Blogetty Blog 18: Life in the Languedoc.

Provence and the neighboring region of Languedoc-Roussillon in the Southf of France are renowned worldwide as a shining haven of hedonism. My wife Vicki and I fell in love with the area during a visit in the summer of 1987 and after a brief search we bought a house in a dwindling village called Saint-Pons-la-Calm in the Languedoc.

Like most historic villages in the Rhone region it was built on a hill summit, originally for defensive purposes. It was situated twenty odd miles north-west of Avignon and close to the market town of Bagnols-sur-Ceze. It had not been ‘discovered’ and we were the only invading foreigners.

One reason for its decline was revealed by the astonishingly long list of its young men killed in WWI: a disastrous population setback for so small a community. By and large Britons still believe they won the war against the Kaiser with a little underrated American help, ignoring the colossal contribution of the French nation and its cost.

Although the Wine Co-Operative provided a successful local business producing a pleasant generic Cotes-du-Rhone, the village had a somnolent atmosphere. The Church was closed and locked, and a number of older houses were in ruins. Ours was on the edge of the village, had been built post WWII and boasted a fair-sized swimming pool in its simple garden. Vicki and I refurbished the interior ourselves, hanging new wallpaper and curtains in a soft floral design purchased in Bagnols.

Every morning I walked up the hill to buy bread at the only shop. Mme. Robert and her husband quickly became friends. Their home behind the shop was a large stone building with an open-air stairway and balconies supporting a huge Wisteria buzzing with bees which scented the entire courtyard.

At the close of one memorable dinner M. Robert introduced us to a dynamite liqueur called ‘L’Arquebuse’. It was a blast. At the end of our second summer in St. Pons their daughter Natalie came home with us to spend several months as nanny to our five year old son Valentine.

It is impossible to fully do justice to the joys of life in the Languedoc, so I will attempt to list but a few of its pleasures. I had always loved the fabulous wine of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, especially from a vineyard called Chante-Perdrix (Partridge Song).

On the first of many visits to Chateuaneuf we found Domaine Chante-Perdrix deserted but for a guardian dog on a long leash, but went on to discover the production ‘caves’ in the town.

I had brought a ten-year old bottle from home because I thought the proprietors might be interested in tasting it after ageing in an English cellar. They were totally astonished, delighted by its quality in maturity, and immediately gave me half a case of current vintage in exchange!

Then there was kayaking down the gorges of the river Cezes or feasting on quail eggs whilst watching the sun set over the neglected ruins of a temple to Diana, a reminder of the once extensive Roman presence in the Languedoc.

We shopped in the colourful street market in Bagnols for gorgeous white nectarines and vegetables for ratatouille, which we washed down with a delicious red Lirac pumped into plastic jerry-cans like ‘gas’ at its village Co-Op.

It was heavenly to dine al fresco on the terrace adjoining our living room, sheltered on the long warm evening by a canopy of Mulberry leaves. The night sky was deep blue in contrast to the luminous daytime skies of palest azure.

One evening a lady guest shrieked in horror when a great fat caterpillar dropped from above into her bowl of moules marinieres. In former times Provence and the Languedoc found fame and fortune in cultivating silk worms on mulberry leaves and I wondered if it were a descendant of that industry.

The long history of the region was constantly present around us. The present too of course: I remember one evening at the end of dinner as we were sipping a delectable dessert wine Valentine, aged five, who had heard us discussing the nectar in our glasses, began entirely impromptu, a sort of war-dance stamping his feet and waving his arms chanting the name he had overheard – “Beaumes-de-Venise…Beaumes-de-Venises” – over and over again with all the confidence of a rock star. He brought the house down.

But this is not just a post about indulgence, for there are matters of great import to be considered! So I would like us to concentrate our minds on the strange, but extraordinarily popular, phenomenon of the Dinoriders: a line of children’s action figure toys featuring the heroic Valorians and the evil Rulons, who were transported from the future back to the realm of the dinosaurs, where they played out that old timeworn battle of good against evil.

Children are often fascinated by dinosaurs, aided by dozens of books and the experience of watching the astonishingly convincing virtual reality of ‘Jurassic Park’. Valentine, named after Vicki’s first gift to me of Robert Silverberg’s glorious fantasy “Lord Valentine’s Castle” – I urge you to read it! – was no exception and he became enraptured by the world of the Dino-riders.

I enjoyed and encouraged his enthusiasm and suggested that the numerous ruined towers dominating lonely Provencal hilltops might have been constructed and even remained occupied by Rulons. It was not difficult to develop the concept in this unfamiliar and romantic landscape. We climbed to at least one and were disappointed to find no trace of such occupation. I took things a stage further when I found new Valorian and Rulon figures in the toy section of the Avignon Euromarche where we shopped frequently.

The previous owner of our property had kept chickens in an enclosure fenced and roofed with wire netting in a hidden corner of the garden. Amongst the waist-high weeds there was a skeleton structure of what had been a nesting box. I suggested to Valentine that it was an ideal location to set a Rulon trap. We tidied away the obstructing growth and wove an untidy sort of nest. I asked him what we should offer as bait and he recommended a one-franc coin – so that’s what we used.

Next morning Valentine hurried to inspect the trap, returning with a forlorn face, explaining, “No luck, Dad. It didn’t work.” I assured him success in life was achieved by patience and persistence. (Fibber!) And so we waited. The next morning he once again rushed to check his trap and strangely enough he returned triumphant to the breakfast table, so excited he could barely speak, holding out his trophy. “Look, Dad! Look who we caught. It’s Bomba!”

Imagine yourself at five: you have assembled a collection of toy creatures which you know are only pretend, but now to your astonishment they are materializing out of thin air into actuality in the trap you have constructed. You are convinced that your father is a reliable authority rather than nutty as a fruit cake so what do you do? Naturally you accept the impossible as perfectly normal.

I have often asked myself whether I might have permanently endangered his sanity but he told me recently that he soon began to wonder if there was something wacky going on. I defend myself by thinking I was stretching his imagination; besides the game was great fun for both of us.

*****

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