Grounded

 

This title is a sure sign this is not a travel blog anymore. I don't know what it is yet, but stay with it. You tell me.

Today, November 16th, as I am starting to write this, my father would have been a hundred years old. Armand died too young, a result of the combined hardships of war, of decades at sea in the merchant navy and of a lifelong yearning for cigarettes. A secretive man who talked a lot, he fascinated me with his travel stories of gauchos in the Pampa, of crocodiles in African rivers, of decks covered with ice in the Baltic sea, of the sun rising golden over Venice. Once he got married, he couldn't bear to be away from his wife and children, despaired he was ever going to see us again each time a storm hit. He quit sailing and wandering to take root in family life, relieved to watch the sea from the shore. He was gifted with instant memory and had in store theatre monologues, history anecdotes and witty, dry, cynical jokes, very handy during big gatherings, to steer conversations away from politics, all much safer around the table as he was the only socialist and atheist in a catholic and more conservative ocean of relatives. He was a humanist, an idealist, a member of the Ligue des droits de l'homme and, I learned only very recently, a Freemason. We, children, thought he was quite naughty. Upon the maternal interdiction to use swearwords in the house and her not being a linguist at all, he taught us a most rude selection in German, English and Dutch as well as a (very) dirty song in Breton, which we all repeated with gusto. I now get them but I am still in the dark about the Breton one, which, to this day, I don't dare sing in Brittany. He picked up foreign languages effortlessly and was fluent in many, some gathered during his travels and all solidly imprinted in the back drawers of his brain. We had a lot to share and I think he knew that, with me, his tales landed on fertile ground and that distant horizons would be compelling. 

Well, distant horizons will have to be postponed. Hell, I can't even get out of Figeac! I just look at the sunset through the window and dream. 

Grounded has two meanings. One is finding one's centre, growing new roots. It is an underground, lenghty process and its external manifestations are quite mundane. Nothing exciting seems to be happening at the surface. It all has to do with pushing tendrils into the ground, bypassing rocks, embracing other roots, garnering rain and sun, finding nutrients. The other, teenage-y meaning is being stuck home as a consequence of some external diktat. Both are not mutually exclusive and the first one can help tremendously with the second, a forced, reflective introversion. Yes, you got it. Lockdown n°2, necessary as it is and much more difficult to bear than the first one. Is it there to stay, this on/off way of life? Does one needs to get used to spanners in the works, in dreams, plans, livelihood, survival? 

Inward growing doesn't make for a very interesting blog but I am happy to report that this period is not completely devoid of events, some momentous, some less so. The inward trend culminates at the end of October as Covid cases shoot up in France at an alarming rate. Not so much here, in the Lot 'departement' (county) with its scattered population of hamlets, villages and small towns. We still have to be closeted, though, and it is altogether a rather demotivating time. Never has the future felt so blurred, hazy and unpredictable. There is both the thrill and the drain of a major question mark.

Le Lot

                

                                                                                                                              

Starting a new life, taking the time to create connections, pushing shoots into the ground....Growing new roots it is. My flat becomes less zen, with the addition of a bed, a desk, a table, some kitchen utensils and a hammock that hangs from the beams in the middle of the living room. I find a mattress at the market, a 5 minutes walk away, which the seller carries for me up the 3 flights of stairs. 

                                                            Idoia on my balcony

When Idoia visits at the beginning of August, we spend a couple of hours there, after the lively Saturday market. I plonk the table on the balcony, pour us an aperitive, fish out my guitar from its case and off we sing and laugh and drink. The neighbour from the 4th floor across the street pops her head out of the window like a jack in the box. "I wondered where the music was coming from ! Wonderful! There are many exceptional ladies on our street", she declares, enthused. We chat across the narrow gap. Cool and dark in the heat of summer, it is one cobbled alleyway that requires living on the upper floors if you want to see the sun. 

On the day I wrote this, it's like I called her : she appeared at the window in the evening, the first time since that first encounter. Marieke has lived in Figeac for fifty years and doesn't have one bit of a Dutch accent. 

For my old friend's much needed holiday, I have secured a caravan in a campground by the river in the valley of the Célé.  There is no better place to spend the heatwave. 

In the relative coolness of the morning, we trudge on little paths, the bubbling river at our side, though woods, fields and picture perfect villages. 

Corn has a babbling stream and overflows with flowers, St Sulpice is lined with troglodyte houses, the cliffs looming above, Marcilhac huddles around a ruined abbey and Espagnac-Ste Eulalie around a knight templar commanderie (HQ). 

                                                                St Sulpice

                                                                                   

We hitch-hike on the way back to the caravan. Every time we stand in a good spot with our thumbs up, I bet a cool beer that nobody will give us a lift for the next 15 minutes and every time I lose, to our merriment. The cicadas rattle steadily under the beating sun and there is comfort in knowing that we can paddle and splash in the river that flows just beneath the bank where we camp. We read, chat, eat local goat cheese with figs and honey under the willows. Bottles of the local red vanish like magic in our glasses. 

From our vantage point, we hear the shrieks of kiddies bobbing on their inflatables in the current, the yapping of excited dogs and the leisurely chats and laughter of adults. It is remarkable how quiet this busy campsite is. No loud radios, no shouty people, a good natured crowd, all of us under the spell of this little paradise. 

One other days, we are dragged north into the heat by a pottery market in St Céré and a bucolic walk in chestnut and oak forests. This region in the south west of France used to be called the Quercy, from the latin Quercus which means oak. You understand why when you walk through. (Map below)

St Céré

                                                                                                               

                                                                                                              

Jacky reopens his pilgrim hostel, la Mariotte in Montredon, and I help him clean, a tedious task that involves disinfecting all surfaces and struggling duvets into covers because of the damn virus. I much prefer cooking and sharing meals with the joyful crowds, loaded with the oxygen and the good spirit of the walk, happy to relax and tell tales and jokes around a table laden with delicious fare. 

Le Perdigal

Charlotte has moved with her friends to what will be their future commune, only a 30 minutes drive from Figeac. At le Perdigal, the land is vast with barns aplenty. The plan is for me to go and give a hand at times. So, here goes : I can manage the chickens. I am not a great success at milking the goats and I have as much authority on them as I did on teenage students during my thankfully brief stint in English state education. 

I can make goat cheese and it is magical how quickly it works. This year is a good one for plums. Apples and pears are ripe a month early. There is an old dear of a dog who plays with the ginger cat. The doors of the chicken-coop are salvaged from a 2CV. Hills and mountains stretch far under the thundery skies. The bread oven is still in use. This here is the land of plenty. 

And I find a home when I least expect it, which I manage to secure just before lockdown. It is located more or less plumb in the centre of this map, the heart of the Quercy, in a small village called Soulomes, 100 inhabitants and a village hall where people gather to dance and sing songs in Occitan, a language that survives by the skin of its teeth, not dissimilar to Catalan or Spanish. Soulomes is perched at the top of the high plateau and, on a clear day, you can see the volcanoes of the Auvergne in the distance. In Occitan, Soulomes means 'seul homme', 'only one man', because during the plague, that's who was left alive in the village. It does put things into perspective in these pandemic times. 

My future home is a sturdy stone house and barn, with central heating, two bathrooms, attic rooms, a garden and an orchard of manageable size, in front of a twelfth century church with bells ringing every hour (I might live to regret this) and a twelfth century knight templar HQ. I joke this is very Indiana Jones and maybe I will find a treasure when I dig my vegetable patch. I still have no idea how old the house is. It has been well converted but I hear one of the walls in the cellar belonged to the Knight Templar commanderie. When I see the solicitor for the final signature a week before Xmas, he will reveal the history of the house, owner after owner after owner after owner.... A cherry tree is planted in front of the south facing terrasse and the huge, high ceilinged main room, with walls of clear stone, has a fireplace large enough to sit inside the hearth, like people used to. It has been a happy family home, the owner told me. There will be ghosts.

Phil, who has his finger on the pulse of the times, urges me to move our belongings from his studio in the UK, before the lockdown he foresees will last well into the spring and before Brexit turns moving across borders into a headache. Queues of trucks needing to produce custom papers, overworked border staff and an altogether Monty Python situation, which this rigmarole has been since the beginning, since that ill-fated and ill-informed vote. Let's not go there.

So, spurred by a sense of urgency and by the possibility of storing boxes, art, tools and furniture in the garage of my future home, I rent a small truck and bravely does Phil drive north. It is heart-breaking for him to close his studio, the Covid situation making it impossible for him to travel there on a regular basis. While he jams things tight in every nook and cranny, lockdown starts in France and, the truck loaded up to the gills, he lumbers his way back from the wilds of Essex to the high plateau of the Quercy. Fortunately, removals are still allowed. It is one exhausting feat and it will take him a week to recover. 

Figeac is not just charming, it is a small town with a buzz, where solidarity is not just a word. It is rife with associations and a dynamic 'back to the roots' alternative crowd. 'La petite graine' is a convivial restaurant, almost completely run by volunteers. It is Samia's baby, nurtured with generosity. Once a week, on the vegetarian day (hurrah!), I go and peel mountains of vegetable. The kitchen is full of laughter and enticing smells, a place where all are welcome, whether they are migrants, youngsters with issues or retired ladies with big smiles. It's a big family where all lend a hand. In August, Samia invites us volunteers to a thank you meal out in the yard and produces a  delicious kind of pizza with fresh trouts from the river.    

The other day, I contributed to the preparation of 180 take-away paellas to help warding off the hideous  head of bankruptcy. Not only is the restaurant surviving lockdown closures but it still manages to donate meals to the homeless. There are unsung heroes worth singing about.

                                                    When it opened! (Image la dépêche.fr)

Just as I was writing this, the phone rang. Samia. She needs my help. Thoughts cross walls and distance. Like with Marieke, lockdown it might be but it is not devoid of synchronicity.

In August, while I am driving around to fetch internet bargains for my flat, I give a ride to a hitch-hiker. Arthur is waiting in the rain with his guitar. Sometimes, he plays at the 'Arrosoir' (the watering can), an associative café in the centre of Figeac, which he urges me to attend. I discover a social hub. On weekend evenings, musicians and a cheerful aperitif drinking crowd congregate in its stunning fifteenth century courtyard. Flamenco and jazz bands pass around the hat for coins and banknotes, couples dance on the street as a balmy night, soft as silk, descends on the old stones. Volunteers organise free theatre, choir, language groups. I attend a monthly tarot session. It gathers, as I thought it would, a bunch of quirky, creative and intuitive nutcases, their minds reaching into mysterious realms. This does feel like home. 

The courtyard at l'Arrosoir

On the rue Emile Zola, there is an association of potters where Serge, a patient soul with forty years of experience under his belt, revives my dormant and basic skills on the wheel. I am determined to throw my own bowls and plates for my new house. Oh the happiness of letting all thoughts drift away and be the earth that finally centres between my hands, magically. 

                                                                                                                    Studio 36 (La dépêche.fr)

                                                                          

This is all now closed. Friends can't be visited, paths can't be walked. It feels like having barely started to soar and suddenly crashing onto a bleak and solitary landscape.

Of course, neither does the town hall organise anymore the welcome drink and tour for newcomers in Figeac. Just before lockdown, I am lucky enough to be invited to one and I learn a sackload of factoids. In Roman times, a tribune, Figeus, built his villa on top of the hill where the church now stands. Figeus accum (Figeus's place), became Figeac. Where the market used to stand in the Middle Ages is where I still go on Saturday mornings to replenish my store of fruit and vegetable. This building I see every day is from the 12th century. Beams were inserted into the square holes still visible in its facade to support an awning above the wares on display. Those ogival arches led to a shop, as they still do. 

The 'soleilhos', the typical open air attics on top floors of town houses were stores for grain, chestnuts and walnuts. I live in such a converted attic. Walnuts were pressed to make lamp oil. I make vinaigrette with it.

                                                Soleilho at the top of this 13th century building

(Image tourisme-lot.com)

A lot of damage occurred during the 100 years war, mostly in-between fighting years when mercenaries were idle and wreaked havoc out of sheer boredom and lack of funds. Behind these walls were the abbey's gardens. This house is where Champollion was born, the scholar who deciphered the hieroglyph. This square shelters a replica of the Rosetta stone by the American artist Joseph Kosuth, in honour of the bicentennial of Champollion's birth. Egyptian, Demotic and Greek. 

La place des écritures

The other day, on my permitted one hour walk, I chatted with an old man fiddling with his plants in the sun. In the fifties, he said, Figeac was an abandoned shell of crumbling medieval jewels. The push for preserving national heritage in the sixties slowly restored it to its past beauty. 

During autumn half-term, I am proud to walk my brother, Thierry, though its streets, my turn to be a guide. The relaxed pace takes him away from the stress and anxiety of Paris, of teaching chamber music all day with a mask, of the high infection rate in the capital city. Sunny days see us ambling through the countryside and picnicking by the river. We visit the Champollion museum, not only dedicated to hieroglyphs but to the many scriptures and alphabets of the world, a surprising treasure trove in such a small town. He is gobsmacked by the prehistoric cave of Pech Merle. The 29 000 year old paintings leave him speechless with awe.  

                                                                                                                               Musée Champollion

                                           The horses of Pech Merle (archaeology-travel.com)

On the camino again

On the week before Thierry's arrival, seven of us go on an eighty kilometre walk to Rocamadour, a reminder of the camino, of what it feels like to happily collapse in the evening, limbs aching, and to revive as new in the morning, ready to trudge on. The last leg is the most spectacular, along a deep gorge strewn with ruined water mills, crowned at the end by the view on Rocamadour from below, houses and churches scrambling up the steep slope into the evening sky.

Rocamadour

And, on October 31st, Gwendoline, my big girl, and her partner Jason get married in Hongkong. Just before 3am, my alarm rings. I dress quickly into something more elegant than pyjamas and pray for a good signal. It feels so good that, quarantine notwithstanding, they can still be surrounded by their friends, that videos and messages of good wishes converged from all over the world. On Zoom, I share with them the short and efficient Hongkong civil ceremony. They exchange their vows behind masks. She is, they are, growing their own roots far away. Feeling quite tearful, it takes me a while to fall asleep again. I keep in store a huge mother of the bride hug for when the world opens up again.

Here, now, cafés are empty, restaurants shuttered, bars closed and they will remain so until mid-January. All the non-essential shops have reopened as well as the library. I will at last be able to buy warm socks and stock on comics and on novels the size of cobblestones. Now, that sounds essential to me but what do I know. It is now allowed to walk/cycle from home up to 20 km. Christmas will not be solitary. The government would have had a revolution on their hands otherwise. Life, that was grinding into a grounded halt, is starting again with cautious baby steps. Swallows have left south for the winter. There are days when I wish I could fly.