From Pyrenees to Pennines

Café society

A table in the sun, a moment shared with friends... French café life in the traditional style. — A table in the sun, a moment shared with friends… French café life in the traditional style.

Think of your last holiday in France, and it’ll probably include memories of a morning coffee and croissant in a cosy little bar, or of relaxing and people-watching with an evening pastis, sitting outside a café in some pretty sunlit square. Hang on to those memories.

In 1960, France had 200,000 cafés and bars. Now there are fewer than 40,000. Those characterful smoky rooms with dark wooden furnishings, and solitary men sitting at the bar nursing an early morning brandy are an endangered species. All over France, cafés are closing at the rate of about 10 a week. Blame TV, blame the smoking ban, , blame ‘la crise’, blame readily available alcohol in the supermarket. Whatever the reason, many cafés can no longer make a go of it.

Take Laroque. Our town of 2000 or so used to support more than half a dozen bars. Now there are three, and they struggle. Obé – that’s what everyone calls our Obelix look-alike – can’t make a living from half a dozen elderly men who come in most afternoons to nurse a single beer while they watch the afternoon’s horse racing. But he can cook, so he’s reinvented the bar as Table d’Angèle, a successful lunch-time restaurant serving home-cooking, mainly to tradesmen looking for a once-a-week treat to break up a day’s plumbing, building or electrical work.

There we are. That's Table d’Angèle. And there's Obé's van. He needs to offer outside catering too to bring home the bacon. — There we are. That’s Table d’Angèle. And there’s Obé’s van. He needs to offer outside catering too to bring home the bacon.

Down at Le Lounge, the owners have had to have a different strategy: food didn’t work for them. They tried a traditional menu. No good. Then they had a go at offering an eat-all-you-can buffet. When that failed, they tried Italian food. Now there’s no lunch-time menu at all. They make do with weekend trade, when sparkly lights and disco music attract the young people of the area before they head off for the Orient Express, the out-of-town nightclub at the once-upon-a-time station.

The Jingo’s still looking just about OK. It’s on the main road and seems to get a steady enough stream of customers. It may outlive the rest.

But bars can rise as well as fall. When le Rendez-Vous in Léran, the village next door, came up for sale a few years back it was a hopeless case: dingy, unpopular and seemingly beyond rescue. But an English couple who’d never run a bar in their lives bought it and made it the hub of village life. Shirley cooks with imagination and flair – she even has that unknown round here menu item, the vegetarian dish. Marek’s a cheerful and extremely hard-working host who’s always pleased to see you. Quiz nights, open mic nights, a big screen to watch the rugby, a cosy corner with books to read and exchange…. It’s a winning formula, and both French and English from the village and beyond ensure the bar’s kept busy late into the evening, especially in the summer.

Le Rendez-Vous one busy evening in mid-summer. There's an evening market in town too. — Le Rendez-Vous one busy evening in mid-summer. There’s an evening market in town too.

And over in Mirepoix, there’s another new café. The Mad Hatter isn’t just another bar. It’s hoping to cash in on the French love affair with things ‘so British’. A nice cup of tea with a scone or slice of ginger cake might not be traditional French fare. But it’s a welcome addition to café society, and yet another way in which the traditional French bar has to change, or sink without trace.

A welcome moment of calm, gazing out of the window over a cup of Earl Grey at The Mad Hatter, Mirepoix.

A man, a plan, a canal

Pierre-Paul Riquet. Pierre-Paul Riquet? Who’s he? He’s not much known in the UK, and I’m not sure how much of a household name he is in France either.

Pierre-Paul Riquet. Here he is, in the village of Bonrepos-Riquet.

But he should be. He’s the brains behind the wonderful UNESCO World Heritage Site, the Canal du Midi. This lovely and elegant canal, opened in 1681, is 240 km. long, and runs from Toulouse to the Mediterranean. It was built as a short cut from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, avoiding a long sea voyage round Spain. The idea had been discussed on and off since Roman times, but the problem was always the same. How to deal with such hilly terrain and how to supply those hilly sections with enough water.

The Canal du Midi: a typical view, courtesy of Wikipedia

Riquet thought he had the answer. Born in 1604 or 1609, he was a salt-tax collector. Tax collecting was a rich man’s job: at that time, it involved paying all the monies due to the king up-front, and worrying about collecting from the relevant subjects later. A rich man can have a fine home, so Riquet set out to buy the ideal spot, and in 1652, he found it: the ancient but run-down Château de Bonrepos, near Toulouse. It was a medieval building originally, fortified in the 16^th century. It interested him because it was a fine site, with splendid views of the Pyrenees (Not today: the weather was awful. Never saw the mountains at all through the gloom). More importantly for him, the surrounding terrain, resembling parts of the nearby Montagne Noire, enabled him to conduct hydraulic experiments round an ancient fishpond on site from which he developed reservoirs and water-filled trenches replicating sections of the future Canal du Midi. Bonrepos, then, was where he worked up his case for showing that the canal could after centuries of simply talking about it, become a reality.

The remnants of the mediaeval building interested him not at all. He had a fine classical building built – 100 rooms. Stone isn’t available locally, so it was built of Toulouse brick, and faced with stucco to hide this embarrassing fact: bricks were elsewhere the material of the poor. He had formal gardens built, orchards, an orangery. Every winter, an iceberg’s worth of ice was wrapped in hessian and floated from the Pyrenees to be stored in an excavated ice-house deep in the woodlands for use throughout the summer.

These days, the château is in a bad way. The stucco’s falling off, the windows are rotted, and the internal decorations are absent or shabby. The inhabitants of the small village where the château stands, Bonrepos-Riquet, bought the property some years ago, and while appealing for and attracting public and private funds, it also relies on monthly working parties of volunteers, who work enthusiastically in the house and grounds to stem the damage caused by wind and weather and to bring about improvements.

We visited today on one of Elyse Rivin’s informative Toulouse Guided Walks , which always focus on those corners of Toulouse and the surrounding area which you never knew about: you leave after her tour feeling an enthusiastic expert. With input from the château’s own volunteer guides, steeped in the story of the place, we formed a picture of Paul Riquet himself. He persuaded Louis XIV of his ability to master-mind the canal, and in 1661, work began, though he didn’t live to see the waterway opened as he died in 1680, leaving enormous debt and financial problems for his children who nevertheless continued the project. The labourers – men and women, up to 12,000 of them – who built the canal were among the best paid workers in Europe, to the disapproval of other less philanthropic employers. He insisted on provision being made for all aspects of their lives, from shops and refreshment to education and worship.

Those plane trees that line the canal. They offered shade, then as now, to those who travel along it. Their root systems bind the soil and offer stability to the canal, and the leaves don’t rot, so as they fall into the canal, they help make a waterproof base. Sadly, these days those trees are afflicted by a virus. One theory is that the wooden boxes which packaged American munitions in the war and were discarded along the canal, carried the infected spores and lay dormant for many years.

First view of the Château

Then we crossed over the dry moat. It was never filled with water.

A once-handsome stucco interior.

A glance through the window created to view that sweeping vista.

This isn’t Riquet’s study. But perhaps this 19th century version isn’t too unlike his own.

We’re round the back of the château now.

Stucco in sore need of repair.

This is the orangery, for winter storage of citrus trees. No windows on this side, to protect against the north wind.

And inside. Windows offer light and sun, the roof beams are splendid: soon, this space will be fit for concerts and exhibitions.

And here are some of the volunteers working to make it all happen.

Below ground, back in the château, the original medieval kitchen had its own water supply – a well – useful in times of siege

Put hot coals in the slots, and there you have your plancha for grilling.

Outside in the woods – here’s the entrance tio the ice house.

A volunteer repairs the experimental canal system.

More volunteers work by the lake.

And there’s so much else. Follow the links to get a fuller picture of the story, or better still, visit the Canal du Midi and Château Bonrepos, where this wonderful waterway was conceived and planned.

Catalonia visits southern France, bearing calçots

My daughter Emily’s just visited from her home in Barcelona, bringing her Catalan boyfriend, and an enormous bundle of calçots sent by his mother.

Eating calçots is a century-old tradition in Catalonia at this time of year. Garden onions are planted deep in the soil, and earthed up throughout their growing period, so they have long thick white stems, just like a leek’s. Harvested between Christmas and Easter, they’re a much appreciated local delicacy.

Really, they should be grilled fiercely over an open fire or barbecue. We lack a barbecue, and in any case, southern France has its own traditions: Holy week is cold, wet and miserable. Without fail.

So we settled for baking them in a fiercely hot oven. And then we got down to the cheerfully messy business of eating them. You strip the hot slippery skin off each calçot, and then dunk it in a punchy romanesco sauce before tipping your head back to ingest the lot. You need napkins, yards of kitchen roll – bibs would be good – and good bread to mop up the juices and sauce.

Serving the calçots. Another break with tradition. They should be on a terracotta roof tile.

We had fun, but probably not as much as if we’d visited one of the outdoor festivals dedicated to the eating of these alliums. Watch the video from Valls.

Eating the calçots. No red wine for us. The calçot-bearers drove back to Barcelona straight after the meal

Donkey Derby

That’s where we first spotted them: they were close to home then/

Then they came and inspected us on the hillside.

A game of chase.

Quite a long way from home now.

Can you spot them?

Time for a roll in the dust.

They’ve fallen behind us….

But they soon catch up.

It’s ‘Goodbye’ now. Unac and their home is far below us as we continue our walk.

We were walking yesterday in glorious spring weather near a little village called Unac, quite near the winter sports area of Ax-les-Thermes. Just outside the village, we spotted donkeys: eight of them. They spotted us too. They came to say ‘hello’. And then they followed us.

Every field for miles about was theirs by the looks of things, because every time we rounded a corner, or scrambled higher up the craggy path, thinking we’d at last said our ‘goodbyes’ to them, there they were again, peering over the fence and hoping for carrots, which we failed to offer.

Someone remembered that they must come from La ferme aux ânes, in which case their job is to carry the baggage of any hikers who care to hire them. But they weren’t working then. Like us, they were enjoying the first day of spring. They cheered our afternoon along no end.

A morning with Saint Pierre: two versions

Once there was a fine Roman city, Tolosa, and just outside its walls was a temple to one of their gods. Over the centuries, the city became Toulouse, and where there was once a temple, there’s now a concert hall. The building that was once outside the city walls is now quite definitely part of central Toulouse. What happened in all those years in between?

The first thing was that in the 4^th century the Romans left Tolosa, pursued by the Visigoths. And Visigoth Christians (who resembled Cathars more than they did the official Catholic variety) used the temple site to build a simple church. You can still see and visit its foundations today, and its ancient sarcophagi holding the bones of the long-dead.

This church building served its purpose for many years, until the 10^th century, when the count of Toulouse gave it over to the Benedictine order whose most important monastery in the area was at Moissac. And they built and extended the church which was and is known as Saint Pierre des Cuisines. Nothing to do with kitchens. The word is a corruption of the word ‘coquinis’ – artisans, of whom there were many in the busy streets nearby.

Over the years, the church became more important as a parish church to the local population, rather than as a centre of worship for the Benedictines, so in the 16^th century, the church became the property of the silent order of Cistercians. 18 monks had the use of the church and surrounding land and buildings. Their simple uncluttered contemplative life was in stark contrast to that of the nearby citizens of Toulouse, crammed into the narrow overcrowded streets where they lived and worked.

The church continued to be used as a religious building until the Revolution. Then, as for so many other churches, another secular use had to be found for it. And one was. The nearby arsenal was the local home of the army, and they took over the building to use it for … cannon ball manufacture. When this slightly inglorious use for the building came to an end, it remained unused until the University of Toulouse took it over during the 20^th century. Eventually the funds were found to restore it, and the building is now a concert hall with magnificent acoustics. So it’s now an established asset of the conservatoire, and part of that area of the university campus still known as the ‘arsenal’, in memory of its history.

It’s a beautiful and austerely simple building from the Romanesque and early Gothic periods, and a contrast with the other church we went to see just round the corner. This church, Saint Pierre des Chartreux was begun in 1612 to meet the needs of the Cistercians who had moved to the site. It has a very unusual feature. The high altar is right in the middle of the nave. Why? So the parishioners could worship at one end of the church without being able to see the contemplative Cistercians at the other end of the building. Much of the church is decorated in restrained grey and white stucco work, though there are stained glass windows by Louis-Victor Gesta, whose work is in several city churches, and ancient hammered ironwork.

Whilst in the area, walk round the corner and see the remains of the old Cistercian cloisters. Little is left, but there’s enough to show that a meditating monk would get a decent work-out by doing a single circuit.

And now it’s time to wander off and explore the little streets nearby: you’re never far from a lunch-spot in Toulouse.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

We discovered these monuments and learnt their story courtesy of Elyse Rivin and one of her Toulouse Guided Walks.

Laroque: a town tour

Here you are reading my blog: and the chances are that you’ve never visited Laroque.

Let’s go for a stroll then, and get to know the place a bit. You may think, when you’ve seen the photos, that the town is quite shabby-chic. It’s not. For the most part, Laroque is just plain shabby. It’s going through tough times, and it shows. Underneath it all, though, are characterful buildings, streets with a story, and even places that are enjoying a prosperous renaissance. Let’s set off from our house at the edge of the old town, and walk up Rue de la Joie……

And here’s Rue de la Joie: a happy name for a shabby street

But it’s a street with some very old houses indeed.

Laroque has several town squares. Here’s one: our market place on Thursdays

Another view of the square.

Onwards up the hill to the next square, Place de la Republique. This used to be the market place

And up the hill again – towards the church.

The fine great west door of the church.

Just a quick walk out of town. Chapelle St Roch used to be the parish church. But the town was emptied by the Black Death, and rebuilt lower down the hill, leaving the chapel isolated.

A view of the town from on high – old and new jostling together.

Back towards the church….

… and the old ramparts defending the town.

‘Beware of the bees’. But you can buy M. Gelineau’s honey at all the markets round here.

Once this textile factory was one of many, employing 1000s from the town and beyond. Now it’s disused and in ruins….

… and its grounds have become, in part, vegetable plots.

Sheep may safely graze outside the council flats.

We still have handsome houses in town.

This trompe l’oeil decorated the pharmacy, now closed, next to our house.

Once, the owners of the textile mills had fine houses such as this. Now it’s the home of the town nursery, the out-of-school club and the music centre

Snowshoes III: The very last episode

I’m not doing raquettes (snowshoes) ever again. Never. If I ever show signs of changing my mind, lead me into a darkened room, talk kindly to me, and sit with me till the feeling passes.

I have no idea how I got through yesterday. I must have done though, because every move I make causes some protesting and unhappy muscle to complain vigorously at the pain it endured on our expedition, and is still enduring now. Five hours walking, with half an hour off for lunch. Something over 600 metres up, 600 metres down – that’s nearly 1900 feet each way in old money.

I said last week’s sortie was tough. Compared with yesterday’s, it was a stroll in the park. I said last week’s was ‘an upward slog: unremitting, tough’. Yesterday’s was a vertical slog: unending, unforgiving. Last week, the snow had been deep and crisp and even, and easy to walk on. We had crunched satisfyingly upwards through the forest, and our descent had been a brisk and easy downward march.

Yesterday, following a warm and sunny week, the snow was soft and our snowshoes sank deep. Bad enough on the upward route march, but coming down, we all skidded, slipped and lost grip of our poles as they plunged into unseen cavities. I made landing smack on my back and descending bumpily downwards, legs waving helplessly in the air my personal speciality.

Still, it was good to see Montségur, looming above us at our starting point, providing points of reference throughout the day. Soon after we started, we were level with the castle at its summit, then it was below us, and disappeared for a while as we plodded upwards through a stretch of forest. At lunchtime it was impossibly far below. As we ate, we enjoyed plotting the landscape for other landmarks: Lavelanet and Laroque of course, the lac de Montbel, and far north of us, the Montagne Noire.

Best of all were the cloudscapes: massed plump white cushions of cumulus with wispy brushes of cirrus above, turning a more characterful and moody grey in the afternoon, foreshadowing the evening’s expected rain. We were just back at the cars when the rain arrived a little ahead of schedule, with a brief hailstorm of pencil-point-sharp hailstones to encourage us on our way. We didn’t need telling twice. Home comforts have never seemed more inviting.

We begin our journey as Montségur looms above us

The yomp begins

.. and continues

They’ve just discovered we’re not at the top!

Brow of a hill. Plenty more to come.

The climb continues.

Marcel seems to have managed to make me laugh.

The sky, Lavelanet and Laroque.

Can you just see the top of Montségur, far below?

Clouds at our chilly lunchspot.

Cloudscape

Homeward bound

Gathering rainclouds.

Montségur in view once more.

Back in the car. Just in time.

World Book Day…. UK version

Today’s World Book Day. I couldn’t understand why there seemed to be no sight of it here in France. It turns out we Brits are out of step. Celebrations in the UK are over a month ahead of everyone else’s. April 23^rd may be World Book day for everyone else, but it’s also Saint George’s day, and he’s England’s patron saint. Apparently he does dragons, not books.

It was the Spanish who first decided to celebrate books and reading on April 23rd, as a way of honouring Miguel de Cervantes, who died on that day. UNESCO made the connection that Shakespeare, as well as other writers, died or were born on the same day as Cervantes, and a world-wide festival was born.

Children have the most fun on World Book Day, whenever it’s held. Here are my grandchildren off to school this morning. They had to turn up as a character in a book….. so please meet Harry Potter, and Mr. Willy Wonka.

Books are often centre-stage in school all day and there are free books to be had for most lucky children

So many of my best memories of the children’s childhood centre round the books they enjoyed. That first winter of my daughter Elinor’s life was one of those once-in-a decade toughies. We were marooned in our house up an icy and snow-covered steep slope on one of Sheffield’s seven hills (‘just like Rome’). It was unthinkable to set foot outside with an unwieldy pram and a tottering toddler. But unable to do the daily round, or see friends, my then two year old son Thomas, my new baby and I simply cuddled up on the sofa. I read with him, and breast fed my daughter for hours at a time. I’d never have chosen such a harsh winter with all its limitations, but it remains one of the golden periods of my life.

Then, as now, the books we favoured had the rhythms and cadences, the witty and lively illustrations of authors like Quentin Blake.

Blake’s Mr Magnolia remained a family friend from the day his story was published in 1980 through the pre-school years of all three of my children. Any of us will recite his story to you at the least provocation.

Meet Mr. Magnolia. See? He has only one boot.

‘Mr. Magnolia has only one boot.

He has an old trumpet that goes rooty-toot

And two lovely sisters who play on the flute,

But Mr. Magnolia has only one boot.

In his pond live a frog and a toad and a newt……’

Young children now are privileged to have world-class illustrators and fine writers available to them for the price of a paperback, or the use of a library ticket. I’ve just had a high old time remembering old favourites loved by the whole family– Shirley Hughes’ Alfie, Rosemary Wells’ Noisy Norah, Nita Sowter’s Maisie Middleton, Roald Dahl’s heroes (Charlie of Chocolate factory fame) and anti-heroes (The Enormous Crocodile and of course the Twits). Make friends with any of these characters by the time you’re three years old, and with any luck, you’re hooked on reading for life. That’s what World Book Day’s for.

Alfie, his friend Bernard and a good book

Snow Shoes II, The Sequel

We walkers of Laroque got our snowshoes out again today (well, in my case, I borrowed some), and went for a much more local sortie, just above Montferrier and en route for the local skiers’ playground, Mont d’Olmes.

How different from our last walk. Instead of wide open snowfields with distant views, we had woodland walking and bright sunlight casting blue shadows across our path.

Instead of gentle slopes rising and falling before us, we had an upward slog; unremitting, tough. Micheline and I, discouraged and tired, failed to reach the top, and missed the prize: a frozen lake with snow-clad views in every direction. Most of the party stayed with us and kept us company. Though our views were less exciting than those of the intrepid climbers, our picnic was the better one. We low-achievers had wine, home-made cakes and hot coffee with us to supplement our bread and cheese.

And the journey down was completed in record time. We arrived home as our gardens were gently baking in the last of the hot afternoon sun. More of the same is forecast for several days: there won’t be much snow left this time next week.

Sunlight through the trees

Walking through the forest

We liked pretending large doggy prints were marauding bears

The walk continues

Wide open spaces once more

Glistening snow.

Whose prints are these?

White snow, blue sky.

Tree shadow

More tracks.

Buried info. board. The snow’s really deep.

We should be looking up at this signpost, not down.

Lunch spot.

A bit of fun at journey’s end. A snow castle. Montségur. We didn’t make it though.

Data unprotected

Arrive home to find that you’ve missed a call on the phone from an unfamiliar number? No problem. Just turn to the Pages Blanches (phone book) on the net and tap the number into the Annuaire inversé. Your caller’s details will be revealed. Try the same thing in the UK, and you’re up against data protection legislation. Although that always seems odd to me. If you’d been in to take the call, you’d have known who it was ringing you. Which is clearly the view they take in France.

Because Data Protection is clearly not big news here.

Recently, Malcolm and I went for blood tests. A few days later I popped into our local surgery for a repeat prescription, and our doctor spotted me in the reception area.

‘Morning! Have you a few moments? I’ve got your blood test results here. Shall I go over them with you?’

‘No’ was not the right answer. So she went though the lot, right there in the public area. Unluckily for the captive audience waiting to see one or other of the doctors, my results were very dull – nothing gossip-worthy there at all.

‘And since you’re here’ she continued, ‘I might as well tell you your husband’s results’. And she did. Malcolm’s results were dull too. In fact I had the utmost difficulty in reporting back to him, because I forgot most of what she told me.

I’d barely recovered from the shock of that blatant disregard of data protection when I needed to visit the mairie, the town hall. Having done what I needed to do, I chatted idly to the official I’d gone to see. Who told me, apropos nothing at all, that someone living fairly nearby had been admitted to a psychiatric ward. I simply didn’t need to know. In fact the person concerned was completely unknown to me at that time. This time, I wasn’t so much shocked as scandalised. I don’t expect to go to the mairie every time I want a good gossip. I don’t expect to have to wonder whether our own lives are part of the common currency of official chit-chat.

Life in France? Or just small town life? I’ve done a bit of Googling, and data protection legislation certainly exists in France: just not so much down here, in the fin fond de l’Ariège.