eve 'n' earlier

I am staring at the 11cm high figurine of 'Venus De Willendorf 1, 23,750 BC, in the musée in Bram with a shock of recognition. I am resembling her more closely every day as we languish in Languedoc.

In the brochure of the exhibition, EVES ET REVES 'La Prehistoire Au Feminine', at this modest little 'musee archeologique', I see that the figurine is described as 'statuette obèse.' And she has traces of 'de colouration rouge.' The flush of wine... the burn of the sun?

Even though I carry within me a tiny trace of genetic material from Esclarmonde, my Cathar ancestor from the 12^th century, I haven't inherited any of her traits. No leanings towards austerity or saintliness or hard work or martyrdom. Instead, a hedonistic disposition and a particular love of food and wine.

I have definitely been overdoing it with the cheeses, desserts, rich sauces and wines. I went to buy a new shirt today and found that I have increased by two sizes in just nine weeks. I am now eXtra eXtra Large. Apparently one morning's walking each week isn't enough to burn up the calories from the divine wine and French cuisine.

We joined a walking group this week for a fairly gruelling hike in the hills around Limoux, but, appetites stimulated, we followed this with one of those French three course lunches which involves a salade entrée, a lapin [rabbit] casserole in a rich sauce, and a chocolate pudding with crème anglaise or a crème catalan. And all of it washed down with a pitcher of rose and a coffee... Total price? Thirteen euro. Too easy. And too fattening.

Same 'Place'... different eras.

And then there are the pryrenean cheeses we buy at the market; goats, blue or sheep, which go particularly well with crusty baguettes from the boulangerie where we are tempted by the 'pain au raisin' or the 'pain au chocolat' [which are soft and warm and melt in your mouth].

And the blanquette! The cheap, fizzy, but very good, wine which the Benedictine Monks at Abbaye Saint- Hilaire invented in 1531, well before champagne was a twinkle in anyone's glass. My theory is that because they were a silent order, they needed something exceptional to drink to make life merry, and they had time on their hands to experiment.

The Limoux Blanquette is still the signature wine of the region and is relentlessly promoted along with the Cathar history; bubbles and bibles.

Abbaye Saint- Hilaire.

Last week, as we stood in the musty cellars where the silent monks made and stored their delicious brew, I wondered if a vow of silence includes laughter?

Unfortunately, with all of this indulgence, my stomach is revolting [in more ways than one!]. A couple of bad bouts of reflux during the night convince me of the need to be more moderate.

We must walk more I decide. So we take an evening stroll around the village, ending up at our only bar/restaurant, for a glass of wine. When Madame tells us that she has fresh salmon tonight, we have to reserve a table for dinner. And of course it is warm and still and beautiful in the courtyard which is enclosed by a sheer granite cliff on one side and a tall stone house and leafy trees on the other.

There are three courses, including the 'saumon' with a buttery tarragon sauce. Madame, who cooks the salmon and picks the herbs for the sauce from the courtyard garden and wears a short tight sexy dress, asks if we like it. Dave replies, “C'est impeccable” and she goes into raptures, her arms flapping like a sparrow's and her expression simultaneously coy and ecstatic.

“It comes from Norway,” she says. “It is not fatty like the others.”

“But it is probably very tired,” Dave says.

Luckily our host/chef had spent a summer living in England as a schoolgirl, so she understands the joke. Well at least she appears to laugh.

There is a reason for Dave's use of the word 'impeccable'... pronounced 'ahm-pek-arb(l)'

He is losing confidence in his ability to communicate in French, so I read him the appendix from Terry Darlington's book, 'Narrow Dog to Carcassonne'. It explains how to speak French in fifteen minutes.

Terry writes;

“Impeccable – the nearest we have in English is the obsolete 'top hole'. Just say “impeccable, impeccable” quietly every 5 seconds and smile, with a few simple hand gestures. The land and all that is in it will be yours.”

I urge Dave to try it and it certainly seems to have the desired effect.

Unlike Dave, I am conversing fluently with the waitress. Or perhaps she is speaking and I am smiling and nodding and saying “Oui, oui,” or “d'accord” at what seem like suitable intervals.

“You are doing well with your French” Dave says.

“Oh no. I don't understand a thing. I just guess what she is saying, watch her facial expressions and arm movements, and choose an innocuous response.”

We have decided that I am in fact a throw back to Stone Age woman. Somehow I missed the intervening evolutionary stages. That must be why I feel an affinity with this region. Some of the earliest human remains of Stone Age dwellers in Europe, Homo Erectus ,from half a million years ago, come from Languedoc. They were found near Perpignan, an hour or so from here, in the early 1970s. Archaeologists continue to unearth layer upon of pre-history here.

Every subsequent wave of humans in the region achieved dominance through their skills with technology [and sometimes with a good dose of aggressiveness or ruthlessness].

First the Neanderthals took over, around 150,000 BC. Their advances in tool making meant they could hunt bigger beasts, the elephants and mammoths of the area, rather than chucking stones at smaller birds and animals. They made fires, and kindled the development of early religion and culture.

From around 35,000 BC, modern humans, Homo Sapiens, moved into Languedoc and gained ascendancy by 14,000 BC. Dave and I saw their awesome cave paintings of the animals they hunted at Niaux and they made Venus statuettes, like some that we are viewing in Bram. In time, fishing, agriculture and animal husbandry were developed as the inventive Homo Sapiens further advanced technology.

'EVES ET REVES'  

left: SHTOJ 14086 2,200 BC, Bronze ancien (Albanie)

middle: VENUS A LA CORNE 22,000 BC, Piquealeolith gravetto-solutreen (France)

right: TURRIGA 2,500 BC, Néolithique récent (Italie)

In Bram, we see archaeological evidence from the Bronze Age, when the clever Celts moved into the region in 800 BC.

Bram 'en Place'

The musee has many examples of their coins, jewellery, dwellings, and ceramics. The big pots, hundreds of fragments, painstakingly stuck together, look like huge three dimensional jigsaws with some pieces missing. I notice that we drink our wine at lunch from pitchers the same shape. Some inventions don't need improvement!

The technology thing certainly passed me by! And I am quite a gentle soul, easily intimidated by bullies. I am totally inept, even with the simplest technology. I have trouble remembering which way to turn the door handle in the house I have lived in for over twenty years. Remote-controls send me into catatonic states.

My emotions override thought. I rely on non-verbals in communication. Senses and intuition are strong.

Yep. Definitely a stone age woman, and increasingly resembling one of those figurines, the early fertility goddesses from the paleolithic age, around 23,000 B.C.

pilgrimages

An apricot sun leaked into the pale sky, where swallows swirled in crazy patterns way above the village. A cock crowed. A tractor rumbled along the Rue de Village. The air was still.

We ate warm stewed apricots, bought in a nearby village market, and marvelled at a taste we remembered from childhood. 

In such a peaceful place it is difficult to imagine the tragic events of the 12^th and 13^th centuries in this region. We are staying in the Aude region of the south of France, Cathar country. I want to learn more about the story of the Albigensian Crusade by following the Cathar trail past crumbling castles on craggy mountain tops.

After breakfast, we decided to go to the last stronghold of the Cathars, the remote Montsegur Chateau in the Pyrenees, rumoured to protect the Holy Grail.

Puivert... en route to Montsegur

The scenery en route to Montsegur was stunning; forests, medieavel villages, cyclists on windy mountain roads, broad patchworked valleys, and then the peaks of the Pyrenees cloaked in mist and crowned with clouds. This is Ariege, land of my ancestors, the Counts of Foix, who were also the Princes of Andorra.

Chateau at Puivert, former home of Cathar troubadour-poets and musicians.

According to my mother's family tree, I am a descendant of Esclarmonde de Foix, a legendary leader of the Cathars, a religion which the Pope and the French King regarded as heretical. I am fascinated that I can trace my lineage back so far in history.

Esclarmonde, a mother of six, was widowed when she was sixty, and became what was effectively a high priestess of the Cathars, with the full support of her brother, the Count of Foix.

Castle ruins at Quillan on the River Aude.

Catharism spread like wildfire in the 12^th and 13^th centuries as a reaction against the corruption, elitism and power of the Catholic Church. Cathars thought that the 'catholic wolves', had distorted Christ's messages about how to live. The only prayer of the Cathars was the 'Lord's prayer' and their only sacrament was the 'consolatum', the laying on of hands.

Unlike the Catholics, they believed in the equality of women, which is why Esclarmonde played such an important role. Cathars valued work and austerity. Esclarmonde sold all her wordly goods and gave away her castle. She established schools for girls and hospitals [remember this is back in the 12^th century], and initiated the rebuilding of Montsegur Castle as a Cathar stronghold against the relentless campaigns by the Catholic hierarchy and the French monarchy which continued for well over 100 years until the Cathars were eliminated or driven into secrecy.

Queribus castle... its view... its state... its descent.

I love the following story told in the chronicle of Guillaume de Puylaurens, about my great, great, great............. great grandmother, from 9 centuries ago. 

It was in 1207 at the conference between the opposing Cathars and Catholics at Pamiers Castle that Esclarmonde spoke on behalf of the Cathars. One of the Brothers cried, “Really Madam, spin on your distaff, it ill becomes you to participate in such discussions.” 

And how many centuries later was I sticking the feminist slogan of the seventies, 'Woman's place is everywhere!' on my car bumper?

Esclarmonde's story has merged with the myths surrounding her illegitimate niece and namesake, who died on the pyre at Montsegur, when after a ten month siege, during the harshest of winters, the Cathars were overcome and given the choice of conversion or being burnt at the stake. More than two hundred chose the martyrdom and were burnt alive at Montsegur.

Montsegur castle where more than 200 Cathars were burned alive in 1243.

Personally, I don't understand anyone holding a world view so strongly that they would choose that most horrific of deaths, but I certainly admire their courage and mourn the loss of the lives of so many thousands of people in this region of France, so long ago.

As I struggled up the steep stony path to Montsegur, I thought, “Esclarmonde was here.” She walked this path nine centuries ago, first as noblewoman then as a 'good Christian', the name for the leaders of the Cathars.

What was she like? Slim and wiry with tiny feet and aristocratic pale skin? Legs as agile as those of a mountain goat? Or was she stocky and round with staunch muscular legs? Did she wear the pilgrim's hooded cloak and walk with a staff or did she ride on horseback?

Was I hoping to feel her presence on this mountain top? Yes I was!

In a way, I am travelling here as a pilgrim, hoping to find in a particular place or through a journey, some insight, the way that pilgrims of every religion have done.

A pilgrim's progress.

In our secular western societies there seems to be a resurgence of interest in pilgrimages as spiritual or moral quest.

On the flight from Australia, I watched a film to pass the time. It was 'The Way' a contemporary American film about a man whose son dies in France as he begins the 'Camino de Santiago', an increasingly popular pilgrims' walk across the Pyrenees. The father, a golf playing conservative, middle class guy, doesn't understand his son's itinerant lifestyle. But he decides to do the walk, carrying his son's ashes, and of course he not only 'finds' his son but rediscovers himself. Wasn't it Jesus who said, “I am the Way.”?

Once a pilgrimage meant travelling to visit relics, like bits of the cross, or threads from Jesus's robe or the bones of dead saints, or places where miracles have happened or other important religious sites. [Lourdes is the second most visited place in France, and Carcassonne, a Cathar castle, is the third].

Mirepoix, Ariege... site of yet another massacre of Cathares by the Catholic Crusaders.

Now the meaning of pilgrimage has expanded. Some of us modern day pilgrims are not sure what we are seeking. Some kind of revelation, forgiveness or absolution or enlightenment? Like the Holy Grail, it may never be found or may not even exist.

Perhaps it is the journey that matters. Not the destination.

Buildings in early days did not not have 'insulation ratings' but the Montsegur Castle would surely score highly.

bucolic bouriege

“Walkies!” I say over eggs and bacon and toast at our breakfast table. After a couple of hot days it has been raining all night; now it is fine and cool and slightly overcast. Ideal for walking.

Old Dog pretends not to hear. Unlike others of his breed he doesn't look longingly out of the window, or scratch at the door, or wag his tail when I mention the 'W' word.

Quite the reverse. Sometimes he 'plays dead', hoping I will forget about the walk. Sometimes he hides.

Today he is resigned. As he follows me down the garden path, he has that 'hang dog' look, jowls drooping, eyes appealing, “Look what a loyal boy I am, doing this for you.” The eyes look even sadder as I set off up a hill, along the Rue Devant de Village.

I stride up the hill, working up a sweat, and turn to admire the view of our village, Bouriege, already a surprisingly long way below.

As usual Old Dog is nowhere to be seen. Why isn't he one of those dogs who bound along excitedly, running ahead, challenging me to even greater efforts? No, he sniffs every flower, disappears into tall grasses and behind trees at every opportunity and tries to commune with bearded goats or any other living creature.

Unlike real dogs, I don't think he urinates on everything, but he claims his territory with his trusty camera.

Why does he have to photograph every giant snail and every vineyard? They all look the same to me. [But I am grateful for the images when it comes to blog post time.]

Four years ago, on a trip to Ireland, cows and sheep were the obsession. Old Dog's goal was to get as close as possible and then shoot. Now flora and fauna take his fancy.The only problem being that it is summer and there are thousands of flowers along the tracks and in the meadows, so he makes little progress.

As he hasn't yet consented to a lead, I bellow “Dave” and whistle intermittently, but it has little effect.

If we know the way, I go ahead and wait at the next village, but when we don't know where we are going, or are following those yellow and white markers, which can be missing or difficult to interpret, I wait impatiently at every turn.

After a while, the oxygen reaches Old Dog's brain; he is stimulated by the sights, and he is usually smiling by the end of our 'randonnee', looking forward to coffee and a croissant as his reward.

“Good dog!”

And now for a bit of doggerel... with apologies to Wordsworth and anyone else who writes poetry!

I wandered lonely country roads,

past chateau with their towers

when all at once I came upon

a field of bright sunflowers.

The serpent shifted in the grass

the wind soughed through the trees

but a host of golden faces

brought my troubled mind some ease.

'but a host of golden faces'

Past hillsides lined by rows of vines

and cylinders of hay

poised as if with just one push

they could roll away.

I saw an old man on his porch

French cap atop his head

he stared across to distant hills

where once his herd he led.

'where once his herd he led.'

The sky so blue, cornflowers too,

and meadows freshly mown

A bird cried ,”Who, whoo are you?”

but soon that bird had flown.

The village then came into view

all mottled tiles and stone

with church spire pointing heavenward

it signalled my way home.

'it signalled my way home.'

liminal limoux

Our night in Limoux at the end of June marked the transition from our 6 weeks travelling in Spain [and a few nights in Collioure] to taking up residence for the summer in a house in the village of Bouriege. We will no longer be on the go, staying in hotels or serviced apartments, but will be 'living the dream' in a house in a rural village in the south of France.

We picked up a car in Carcassonne and thanks to the sat-nav system found ourselves in the square in the middle of Limoux on market day, after a complicated route through narrow one way streets of this typical old French town. 

 

Liberty, Equality... Fraternity?

Dave was dreading driving on the right hand side of the road so insisted that I frequently repeated ''Keep to the right.'' This is difficult when so many roads only accommodate one vehicle. However the sat-nav system may well avoid a divorce as Dave prefers the warnings in advance of when to turn.

From the 'wrong' side of the road we realised we missed the planes and trains and buses and taxis we had used, where we could just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. “But it will be wonderful to explore this beautiful Aude region in depth,” I said. There was no response, as the Old Dog tried to reverse into the only parking space we could find.

We found our hotel, 'Les Arcades' on the edge of the square. I loved it. It was one of those old French hotels with a spiral staircase. ''Lovely,'' I said. ''Just like the hotels we stayed in many years ago.'' Old Dog, who was carrying the two suitcases up to the third floor, didn't share my enthusiasm. The carpets were stained and the prints on the wall eclectic as we mounted the stairs; it didn't help when the lights went out and we were plunged into darkness. I loved our tiny room, with two shuttered casement windows and small balconies overlooking the charcuterie across the road and the stone arches framing transient tableau in the square. The room was clean and bright with a new laminate floor, and a functional bathroom. I liked to imagine the people who would have stayed here over centuries: country folk for the market, troubadours, travellers , pilgrims and lovers.

Pétanque on the Aude river bank

Dave headed off to watch pétanque on pistes on the bank of the brown Aude river, which flows through the town. On the other side of the river, faded buildings in soft sepia tones, created a scene as muted as a watercolour. Such a contrast to colourful Collioure.

I chatted to two Australian boys in the bar of our hotel. Broad-shouldered rugby players, who have been here for 6 years. Now that the rugby season has ended, they work casually in the Irish Bar. [the Irish certainly have it covered!] The boys told me about a 'Feria' on that night, a festival with a Spanish theme. 

 

The 'Feria' was a loud, cacophonous event, with multiple marquee style bars and cafes, all trying to outdo each other with the deafening volume of recorded or live music. But we did enjoy the jolly brass band, playing the rousing music of the Torro, and the local flamenco dancers.

'Les Hauts de L'Aude' – from Quillan

After sampling the 'Blanquette de Limoux' the fizzy wine which has been the specialty of the region since 1531, I no longer knew where I was... Spain or France or somewhere in between? And I was mixing my Spanish with my French in a way which Dave found confusing. But the locals seemed to understand.

Back at our hotel, we were the last patrons dining at a pavement table. I still recall the perfume of purple petunias [Limoux is abloom with flowers]. The smiling hotelier stood in the doorway and told us how the economic woes of Italy, Spain and Greece, are affecting his business. The tourist numbers have dropped... the dreaded 'domino effect'.

In the morning, from our window, I saw local women with baskets walking to a single canopied stall in the square. As we passed, dragging our suitcases I investigated. They were selling white peaches, flushed with a delicate pink so I bought a kilogram to eat in Bouriege.

'Croque Notes' with drummer 'sans' Honda Accord Europa.

While having a coffee in the square before leaving Limoux, we were serenaded by yet another brass band. They were playing ''Don't worry. Be happy'', while a gypsy boy, stripped to his waist, with guitar and dog, danced and played along.

Earlier, as we were leaving the hotel, the manager asked if we were ''En vacances?''. ''Oui Monsieur, 6 semaines en Bouriege'', Dave said. “Ah, Bouriege. C'est tres jolie,'' he said.So we set off to find this 'very pretty' village.

On the verge of a new experience, and with Dave driving too close to the ditch on the verge of the road, I tried 'not to worry and to be happy.'

colours of collioure

It took three train journeys and a long taxi ride to reach Collioure, our first destination in the south of France.

We took a 'media distance' train from Granada to Sevilla, a fast train from Sevilla to Barcelona via Madrid, and another 'media distance' train from Barcelona to Cerberes. We were advised that no trains stopped at Collioure, so took an expensive taxi from Cerberes, past crowded beaches and terraced, vine covered hillsides.

If you are planning to travel to Collioure from Spain by public transport, please be advised that there ARE local trains and buses which travel regularly from Cerberes to Collioure. However Spanish RENFE officials, Frommer's on line travel forum, and hotel receptionists in both countries will tell you that there are not.
It is more than mildly irritating to find that you have spent a night's accommodation costs on a taxi when there was a bus for one euro leaving at a convenient time.

I can recommend travelling by train in Spain. Fast, comfortable and precisely on time. I really enjoyed seeing Spain from the window of a train, particularly in Andalusia. However my observations contradicted Professor Higgin's assertion that ''the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.''

When our money runs out, I will not be seeking employment in the transportation logistics area as even Dave, who showed little interest in travel plans before we arrived, couldn't fail to notice that our routes resembled a crazy zig-zag, rather than any kind of sensible or vaguely linear progression. I attribute this to my reliance on Google-map when planning destinations, rather than a big, old fashioned atlas.

Dave and I had visited Collioure 16 years ago at the end of winter when it was sombre and grey and almost empty of people. Collioure in summer is so different. So vivid. So alive!

 Once a wealthy port, then a fishing village, it is now an unbelievably pretty and popular beach resort. I felt like Lewis Carroll's Alice: perhaps I had stepped through a looking glass into a picture postcard. It seemed so perfect. I had to blink, then re-open my eyes to check that the sea and the sky were really that blue, that the terracotta rooves were such a brilliant orange, that the vineyards on the hillsides were such an emerald green. Fishing boats painted in primary colours, blue or green shutters on pink or sienna houses, the red and yellow striped Catalan flag, the castle walls golden in the morning sun along one side of the bay, and all of these colours reflected in the water, reminded me of an impressionist painting.

It is easy to see why Collioure, all light and vibrant colour, attracts painters. Artists like Matisse and Derain drew attention to its beauty. Many others have followed trying to capture that elusive charm. Little art galleries abound. Painters set up their easels along the sea wall. We saw an exhibition of paintings by the Russian born Leopold Survage (1879-1968), who lived in Collioure from 1925 till 1932 and painted  the people of Collioure; fisher-women, men pursuing a rampaging bull and a boules player, which of course held Dave's attention. Interestingly, Survage painted in drab hues which seemed at odds with the brilliant summer colour of Collioure.

Some mornings we could be found having petit dejeuner at 'Les delices Catalans', a few metres from the front door of our hotel, 'Princes de Catalogne', right in the centre of the old town. The boulangerie was one minute from our front door, the post office 2 minutes, the supermarket 2 minutes, the shady piste where about 30 men played pétanque every afternoon was only a 3 minute walk, and the swimming beaches were about a 5 minute stroll. There were dozens of cafes, bars and restaurants within 10 minutes where we spent many a warm evening. Across the road in the pedestrianised back streets, there were dozens of little [expensive] shops selling anything from the wines of the region to clothes to ceramics and, of course, paintings.

One morning we emerged from the hotel to find ourselves in the midst of a market which stretched down the street towards the sea, occupied the piste and sprawled into the square which was shaded by plane trees with massive trunks. There was a trio busking in the style of the Hot Club de Jazz [double bass, excellent lead guitar and a singer who played rhythm guitar]. I bought the CD!

I don't usually like markets, but this one wasn't overcrowded, had some great products and a happy holiday ambience, like the prevailing mood of Collioure.

In the heat of the afternoon, with the sun on my back, a black dog on my tail, I clambered up the steep rocky path to the fort to the sound of cicadas. The views back over Collioure and along the Mediterranean coast were worth the effort. I lost the black dog on the way.
Dave and I walked along the coastal track, reaching the long, white sandy beach of Argeles sur Mer, where I paddled before a long lunch on a terrasse where old fig trees and bright umbrellas provided shade.

 My favourite moment in Collioure was unexpected. I found myself in a small square, one street back from the sea, to find two young pianists playing a grand piano, while a large group of local people of all ages, genders and attire, danced a traditional folk dance in two concentric circles. It had a hypnotic effect on me and the silent crowd which had gathered to watch. The music stopped and the people dispersed leaving me with  another moment to cherish.