Regular readers know to go to www.lesnpat.smugmug.com and scroll down for photos originally included in this chapter.
Chapter 19 - retirement and the freedom to go exploring
Retirement freed the Dickasons to experiment with a wide range of new travel experiences. The south of France, Western Australia and New Zealand jumped up the must visit lists for travel in the first two years.
Pat’s sister in Melbourne had a glowing recommendation from a friend for some cottages in the south of France owned by two Australians, and informed us that if we wanted to join them we could reserve two of the six cottages for a week in each. After checking the ‘cottages in France’ website, and after some discussion by e-mail with the relatives, we decided on a week each in the Tarn cottage and in the Haute-Provence cottage in September 1999.
Following up on a reference from a Canadian friend, the Dickasons worked with Andre of EuropCar in Montreal to reserve a Renault to be collected and returned at the airport at Toulouse, while Margaret and David reserved their own Renault for collection there but a drop-off in Provence. Dickason flights would be from Vancouver to Heathrow, with a same-day connection for the short flight to Toulouse. As the bus took its circuitous route from our arrival terminal at Heathrow to the departure terminal, the Dickasons were horrified by the acres of luggage underground in rows visible from the bus. Fingers were crossed that our luggage would find its way to the connecting flight on that holiday weekend.
On Saturday afternoon the Dickasons met the Irvines at the Toulouse airport given that they had timed their arrival to be close to ours, and we gathered in the arrivals area for hugs and to collect luggage. The Irvines soon had theirs - the travel gods had frowned however, and the Dickasons had to visit the luggage claim desk to report theirs as missing. So, making alternative plans to cope with the situation, Margaret, David and Pat left to collect the Irvine’s Renault and head off to the cottage in Ambres, a tiny village not far from the larger town of Lavaur, within 50 km of the Toulouse airport.
Les waited for the next flight from the UK, but, with no sign of the luggage arriving, and not wanting to forfeit the Renault booking, Les collected the car and drove off to catch up with the other three.
The six cottages owned by the Richards are spread across the south of France. The Richards had bought one during their travels several years ago, intending it for their own use, and to lend to some relatives and friends. When other friends and acquaintances encouraged them, they bought another cottage, then a third, and so on. The cottages are all in older buildings - built originally from the 14th to 18th century - and are completely renovated and self-contained with new beds and bedding, telephone, TV, CD and DVD players, books, iron, laundry, barbecue, and fully equipped kitchens. Arriving in the Ambres cottage, La Maison des Tournesols [house of the sunflowers], north east of Toulouse, we discovered much of
the exterior and interior featured original handmade bricks, and that while the front of the building was very plain, the back looked onto a small patio, which had a view of the fields below with fruit trees and fields of sunflowers and maize crops. Ambres, with fewer than 800 people, was a hilltop village with a church and small school, but no shopping facilities.
Both cars had made stops between the Toulouse airport and Ambres, buying supplies to provide a home cooked dinner the first night and breakfast the next morning. Les had stopped in a gas station, and after filling the Renault found that there was a range of local wines available there and so bought several bottles.
As the quartet unpacked and explored the cottage, we discovered one large plastic box filled with brochures and maps for sightseeing in the local area, a very comprehensive set of instructions from the Richards on the day to day operation of the cottage, and two very valuable books. One was a journal of experiences written by previous renters, with entries varying from two paragraphs to several pages in length. The other provided reviews of nearby restaurants written by those who had been in the cottage. These books proved very valuable in pointing the way to day trips and to reliable places to eat out when cooking at home was no longer a novelty.
The journal entries informed of shops and supermarkets in nearby Lavaur, and many renters raved about the markets held in small and large towns in the area. The Richards had posted on the kitchen cork-board a roster of these markets showing which market in what town was on which day and whether morning or afternoon.
With access to so many outlets for food, it did not take long for a routine to develop, with breakfast in the cottage [David travelled with his own cereal and Vegemite] followed by a preparation of a picnic lunch to be taken in the car on day trips, and dinner cooked in the cottage with the Dickasons and Irvines alternating as chefs from day to day.
However, a problem had to be overcome - missing luggage. There was no success using the telephone to ascertain whether the luggage was at Toulouse airport on Sunday morning. So Les drove back to the airport, checked with the lost luggage area, but with no success, though he did manage to persuade the agent to take note of the cottage phone number and Les secured a promise of a phone call when the cases arrived.
Back at the cottage, Les discovered that the trio’s reading of brochures in the plastic box had shown that an annual apple festival in Cordes sur Ciel, less than an hour’s drive north across the Tarn River, was held on this particular Sunday. A first sightseeing trip in the larger Renault was agreed upon, and David drove with Les navigating and providing driving suggestions based on previous trips to France.
Cordes sur Ciel was perched atop a hill, and was our first fortified bastide town, this one dating back to the early 1200s. It was very busy, with parking on the outskirts, and all narrow streets through the centre of town closed to vehicles for the special day. As we strolled towards the centre we passed demonstrations of ice-carving, stalls selling local products, and in the square found the highlight of the day being prepared - a huge apple pie.
Stokers were sweating profusely as the fire was prepared under the gigantic pie plate - chefs stood by with buckets of cut apples, lemon juice, pastry, butter and spices. As the crowd grew, the chefs started work, in teams with different coloured scarves. The pastry was rolled and laid, the apples poured on and raked level, spices were sprinkled, butter added and the crowd applauded.
The quartet left before the pie was cooked, cut and served to the large crowd, but did stop at stalls to buy apples. Given the jet lag, it was a fairly short stay at the festival on a very hot afternoon, and on the road back to Ambres, we attempted to shop at a supermarket and found that, on Sundays, most small town and village shops in France do not open, or if they do, are open only in the morning. The balance of the drive back to the cottage had several detours as we checked for somewhere to buy essential supplies for Sunday dinner and Monday breakfast. Between the pauses for shopping, the tourists also stopped to photograph the fields of sunflowers - facing the afternoon sun.
On Monday morning, there was a welcome phone call from the airport in Toulouse, so Les made yet another drive on a now very familiar route, claimed the luggage [which the agent said had been ‘perdu’ [lost] at Heathrow for 48 hours], drove back to Ambres for a quick un-packing, a change of clothes, and then the relaxation and sightseeing started in earnest.
The rest of the week seemed to fly by with something new and exciting each day. One remarkable day was spent in Albi, the ‘red town,’ so named because many of the main buildings were built from the bricks made from the clay banks of the Tarn River which flows slowly through the town. The Cathedrale de Ste Cecile, which was built in the 13th and 14th centuries, was most impressive, but soon Pat and her relatives were at the entrance of the Musee de Toulouse-Lautrec to explore the history and art of this famous Frenchman. Les, meanwhile, went on a photography walk to see the various old and new bridges over the Tarn [with artists complete with easel and palette every 100 metres painting the view], the birthplace of Lautrec, and the Palais de la Berbie [also 12th century] with its beautiful formal gardens [see photo on the next page].
Another day trip followed a suggested ‘dyer’s and weaver’s’ route which started at the Chateau de Magrin, where our shoes were soon covered by sticky mud reminiscent of that on farms back in Australia. The view from the castle was of fields of the plant which provided the dye which was a staple of the dyeing industry centred on Castres. There weavers had set up warehouses on the banks of the Agout River, and export of the product was very profitable. Once in Castres, we explored some more formal gardens and then toured the Musee Goya which houses the largest collection of Spanish art in France. This was located in the Bishop’s Palace built by the same architect as much of Versailles, and the building was as impressive as the collection inside.
On one other day trip, after a picnic alongside the Tarn with a view of an old stone mill-house which still generated electricity, we visited the Jardins de Martel, a complete contrast to the old buildings of Albi and Castres. This small botanical garden and flower park was only opened to the public in 1994, and was landscaped on a hillside with ponds and pools. It featured plant varieties from many countries, and a greenhouse of aquatic plants.
And of course, the week provided an interesting exploration of the food and wines of the Gaillac region. The markets and the shops featured fresh produce and fruit - there were orchards in every direction from Ambres - many with netting to guard against damage from hail and invading birds. At times our Renault stopped beside the road to collect fallen apples and figs, and often grapes hung over fences and were easy to pick. Large flocks of geese were seen in the fields, though fois gras did not seem to be readily available in September. Olives were abundant in the markets, and so were cages of rabbits, chickens and other birds.
The wines of the region, made with predominantly Mauzac [white] and Duras and Braucol [red] grapes came in distinctive bottles, and though we tried several, it was tempting to buy wines from the nearby Loire, and of course Bordeaux and Cahors wines were available too to provide bottles with more familiar labels for tasting. The cottage proved to be a very comfortable place to cook, eat and relax each evening [the living room is shown on the next page].
After the heat of the first Sunday, the weather cooled and was much more relaxing for sightseeing, and on a couple of nights, we sat and dined on the back patio overlooking the valley below Ambres.
Suddenly it was Friday and time to clean the cottage, pack, plan a route to the second cottage, and celebrate with a dinner in Lavaur with the fridge and kitchen cupboards almost empty. When we arrived in sunny Lavaur that evening, we discovered the main boulevard was crammed with people strolling past a wonderful display of vintage cars - David was in heaven and had to be dragged away to go to our chosen restaurant for dinner.
Transition day was a long, tiring one. Our route, south and east, started with a winding road through some forested areas south from Castres and Mazamet, until we reached the main highways, but had to twiddle our thumbs as we negotiated the roads and traffic around the tourist town of Carcassonne. Once we reached the city of Narbonne, auto-routes were available as we drove parallel to the Mediterranean. As the road turned north to take our two car convoy past Nimes, and through Orange, the countryside changed drastically as Provence and its soft and warm beauty was around us.
The rural areas to the east of Orange meant slower progress, and, knowing shops would be closed on Sunday, we stopped at a supermarket outside Vaison la Romaine to buy staples for the balance of the weekend. Finally, we saw the welcome sign for Buis les Baronnies - and then the fun really started.
The Richards provided keys and maps in advance by snail mail, and included were instructions on best places to park for unloading. But, tired at the end of a long day, and with light failing, neither driver and neither navigator could see the entry to Grande Rue which led to Rue des Trois Chapons as we circled the ‘ring’ road. After
three rounds of the centre of the village, Les re-read the instructions and suggested we look instead for the entry to the church courtyard which was recommended for overnight parking.
Success was ours on the next round of the ring road and we parked by the church. Climbing out of the car, and wandering around to find the correct alley to walk down to La Maison des Trois Chapons, Les was approached by three pre-teen boys who were kicking a football.
”Perdu Monsieur?” asked one of the boys. “Oui, je cherche la maison du Richards,” Les replied. Nodding, the boys grabbed Les by the hand and raced down a gap between the church and another building. The cottage/house was literally around the corner, well, three really, 100 metres from the car park. Once Les had been shown the door, it was a simple matter of retracing steps to the two Renaults to corral the other three, collect a box or case each, and then return to the cottage to unlock and settle in for dinner and an early night.
Later that night, after Les had returned to the cars for the last of the personal belongings, coats, hats and maps, the same boys met him in the parking area, and with a grin asked, “Perdu encore, Monsieur?” Les grinned back, replied in the negative but thanked them, and turned down the correct street and around the required corners.
The cottage in Buis was on a very narrow street or ruelle which only permitted foot traffic. We joked that the name of the street referred to its width - ‘three chickens.’ It had a kitchen and dining room just inside the front door, a living room and bathroom and WC on the next floor, a main bedroom on the next floor up, and a final bedroom with a wash basin on the top floor with a balcony with table and chairs [with a view of the Baronnies mountains].
We quickly found the same contents that we enjoyed at Ambres - instructions from the Richards, the plastic box of brochures and maps, the schedule for markets, and the journals and reviews of restaurants from previous renters..
“Buis”, officially a commune in the Drome department, had approximately 2300 people living there. As a result, as a marked contrast to Ambres, there were shops, services, schools, buses and more. Also in contrast to the Tarn cottage, the surrounding terrain was made up of mountains and sheer rocky outcrops such at Rocher St.
Julien \which towered over the village and was a rock-climber’s delight. However, the location was ideal for exploring the many sights of this region on the edge of Provence. The picture at right shows this upthrust rock from a side view from the outskirts of Buis.
Les quickly developed a routine in the mornings of putting on a Tilley hat and heading out for a walk pre-breakfast and before the rest of the house was stirring. During a stroll along the Ouveze River, under the 15th century arcades to make a stop at the Tabac shop to buy the International Herald Tribune, another at the local bakery for a baguette and a sinful chocolate brioche or a croissant, smiling shopkeepers were very patient with Les’ French, and others passed in the street gave a gutteral ‘jour’ greeting. Each morning, Les enjoyed watching the scene in an alley beside La Boucherie where the owner placed scrap meats on saucers for the homeless cats which were guarded during their breakfast by the butcher’s dog which chased off interloping dogs.
The plastic box revealed a brochure with three ‘routes’ for tourists to explore - one for olives, one for lavender, the other for wines. The first sightseeing day the larger Renault took us along the olive route, past a 300 year old olive tree, and into stores which featured artistic use of the olive tree woods, and of course sold olives and olive oils. The route du vins had the quartet driving through vineyards, and every corner had signposts to wineries with tastings available.
The guest book at the cottage had suggested looking under the kitchen sink to find the 3 litre plastic wine cask and taking it to a local winery for filling. We chose Cave Gely, Domaine Champ-Long because its name reminded the Aussies of ‘Long Flat’ winery downunder, and inside we found we could taste wines, and have our plastic wine container filled with wine priced at less than $4 a litre. \At the Buis market a few days later, there were stalls operated by vintners offering a similar service filling bottles or wine jugs such as the one at the cottage. With sausages followed by local cheeses that night back in the cottage, many glasses of Champ-Long were consumed.
Many comments in the guest book referred to the wonderful view to be had from Mont Ventoux and given that this site had some interesting connections to the Dickasons and for the Irvines, we drove out to reach its summit on the first sunny day. The Dickasons had prior knowledge of the mountain [just over
1900 metres] from watching TV coverage of the Tour de France; the Irvines knew that the roads leading up and down were used as test tracks for prototypes of new models of cars.
We approached the mountain from the east side, and soon found cyclists in groups or as individuals, panting their way up to test themselves against the route taken in some years by the professional cyclists.
At the summit, we were able to see as far as the Mediterranean to the south and the Swiss Alps to the east. Ceramic display signs showed the features visible in each of the directions from this scenic spot. On the road down to the west, we saw evidence of the car testing. Coming up the mountain were several cars with masking tape covering all identifying marks, logos and emblems and with drivers wearing crash-helmets.
The excitement for the day was not yet over. Planning the night before had suggested a route back through Beaumes de Venise, a wine region famous for its ‘sticky’ or dessert wine, so once on the plains again, the Renault was in the midst of vineyards. The photographers on board wanted pictures of vines, preferably with pickers at work. After by-passing several opportunities with professional pickers, we stopped and tentatively walked in between the rows and approached a three-generation family picking the ripe Carrignan fruit.
Les was pushed forward to ask the father if we could take photographs and he smiled, nodded, and explained to his mother, his wife and their three children that Canadians and Australians had come to visit. Not only did we take photos, but they taught us how to select bunches of ripe grapes and cut the stems before placing the bunches in the baskets on their backs. The full to overflowing baskets were emptied into the large metal trailer behind the tractor.
Soon after leaving this idyllic setting, and passing other vineyards where mechanical harvesting was taking place, we pulled into the parking lot of the Co-op of Beaumes de Venise. Inside, we tasted the range of wines - not just the dessert wine we were familiar with, but red, rose and white varieties too.
As we returned to the car, another delightful surprise awaited. The father from the vineyard had arrived in his tractor, and we were able to watch as the container of ‘our’ grapes was tipped into the hopper, and the crush began. The man grinned with pride and asked us to wait - after parking his tractor and trailer, he went into the Co-op and returned with a plastic glass of the juice from the crush - it was sour, but gave a sense of completion to the experiences of the lovely afternoon.
There was one more connection yet to come. That night, after such a busy day we decided instead of cooking at the cottage, we would follow the many recommendations from the restaurant book and walk to the arcades in Buis and dine at La Fourchette. On the wine list was the previous vintage of the Rose from the Co-op we had visited that afternoon - we ordered it of course, and made yet another link in the wine-making experience which started when we stopped the car that afternoon.
On leaving La Fourchette where the food was as good as the guest reviews had promised, Les spied a poster in the window for the work of an artist in nearby Vaison La Romaine. It seemed to us that the poster captured the essence of the Provence we had been enjoying the last few days, and Les asked the owner of the restaurant if we could take the poster as a souvenir. She gladly agreed, and now framed, it hangs in the hallway of 3377 in Nanaimo.
Buis had a link to the Roman empire though there was no evidence still standing there. However, we had a complete view of Roman history in southern France when we visited Vaison La Romaine the next day. The theatre was in almost perfect condition, and on the same bank of the river, an ancient Roman colony indicating immense homes with ponds, statues, thermal baths showed life in these ancient times.
Not far away was the archaeological museum which contained many of the mosaics, statues and implements excavated from the digs on the colony site. [a photo is included on the next page.]
While Margaret and David strolled through the modern shops, the Dickasons walked up the hill above the river to seek out the artist whose poster we had been given the previous night.
The studio was on one of the narrow streets below the ruins of the castle, and the artist took a break from print-making and explained her current series of works depicting ‘her Provence.’ She apologized that she had no more prints of the monk with the cloak of fields that was on the poster, but the Dickasons bought another of Ansatu’s work, a plate with knife and fork alongside but holding a scene of the farmland from which the foods of Provence are harvested. A glass of white wine is shown behind the plate with low hills of Provence as the background. It is hanging on the wall of 3377 as well as the poster.
In the photograph below, the “Provence on my plate” print can be seen just above the open sign on the left - Ansatu [this is her brush name - a common practice in the French art world] posed for us outside her gallery and workshop.
During our second to last night in Buis, a nasty storm hit and wind and rain lashed the house. The roof sprang a leak, and the Irvines had to move their bed, position a bucket for drips, and we reported the damage to the local manager. During Les’ early morning walk, the Ouveze River was flooding over its banks in a couple of places, and branches and leaves littered the normally tidy streets.
During the last day, a short trip to the lovely hilltop villages in the Luberon valley and a relaxing time in Buis watching the locals play boules under the plane trees on the banks of the river occupied much of the day before we took a drive up the hill to photograph Buis in the afternoon light.
Then it was time for housekeeping, packing, and a final dinner at Le Phare where we enjoyed dinner on the patio sampling more of the wines from the Ventoux region. We struck up a conversation with some other diners who were speaking English, three from the UK and one living in Buis. The local switched to French briefly and when Les replied, he said; “you must be the one the shopkeepers call “l’homme du chapeau etrange!” Apparently the keepers of the stores on Les’ early morning walk had created this strange hat nickname on the first morning. We were invited back to the house rented by the other diners for drinks, but after one glass each there, we excused ourselves citing an early morning start on the next day.
The Irvines had arranged to drop off their Renault in Provence and take the train to Paris for their flights back to Australia. The Dickasons, with a car due back in Toulouse, spent three more days travelling across France, but on an inland route markedly different from the one taken on our way east just a week ago.
It had been a fun experiment, and memories of wonderful meals prepared in the cottage kitchens with local wines and cheeses gave the Dickasons an interest in returning and visiting more the cottages owned by the Richards. A later chapter will provide details.
The Dickasons final three days in southern France produced some interesting experiences. The gorges of Ardeche and of the Tarn were most unexpected. The road chosen wound its way along the upper rim of deep gorges, and views from belvederes were impressive. At one lunch stop, Pat soon had company as she ate her sandwich at the trunk of the Renault, as the picture at left illustrates.
One night was spent at a small hotel in Florac which featured memorabilia connecting the area to the travels and writings of Robert Louis Stevenson - and had a wonderful restaurant too.
We took a road down to the Tarn river level, and alternately took a boat ride downstream. The boat rides began in the small town of La Malene and rather than risk leaving the car loaded with our luggage, Pat took the ride first while Les enjoyed a beer at a riverside cafe. When the 8 km downstream cruise was finished, the boatman, who had used just a pole to steer on the current, helped the passengers ashore. The boat was hoisted from the water, placed on a trailer, and passengers and boatman drove back in the van to La Malene. Pat had coffee while Les took his turn in the boat, with a different boatman. He spoke no English, so Les did some translating for the two Israelis who shared his ride.
The rock formations, gravelly beaches, colours of pools, and the absolute quiet of this stretch of water combined to make this interlude a welcome change from the hectic pace of the previous two weeks.
The morning after a night in a standard motel in Millau, the Dickasons drove to Roquefort where seven famous cheese companies had their base. The first one to open was Papillon, and with a young French guide who wanted to practise his English, the Dickasons learned all the secrets of the special mould from the walls of the caves, the breeds of sheep which provide the milk, and toured the production process - and of course bought the black label cheese packaged for our trip home.
The final night in France was luxuriously spent in a final splurge at a Chateau Relais hotel on the Tarn River just outside Albi. It was within easy reach of the Toulouse airport, and the next day, the car was returned, and the flights home began.
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