Transcript of Tape-recorded Diary
PART 3 of 7
On Monday we visited the town of Luzech. We’d passed through here on our way to Duravel on Saturday and it looked interesting, but when we got there on Monday everything, literally everything, was closed. It seems the custom is that so many shops and towns are open for business on Sunday and that they have a closed day on Monday; and with no bustle of people Luzech didn’t seem so exciting after all. Then we were back to Prayssac - a town much closer to Duravel, closer to where we’re staying. It wasn’t busy either, but it seemed much more pleasant. Lots of flowers, both in hanging baskets and in street pots. We did some shopping at the supermarket, which was open, and then home for lunch.
The supermarkets we’ve visited haven’t been nearly as large as the ones at home, but pretty large nonetheless, and I suppose they’re built to serve the needs of the local community. They have what to us are two irritating features. Some of them - although not all - have this requirement that you weigh your own fruit and vegetables and seal the plastic bag with the barcoded sticker that comes out of the scales. So long as you know that this is the routine it’s not so bad. But pity help the stranger who arrives at the checkout with bags of greengroceries that haven’t been pre-priced. The other irritating feature is the scarcity of checkout operators. There always seem to be uncomfortably long queues. The operators sit at their desks - they don’t stand - and the operators do not fill the plastic bags. So, there’s always a scramble on the external side of the cashier while the customer is filling bags. If the customer has had a very large trolley-full of groceries there’s often a delay, with the next customer unable to be served while the bench beyond the cashier still has on it the goods of the previous customer. Bloody inefficient so far as we can see, and it’s clear that Australia has world’s best practice.
After lunch Anne and Gary off to visit and to stay overnight with the Gautiers, the friends of Judy and Wayne Russell. [Wayne was a pilot with Ansett, and during the troubles had been able to get work based at Toulouse. Not a happy time, but French provincial living was a great experience for the family.] The Gautiers live in a farming community - a small hamlet called Les Fihols which is off to the west about halfway between Montauban and Toulouse. [Actually, to the south-east of Duravel.] We’d rung Elysabeth the previous Friday from St.-Paulet-de-Caisson and made the arrangements, and there’d been an expectation that we were coming via Villemur-sur-Tarn the nearest big town, and we’d ring from there and get directions. In the event we travelled a different way and headed for the town of Le Born. We knew this name as the place where the Russell kids went to school when they stayed in France. All was fine up to there, but at Le Born we found that we had no signal for the mobile phone; and then when we tried the pay phone we just couldn’t get through. I found out later that even though we were ringing a number just a couple of kilometres distant, in rural France it’s necessary to put the zero in front of the eight-digit number. But there was a lady in the street, and we showed her our piece of paper with the Gautiers’ address on it - and she knew Elysabeth, and gave us directions.
At this stage we still didn’t realise that Les Fihols was a group of houses, a tiny village - thirty people in fact - and we’re looking for a property with this name on the gatepost. But, again, there was a lady in the street and when we mentioned Elysabeth’s name she knew who we were. Elysabeth had said that Judy’s brother and sister-in-law were coming to stay, and so with a big smile she just showed us through the gate - it was just the next house down - and we’d arrived.
The Gautiers live in a delightful house that was once the barn or storehouse for the farm. It’s been converted over the years by Bertrand into a fully functional family home. Each of the four sons has a room upstairs, and they have plenty of privacy to do their study - although at the moment two of the sons are away studying in nearby centres and come home only at weekends.
Right next door to the Gautiers’ home is Elysabeth’s old family home. It has been occupied by five generations of her family, although her own parents never lived there; they’ve always lived in Toulouse. But Elysabeth and Bertrand have chosen to live in the country and to live on the old family farm. Much of the property was sold off by the grandfather some years ago but they still have a number of hectares including their own area of forest where they cut their own timber for firewood. They have no farm animals so the space around them is garden and parkland and meadow.
Anne and Gary stayed overnight in the old family home. A substantial property - more than 150 years old - fully furnished with all of the old family furniture and photographs and memorabilia.
Later in the day Elysabeth took us to visit the farm where the Russells had stayed - for three months, four months - some five years ago, and she described this as the biggest farm in the area - 400 hectares and operated by two families. The scale of the farming in this part of France - and everywhere we’ve seen - is totally different from the scale of operations in Australia.
Later we visited Le Born and the school where Emily and Jessie had attended along with the two younger Gautier boys. There were so few children at the school at that time that the four of them were picked up by taxi every morning. And now the school is closed. Part of it is being used as the local town hall, a rather grand description for the centre that attends to the administration of what is a very small community.
Later again Elysabeth dashed off to pick up Matthew from school. Matthew is aged fourteen; and then later Silvan arrived home from high school at Montauban. Silvan is seventeen. And then later again Bertrand arrived home from Toulouse. Bertrand works for the French electricity network and it is his job to buy electricity into the national grid. One source of supply, I think, is the small hydro stations that we’ve seen along the major rivers. This year there may be difficulty in obtaining supply - the river levels are down. It’s been such a hot stifling summer, with weeks of temperatures above 40 degrees. There was a break in the weather a couple of weeks ago but this came in the form of a severe hail storm which, among other things, smashed sixty-odd windows in the building where Elysabeth works part-time in Villemur-sur-Tarn. But there’s green everywhere as a result, and this wasn’t the case a month back; and the temperature hasn’t returned to former levels. We’ve had an absolutely delightful week of temperatures around 30 degrees.
We had a late barbeque, with Bertrand cooking the most enormous sausages, about a foot long and an inch-and-a-half through, one with duck the other with pork. And then after dinner Silvan entertained us on his didgeridoo, and Bertrand - with not much persuasion - brought out his wind instruments. In addition to working full-time for the electricity company, Bertrand teaches music and specifically the playing of ancient folk instruments. He plays a number of straight flutes, and one with a reed like an oboe, but his particular specialty seems to be instruments similar to bagpipes. The first he played had a huge drone pipe and a sack made from a complete goat skin - a much larger instrument than conventional bagpipes. And then he played a much smaller one with the bag made from the skin of a kid. High pitched and shrill. But fascinating to see him play and to hear the ancient tunes.
Next morning, with Elysabeth, an hour-and-a-half walk through the countryside and the woods accompanied by her beautiful Labrador - a one-year-old dog with creamy fawn hide, full of energy, and a beautiful nature.
Down past what Elysabeth described as a river but which was no more than a metre wide and half a metre deep. Quite dry. But in a normal year it runs well; and on one day a year they have a day out for the whole of the Les Fihols populace fishing for trout which the Gautiers have previously placed in the stream.
The same village once a year holds a festival for a whole weekend; and last year with friends and relatives there were more than 200 people who sat down to the outdoors dinner on the Saturday night. A feature of the event is the recommissioning each year of the freestanding baker’s oven and the cooking of the bread by one of the residents who was once the baker in Villemur-sur-Tarn.
After breakfast we went into Villemur [population 5000] and during a leisurely morning we saw the King’s granary - the granary built for the famous Henry IV. [........not, though, famous with Australians, unless they’ve studied French history. Henry IV lived 1553 to 1610. He was king of Navarre from 1572 and doubled as king of France from 1589; and was very involved in the Protestant versus Catholic nonsense, initially as the leader of the Hugenots (the Protestants). The encyclopaedias go on for a page with his religious wars, and his ultimate restoration of stability to France - after switching to Catholicism, his second back-flip. He did, however, in 1598, proclaim religious freedom. He is responsible for one of the all-time memorable quotes: “There should be a chicken in every peasant’s pot every Sunday.” Columbia conclude their profile: “Numerous anecdotes and legends about Henry bear witness to his gallantry, his Gallic wit, and his concern for the common people, which have made him probably the most popular king among the French.” He was assassinated by a Catholic fanatic. And what is the connection that Henri Carte had with Villemur? And why the granary? I haven't been able to find out! German filmmaker, Joe Baier, is making a film of the life of Henri Carte (as of July 2004).] And we saw the town hall, and the old mill - which contains a most impressive display of old photographs, and a large model of the town, and other items of interest. Then up a nearby hill to take in the whole panorama of the town and of the river Tarn which, to a casual eye, looked significantly larger than the Lot where we’re staying. [The Tarn, about 375 kilometres long, has a mean flow of 140 cubic metres per second. The Lot is about 480 kilometres long; I have not been able to ascertain its mean flow.]
After lunch, farewell to Elysabeth and on our way back to the mill at Duravel. Arrived back around 4.00 p.m. and then, later in the evening, out on the river canoeing. Jerome Wittaveen [our host at the mill house] has said that the river is fine for swimming and certainly it’s not dangerous - it flows very, very slowly, but it smells somewhat and there’s a lot of weed and Anne would much prefer to swim in the pool at the house.
As I speak it’s about seven-fifteen in the evening of Wednesday the 17th. Faye and David are down on the grass on recliner lounges by the wall at the river’s edge, catching the last of the sun. Anne is on the balcony; and the four of us are enjoying our pre-dinner drinks. The day was spent in an all-day trip to St.-Cirq-Lapopie, an ancient and picturesque village an hour west through Cahors. We had delicious salad lunches, so won’t be having a big meal this evening, and since our return we’ve been relaxing with Anne and Gary once again taking to the river for half an hour of gentle paddling. A lot more practice needed. It’s not that we can’t paddle, but we certainly can’t steer.
St.-Cirq is a major tourist spot, being one of those villages in France that is categorised as “historic” and which has building restrictions requiring any alterations to be in keeping with the architecture and building materials of the town. But it was very quiet. Mostly French, the occasional English people - we even heard an Australian accent in the distance - but hardly any Americans. In one shop we discovered a painter, an Australian painter, Nerida de Jong, who spends some months each year in St.-Cirq but lives mostly near Byron Bay. While business has been good for her, she confirms that American-sourced tourism is much diminished from what it once was.
Jerome and his wife are away today, and yesterday evening he said “just leave everything open and feel free to light the candles on the stairs if you wish”. This is a lovely touch. Every night we go out to find that he’s lit these large candles, several of them up the staircase, the grand stone staircase leading to our apartments; and I’ll most certainly be lighting them later when it gets dark.
Tape 2, side 1
We’ve just now returned from the Friday morning market in Prayssac. [Cahors is the nearest major centre to Duravel. Population 50000; due east. Both are on the Lot River. On the way upstream to Cahors we passed through Puy-l’Eveque, Prayssac and Castelfanc (and Luzech, if we wanted to cross to the south of the River).] We’d gone to town for a bit of last minute shopping, and to post some postcards, and to our delight found that it was market day; and around the church and the square and a couple of adjoining streets the stalls were ranged on both sides of the roads.
No fabrics this time, no bric-a-brac, nothing but food. A couple of fishmongers doing very good business. Delicatessen-type stalls. Some vendors of nothing but cheese - when I say cheese I mean twenty or so varieties.
Lots of fruit and vegetables, much of it grown locally, I’m sure. Some breads, displays of spices,
and an amazing stall with a dozen or so different types of olives.
Not much attention to keeping off the sun or the occasional fly, but clearly this is the way the local people do their serious food shopping. Sure, there’s a local supermarket, plenty of packaged and bottled goods, but this is the serious food. A couple of vendors selling live chooks, and among the meats in one stall we saw rabbits dressed but complete with head, and sold by the weight.
So here I am back in Duravel at the mill, in the shade, in the company of trees including an enormous cedar perhaps sixty, seventy, feet. A perfect cloudless day and a wafting breeze. We’re leading the lives of lotus-eaters, and I’m reminded of that by the marvellous book I bought yesterday at Monpazier
- a history of the first thirty-five years of Penguin Books, containing some wonderful exchanges of correspondence between the publishers and their authors and, in particular, those authors who were translating the ancient Greek and Latin writers.
Yesterday was a sentimental journey in a way because we traversed the country where we’d been previously, six years ago, in the valley of the Dordogne River. Monpazier, although not on the River, was our first stop and a place we well remembered - a bastide - for the wonderful tablecloths and fabrics bought there last time. Six years ago, although picturesque, Monpazier was a quiet town. Most of the populace were in mourning and attending the funeral of a local lad. This time it was market day and the place was alive. In addition to all the food items the Monpazier market had a number of vendors of hardware, and local ceramics and pottery, and a couple of bookstalls - one of which sold nothing but English language books! The first we’ve seen in France other than the art books at galleries. There I bought the Penguin book, and the others too restocked for the next couple of weeks. And the fabric shop of six years ago was still there with the same lady, and both Anne and Faye bought some tablecloth material.
On to the Dordogne, and strolls through Belves and St.-Cyprien, and then La Roque Gageac, that spectacular village clinging to the cliff above the River. At La Roque there were large numbers of people, certainly the biggest crowd we’ve seen anywhere in the provinces, and maybe the tourist trade is not so moribund as we thought. The tourist boats, the bateaux, seemed to be filled and there were lots of canoes on the river.
A leisurely drive home, and we finished the day once again with a few hands of Rickety Kate.
It’s exactly four weeks since we left home and the last two weeks, first in the Valley of the Rhone and then in the Valley of the Lot, have been leisurely and restful with weather to die for. The first week in Barcelona the weather was fine - somewhat hotter - but very steamy, and a little less comfortable for us given our hectic tourist pace. Actually, we felt it most on the day of departure because we were wearing jackets and I was in long pants and had on the backpack, and we were lugging the cases. It wasn’t so bad the day we arrived because we were caseless! Throughout the week it was certainly shorts and casual gear. Once the cases arrived on that first Saturday Anne and Judy were out doing some supermarket shopping - we needed provisions - and then later Anne and Gary walked around the neighbourhood and Parc Joan Miro. Miro, an important twentieth century painter and sculptor, was a native Catalonian and the nearby park had been named for him. It contains a huge skittle-shaped statue covered in mosaic tiles [A Miro work from 1983 named Donna i Ocell (Woman and Bird)] - sad to say looking very tired with a number of the tiles having flaked off, and rather in need of some restoration. [This recent photograph suggests that that restoration may have occurred.]
The park itself is not a conventional garden park but one on a couple of levels with gravelled walks and formal pitches for basketball and other more confined games. The park in fact seems to be having a bit of a makeover because they’re constructing an extensive underground carpark and doing it by open cut. The park that’s put back on top could be quite different from what was there before.
After dinner we walked to the nearby Placa d’Espanya. A very large square-cum-roundabout with the centre island occupied by a massive ornamental statue and fountain, crowned about a hundred feet up with a flaming cauldron, not lit all the time but lit at night-time a couple of nights of the week.
But the main sight that greeted us was the virtual avenue of fountains leading up a sharp incline, the Avinguda Maria Cristina, to the Montjuic hill - and at the top the National Museum of Catalonian Art. Flanking this view are two curved buildings, exhibition centres, and between them, and on either side of the avenue, two tall brick towers, copies of the Campanile - the bell tower - in St. Mark’s Square, Venice.
All of this - the Placa d’Espanya, the imposing fountain in the centre with the three sculptures representing trade, industry and shipping, the exhibition centres (there are more of them further up the Avenue), the Venetian towers, and the palace at the top of the hill that houses the art exhibition - all of this was built for the 1929 International Exhibition, a massive expression of self-confidence by the city. The fountains exist at several terrace levels up the Avenue and, like the flame atop the square, operate only at nights, and only weekends, I think. The principal fountain - circular - is really a series of fountains and the patterns change continually, and the lighting effects change continually. A most spectacular experience, and a great discovery for our first night.
We were at the Placa d’Espanya again on the Tuesday morning for our first day on the tourist bus, and our first stop, just up the Montjuic hill, was the Poble Espanyol. This is a quote authentic Spanish town unquote with dozens of buildings built in the styles of different regions and different eras of Spanish history - and this too was built specially for the 1929 International Exhibition. It wasn’t clear whether people actually live in the upper storeys of the houses, but the lower floors were certainly occupied, each of them being a shop of some sort, or more likely an artist’s studio. A most interesting complex, and fortunately for us we were there early in the day and had the place virtually to ourselves.
We next alighted from the bus at the Olympic Stadium. Barcelona hosted the 1992 Olympics and this main arena is a fine example of sports architecture. Along one side there’s an imposing façade that the guide books tell us was built for the 1936 “alternative” Olympics, an event that never occurred because of the onset of the Spanish Civil War that year.
The swimming stadium was further down the hill and, although open for business, was not open for tourist inspection. And further up the hill was the diving pool with the pool built on the hillside and the diving boards and platforms seeming to stick out into space. And who can forget the signature images of the 1992 Olympics with the divers suspended in air, with the city of Barcelona down below?
A nice picture of the Montjuic area near where we were staying is obtained from the Eyewitness Guide to Barcelona and Catalonia: The hill of Montjuic, rising to 213 metres (699 feet) above the commercial port on the south side of the city, is Barcelona’s biggest recreation area. Its museums, art galleries, gardens and nightclubs, make it a popular place in the evenings as well as during the day. There was probably a Celtiberian settlement here before the Romans built a temple to Jupiter on their Mons Jovis, which may have given Montjuic its name - though another theory suggests that a Jewish cemetery on the hill inspired the name Mount of the Jews. The absence of a water supply meant that there were few buildings on Montjuic until the castle was erected on the top in 1640. The hill finally came into its own as the site of the 1929 International Fair. With great energy and flair, buildings were erected all over the north side, with the grand Avinguda de la Reina Maria Cristina, lined with huge exhibition halls, leading into it from the Plaça de’Espanya. In the middle of the avenue is the Font Mágica (Magic Fountain), which is regularly illuminated in colour. Above it is the Palau Nacional, home of the city’s historic art collections. The Poble Espanyol is a crafts centre housed in copies of buildings from all over Spain. The last great surge of building on Montjuic was for the 1992 Olympic Games, which left Barcelona with international-class sports facilities.
Next, down from Montjuic hill to sea level and to the Monument a Colom.
At the side of the square is the maritime museum, housed in buildings that were once the shipyards where the great galleys were built - the galleys that made Barcelona an important seafaring power. Judy relaxed while Anne and Gary toured the museum for an hour or so. This is one of the most impressive museums I’ve seen, and I could have spent further hours there, and this despite the fact that none of the signage is in English. There’s a detailed history of seafaring in these parts; there’s a rebuilt war galley;
there are displays of the history of trade, particularly in the 19th century; there’s a display on the history of lighthouses; and so on. Very, very impressive.
The Columbus column is at one end of Barcelona’s most famous street, La Rambla. We’d already seen the column and walked La Rambla on the Sunday night. That had been at about ten o’clock. We’d caught the Metro to the station at the top end of La Rambla, at Placa de Catalunya, and walked the length to the column and the waterfront. This was late Sunday night and La Rambla was throbbing. Thousands of people. Street artists, entertainers, food, drink, young people, old people, and exciting indeed.
Earlier in the evening we’d walked from home to the area near the Parc de l’Espanya Industrial where there was a local festival. Street stalls and a lot of eating in the streets; and we had a meal there. But the festival part of proceedings seemed to be mostly finished, so our timing wasn’t quite right.
To be continued.........
Gary Andrews
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