Life and Love in the Languedoc

It’s so hard to write with a keyboard glued down with orange juice. Yes, yet another expensive electronic device fell prey to a sticky substance, this time no fault of my own. We are taking an afternoon break while T plays in his inflatable pool which in fact holds less water than a tub. But there is no tub here and he missed his daily water play, so we invested four euro and took bets on how long before he pierced it with a plastic soldier.

Last night held only the second rain in our month here. Both deluges were conveniently at night with accompanying bolts of fantastic lightening and rolling thunder. This sent T hurtling into our bed that barely fits two adults and a fat cat. But the Southern France sun returned today with a lovely breeze, and cleaning up the courtyard after the storm was more pleasant than in the stick hot sun.

We are here for many reasons, primarily to escape the personal pain of the failed US economy that resulted in a layoff, but also to participate in an extraordinary undertaking. A remarkable man from Saratoga ( really only his current stop-off) and his cohorts have formed a company that formed a subsidiary to long-term lease an ancient compound in the shadow of a more ancient chateau in the Languedoc region of France. To make the restoration of the ferme (farm) come off, tiny shares of the vineyard’s production is sold off in three year micro leases, along with travel and lodging privileges and your own label on the wine. There’s still much to do at the ferme, incuding complete renovation of some of the buildings into lodgings and a cooking school with chef Paul Parker. But now there are two bedrooms and two baths in various states of renovation, and a sitting room and dining room/kitchen. The views are stunning out over the vineyards and village below, and the location prime for visiting everywhere from the Camargue to Spain. It’s a rustic, remote spot for our five year old though, and I’m on constant scorpion patrol both inside and out.

It’s hard not to go into a town in the south and encounter some sort of celebration in progress or imminent, if you only get off the main route and roll down the windows to let out some air conditioning and listen for music. We have gone into Lunel for a market (which didn’t happen) and wound up at the big cultural festival in the arena, free to all. The women paraded in traditional dress, the white horses pranced smartly. But when we thought they were only going to chase the bull around the ring and back into its chute, the rider on horseback caught the black beast with an audible click of his pole and blood flowed. That was enough for T and me, and although we truly don’t know how it ended, T was assured that the toro was patched up in the vet’s.

Another time we went to Lunel for a film, hoping for a showing in its original English. In an effort to cut costs, only Dad accompanied T into the cinema and I wandered about looking for a bar to sit and read for the two hours. I found nothing open anywhere, although I schlepped around the city center for half an hour. Truly at odds with myself, I stopped by a payphone to call back to the States. While talking there suddenly came from behind me a trumpet blast and flashing colored lights. People began streaming by me in the direction of the event, and when I got there I found the whole town swaying and jiving to Jamaican sounds! The older crowd lined the benches on the sidelines while parents, teens and babies boogied in front of the marvelous, professional band. The cafés along the square were bustling with concertgoers and I had a glass of local wine for under two Euros and a great view of the spectacle. I rejoined my guys smiling and laughing because I almost wrote the sleepy town off.

In Sete, we stopped on our way back from Spain to see the seaside town and have dinner before driving home. We walked along the quais, crossed the canal and looked for a likely spot for a good meal. We chose a busy seafood place selling huge portions of shellfish on tiered platters and sat near the sidewalk. Before long horns were heard and a marching band approached us. We had noticed grandstands set up along the canal, but had no idea what they were for. Soon, along came the marchers in their smart blue-and-white-striped jerseys following the band, so carrying long poles of red and blue. A second band heralded a serious-looking lot of older folks wearing ribbons and dressed in white. It was a short procession but quite festive. After a dinner debacle (most of it never came, what did was awful) we headed toward the cheers along the quayside. An amazing site to behold: a sort of waterborne joust as a red boat and a blue, of strange design and bearing rowers and a precariously perched champion standing aloft approached each other with the champions intent on dethroning his opponent into the canal! They carried crested shields and the long poles of the parade and did indeed send their rivals into the not-so-clean looking drink. A motorized wooden boat swept the disgraced fellow up. Great fun to watch, and again an accidental surprise that rewarded us for getting off the autoroute.

August

We are here nearly a month now, and have completed various construction projects with more to go. We have been mostly on our own, but other stakeholders will soon arrive during this time of national vacation. The library and the bakery are closed, en congé, and while neither is in Montaud we have come to rely on them. No one will be coming to fix the internet connection which has yet to work. We drive half an hour to a McDonald’s parking lot to sit in the car and use their internet. Sometimes we buy their ice creams to keep T happy. The playground had an unfortunate fire or else the set up would be nearly perfect. So August in France means traffic in the South with camper vans from all over Europe clogging the roads, and virtually no decent restaurants open in Paris. Save your money, take the kids out of school, and come in September during rentreé when everyone is excited to get back to school and work, kissing the bises on the street and inviting each other for aperitif to catch up.

Our travels took us to Carcassonne, intentionally during July, and while it was quite busy it was not overwhelmingly packed. We were able to get tickets to the Chevalier joust and to the chateau, and the boys walked the ramparts of this amazingly restored medieval city. A World Heritage Site, Carcassonne is still inhabited and alive with artisans, merchants and hotels within its walls. The ancient Cité easily takes two or three days to fully explore (Seal was in concert there while we visited) and the lower town also holds some interest. Carcassonne is home to spectacular July 14 fireworks displays. When you come into town from the North at night (we took a side trip to Andorra) you round a bend and the walled city pops into view fully lit and presiding over the valley. It’s an astounding sight (of course in its day this was impossible except by torchlight), but it takes my breath away.

Don’t miss the nearby Abbaye de Fontfroide, one of my favorite sites in France. It’s a peaceful, remarkable place with one of the prettiest cloisters anywhere, and a fine place to picnic, hike, buy local wine and contemplate the stillness in the amazing rose garden. The obligatory tours are in French but there are multilanguage headsets. Fontfroide is a perfect place to learn about the Cathars and their mark on French and European history.