empty and derelict are occupied mostly by farmers, both active and retired. The church, with its Romanesque apse raised in the fourteenth century, is externally austere yet reveals some faint but fascinating murals on the interior walls. There was gossip for some years that the murals would qualify the church to be classified as an historic monument, but they turned out to be not quite as old as the villagers had hoped. They are greatly treasured, regardless. There are drystone tiles, called lauzes, in the apse, also dating back more than seven hundred years. The bell is still rung twice a day—to call the farm workers in for lunch at 12.15 and again at sundown for dinner, which is well after 9 pm in the summer and as early as 4.45 pm in deepest winter. The ringing of the bell is the self-imposed undertaking of the village's most prominent farming wife, Madame Dalmas, whose husband Claude is a direct descendant of one of the oldest families in the area. The Dalmas family has been ringing the bell ever since
the full-time priest left, more than fifteen years ago.

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.