A Summer In Gascony

by Martin Calder

  We sat on chairs that were in fact old wine barrels with a section cut out to form a seat.

  Lunch was simple fare, starting with boiled artichoke hearts, still warm, for us to pull apart with our fingers and dip in oil, and a main course of choucroute and saucisse de Toulouse.

  ‘We’ve been living here for, er, let me think, six years now, or is it seven?’ said Hans, vaguely. ‘We’ve never looked back. Life in Frankfurt was so stressful. Life here is so self-contained.’

  ‘They’re very good at keeping things hidden in these parts,’ said Lotte. ‘There’s a lot more going on than you think.’

  Village gossip! Hans and Lotte were incomers, they would tell us things the natives would never let out.

  ‘You know the plump woman who runs the café?’ asked Hans.

  ‘Madame Parle-Beaucoup?’ I replied.

  ‘Well, that’s not her name, but I see what you mean,’ said Hans, amused.

  ‘Go on,’ I insisted.

  ‘Well, you know she has a liaison.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ I said.

  ‘Who with?’ asked Anja.

  ‘An elderly widower from the village,’ said Hans.

  ‘Monsieur Fustignac,’ added Lotte, giggling at the thought.

  ‘Oh, we’ve heard of him,’ said Anja, ‘he’s the Gascon speaker.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Hans.

  ‘Isn’t Madame Parle-Beaucoup married?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, she is married, but her husband turns a blind eye,’ said Lotte. ‘They have an understanding.’

  ‘That Monsieur Fustignac, he has a reputation as a old womaniser, un vieux trousseur de jupons,’ said Hans. ‘Not bad for his age,’ he added, with just a hint of scepticism.

  Never having seen the infamous Monsieur Fustignac, we were not in a position to judge. Trousseur de jupons is a funny expression, literally a bundler-up of petticoats.

  ‘They were caught once, en flagrant délit, in the Mairie!’ Hans told us.

  ‘It doesn’t seem to have cooled his ardour,’ laughed Lotte.

  ‘A word of advice,’ said Hans, in the tone of a friendly uncle. ‘Always show the people here that you respect them, never let them think you’re looking down at them. They’re quite sensitive. The Gascons haven’t always been treated well by outsiders. They’ve never forgiven Napoleon for conscripting a whole generation of young farmers into the army. They had riots over it at the time.’

  We left knowing a lot more about Péguilhan than we had before lunch. One thing we’d learnt: there was more to the Péguilhanais than met the eye!

  As we walked back to the Auberge we looked at the village houses in a different light, wondering what goings-on might be concealed behind those solid old wooden doors and shuttered windows.

  WHITE HORSES

  ANJA AND I DECIDED NOT TO HAVE A SIESTE AFTER LUNCH. Instead, we walked out along the ridge of the hill to the west of the Auberge, away from the village. At the far end of the ridge where the ground fell away on three sides, we found a good vantage point with a beautiful view, and lay down on the grass. A thin line of trees gave some shade from the burning sun. In a field on top of the opposite hill, a pair of white horses grazed.

  Anja had some letters to write. She lay on her front, letting her hair fall over her face for shade. While she wrote, I stretched out on my back and rested my arm over my face to shield my eyes from the strong light. The ground on the hilltop was baked hard, the parched grass dry and prickly. Wild teasels stood tall along the edge of the field, their spiny oval heads catching the light, glowing like small halos.

  Anja finished writing her letters, sealed the envelopes and we started to talk. Anja told me how she liked to practise modern dance in her spare time.

  ‘You’ll have to show me some moves,’ I suggested.

  ‘Not here!’ Anja replied emphatically, but flattered, I think.

  Away from everyone else, we could say what we liked. ‘What do you really think of life here?’ I asked her.

  ‘It’s good,’ she said, ‘but don’t you feel as if we’ve gone through a time warp?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve gone back to the Middle Ages.’

  ‘How do we explain the electricity and the running water?’ asked Anja.

  ‘Witchcraft.’

  ‘Do you think Jacques-Henri is a wizard?’

  ‘You never know!’

  The conversation grew slower and more punctuated with pauses. We were only pretending to complain about things; it gave us an easy excuse to get a little closer.

  All was quiet. The birds had taken shelter in the trees from the afternoon heat. Even the insects had fallen silent.

  Suddenly, the peace was shattered by the sound of a fighter plane roaring overhead. Bwwwcrcrcrcr… The jet flew low over the hills then vanished into the blue, leaving a booming echo reverberating along the valley. All went quiet again. The two white horses on the opposite hill were startled and they galloped in a circle around their high open field.

  ‘Ah, the twentieth century!’ Anja and I both sighed at the same time, as we looked towards the spot where the plane had vanished. But the sky was empty, and we turned our attention to each other again.

  Anja’s skin was a sun-kissed honey colour, irresistibly touchable; the sun had brought out the sprinklings of freckles on the sides of her nose. Her purple t-shirt had little flakes of dry grass clinging to it. I edged a little closer and rested a finger in the dimple inside her elbow. Tiny silver-blonde hairs stood up on her forearm.

  Over Anja’s shoulder, in the distance, I noticed the two white horses on the opposite hill approach each other, brush their muzzles together, then continue grazing.

  ‘Look at the horses over there,’ I said, ‘they’re horse-kissing.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we should do the same?’ asked Anja.

  ‘Well, we might…’

  This was our moment. Taking our cue from the horses we kissed, tentatively at first, our lips dry in the afternoon heat, then more urgently. We breathed in each other’s excitement, charged with a tingle and a spark.

  It felt as if we were the only two people alive in the world, on that remote, sun-baked hilltop, in the dry, fading heat of the late afternoon. We lost all sense of time. Sooner or later we would have to return to the Auberge; the others would be wondering what had happened to us.

  We walked as slowly as possible, sauntering arm in arm through the cool passageway into the courtyard, where Jacques-Henri was cleaning out the grill in the alcove. He stopped what he was doing, looked us up and down and smirked.

  ‘Ça va, les amoureux?’ he asked, cheekily. He did not look at all surprised to see us together.

  MÉCHOUI

  A SUBTLE MOORISH INFLUENCE CAN BE FELT IN GASCONY, A North African connection that can be traced back a long way. Following their conquest of Spain the Moors, under General Abd el-Rahmann, made incursions into southwest France during the eighth century. They got as far north as Poitiers, where in AD 732 they were defeated by the Frankish army under Charles Martel. As the routed Moorish army retreated southwards, which took several years, some soldiers chose to settle in Gascony. Their presence remains hidden in place names such as Maurs, Mauran, Montmaurin, Puymaurin, Castelmoron and Castelsarrasin. The Gascon expression for getting a suntan is hè’s moret, meaning to make oneself a little Moor. The Moors left some of their horses, which took refuge in the swamps and marshes of the Landes. Their wild descendants resemble modern Arab horses. The Moorish influence can also be seen in the architecture of some old brick churches. Perhaps their most enduring legacy in Gascony was the white bean they imported, ancestor of the haricot.

  Bastille Day – le 14 juillet, the national day of the French Republic – was celebrated by the Cazagnac family with a small feast at the Auberge. The food showed influences from North Africa. The centrepiece was a méchoui, a North African celebration dish, a whole lamb roasted on a spit outdoors from morning through until evening. Jacques-Henri’s younger sister Angel
ine and her husband Bernard came to eat, along with a few invited locals, including Hans and Lotte and Monsieur Fustignac. Apparently no feast was complete without the one and only Monsieur Fustignac.

  We all got up early on the morning of the méchoui. A suitably plump lamb had been chosen and slaughtered the day before. On the open ground beside the Auberge, Paul and I dug a trench about a lamb’s length and a spade’s depth. We scraped away the grass from around the edges, then filled the trench with firewood and stuffed in some straw kindling, which we set alight. By about mid-morning the wood was reduced to a glowing heap, with little flames dancing about here and there. At each end we set up an iron pole with a pivot and a ratchet at the top, which allowed the lamb to be slowly rotated and held in place at various stages of turning.

  Jacques-Henri arrived with the lamb carcass. He was accompanied by a Moroccan man named Youssef, the local méchoui expert, who had come to supervise the start of the roasting. The lamb was placed on a makeshift table. Youssef and Jacques-Henri skewered it from end to end with a rotisserie spit. They stuffed the carcass with garlic, mint, seasoning, handfuls of butter, and hot Moroccan harissa chilli paste. I had a taste of the harissa, which had a real kick to it: at first it was mouth-puckeringly hot, then the heat softened into a warm, pleasing afterglow. Youssef brushed the whole body of the lamb with butter and lemon juice, then he and Jacques-Henri mounted the spit on the poles over the smouldering trench. As it began to roast, Youssef, with a practised hand, basted the lamb again with oil, butter and lemon juice. Jacques-Henri looked pleased that everything was in place and he went off to see to other things.

  Paul turned the spit while I stoked the charcoal. Youssef explained that a méchoui is usually a celebration dish in his country. ‘Dans mon pays, le méchoui c’est pour-r-r les gr-r-randes fêtes,’ he said, with the rich rolling r of a Moroccan accent.

  We were going to have couscous and spiced vegetables with the meat. Youssef told us that couscous symbolises the act of giving. With a crinkly smile, he rubbed his thumb and fingers together as if to show grains of couscous running through his fingers.

  Youssef left us with strict instructions that the lamb was to be rotated a quarter of a turn every quarter of an hour, until just before dinner, when it should be removed from the fire and left to rest. This meant that someone had to stay with the méchoui all day. We took turns on méchoui watch, Paul volunteering for the first shift.

  I went back to the kitchen. Marie-Jeanne told me Jacques-Henri had phoned to say I was needed for shepherd duty at the farm. Both the 2CV and the Renault were already there, so I had to borrow Nicolas’s mobylette. I’d never ridden one of these small, underpowered mopeds so loved by generations of French teenagers. I got on, kicked the starting pedal to get the tiny two-stroke engine going, pulled the throttle and rode cautiously for a few metres. I turned sharply on the gravel at the corner of the drive, the mobylette slid from under me and I found myself on the ground. I got just a few light scratches on my left knee and elbow, which smarted a little but were nothing too serious, so I dusted myself down and got back on. I said to myself – if Nicolas can ride to school on one of these machines every day, then I can ride it too! I set off again, carefully at first, then speeded up, riding all the way to the farm without falling off. The warm wind blew in my face, the countryside slipped by on either side, the air was redolent with the delicious smell of freshly cut wheatfields, and the mobylette’s tiny engine buzzed like a friendly wasp – it was easy to ride after all.

  Back at the Auberge in the afternoon, Marie-Jeanne was preparing the couscous and spiced vegetables. I went out to the méchoui to take over from Nicolas, who was on spit-turning duty. Marie-Jeanne wasn’t sure he was responsible enough to look after the fire on his own. I found him whittling on a stick. He gestured towards the lamb and made a surprisingly gourmand observation.

  ‘Ça sent bon, eh, les épices?’ he asked.

  I agreed the spices smelled good, appétissantes.

  Nicolas poked at the fire with his newly sharpened stick to harden the point, and accidentally took a flurry of hot smoke in the face.

  The little yellow dog Rôti hovered nearby, licking his lips and looking for the slightest opportunity to get at the meat. He went right up to the edge of the trench, and with his head on one side and his tongue lolling, looked longingly at the méchoui. Rôti got so close to the smouldering charcoal he was lucky not to live up to his name.

  Nicolas and I sat down on the ground, both of us staring at the lamb, now stiffened in its posture on the spit, after hours roasting, browning and blackening in parts. Nicolas stoked the fire again, this time more cautiously. There was a long pause, then he cleared his throat and adopted a manly posture, with his shoulders square and his fists on his knees.

  ‘Well then, Monsieur Martin,’ he said, as if he was about to say something important.

  This was obviously going to be a man-to-man conversation. I squirmed a little, uncomfortable at the thought of what might be coming. He told me that he liked living on the farm, but it could get lonely.

  ‘It’s good to be a shepherd,’ he confessed, ‘but it would be better if there was a pretty little shepherdess for company.’

  Poor Nicolas!

  ‘Faire goulou-goulou,’ he added.

  ‘Goulou-goulou?’

  ‘Goulou-goulou,’ he repeated, laughing cheekily now.

  In the local parlance faire goulou-goulou meant… er, just what it sounded like.

  Guests started arriving in the evening, before the méchoui was ready but later than expected. They call it le quart d’heure gascon, the Gascon quarter of an hour. Gascons are habitually fifteen minutes late, and fifteen minutes can turn into half an hour or longer. Living the good life is more important than arriving on time. In Gascony the world turns slowly and people do things in their own time. The pace of life and the rate of progress are a little out of step with the rest of France.

  Angeline and her husband Bernard arrived by car. They lived on a farm seven villages away, as distances were measured in those parts. There was a clear family resemblance between Jacques-Henri and his sister. Angeline and Bernard greeted each of us in turn. Men and women did the bise on both cheeks, which was quite formal etiquette for these people, for whom a handshake normally sufficed.

  Hans and Lotte rolled up in their Mercedes. The big car always made its presence felt. Lotte opened the boot and brought out a present for Marie-Jeanne, a dried flower arrangement, stuck into an artichoke head used as the base. It was an unusual present, but typical of Lotte.

  Paul looked up the drive. ‘C’est Monsieur Fustignac qui arrive!’ he said. Monsieur Fustignac is coming – I was going to meet him at last.

  Monsieur Fustignac had walked to the Auberge from his farm on the other side of the village. He looked exactly how I thought he would. His age was beyond guessing. He was wearing a brown double-breasted suit, which I would say was just post-war. He wore white spats over his shoes and a floppy beret on his head. His handlebar moustaches were well waxed into pointed tips. He thought he looked dapper. I thought he looked like a rustic Hercule Poirot.

  We all sat round the stone table in the courtyard, waiting expectantly for the méchoui to arrive. Jacques-Henri and Paul appeared, proudly carrying the spit between them with the roast lamb hanging from it. They set up the poles again in the ground near the end of the table and remounted the spit.

  Chair legs scraped on the gravel floor as people sat back out of the way. The roast lamb was still steaming slightly, dripping drops of juice, and it smelled delicious. Jacques-Henri sharpened his knife on his butcher’s steel and began to carve the tender, succulent flesh. He relished being the centre of attention as he tossed the wedges of lamb onto a giant black-enamelled metal dish on the table. When the dish was piled high with lamb, he wiped his hands on a clean tea towel, then took a bunch of coriander leaves, tore them apart roughly with his fingers and sprinkled them liberally over the meat.

  Down the ste
ps from the kitchen came a small procession, first Anja and Florence each carrying a big blue-and-white glazed ceramic tureen of spiced vegetables, followed by Marie-Jeanne carrying a great big dish piled high with steaming couscous, done to perfection, neither too crumbly nor too moist, softened with a dash of oil. They placed the couscous and vegetables in the middle of the table and removed the lids. Jacques-Henri brought out a crate of Brut de Monluc sparkling wine and started popping the corks. Marie-Jeanne, radiant with pride, stood back to admire the feast on offer.

  ‘Everything is ready,’ she said.

  ‘Je m’en lèche les babines,’ said Jacques-Henri. I’m licking my chops.

  The méchoui was ready for everyone to help themselves and the feasting got underway. A bowl of flame-red harissa was passed round the table for everyone to take as much of the fiery condiment as they dared.

  I found myself sitting next to Monsieur Fustignac.

  ‘I hear you speak Gascon?’ I inquired.

  ‘I am a Gascon and I speak Gascon,’ he said, proudly. ‘And you, do you know any Gascon?’

  ‘No, although I’ve learned a few words, for herding the sheep.’

  ‘You must learn some more,’ he said, with conviction.

  ‘OK, I’m listening.’

  ‘Adishatz,’ he said. ‘That means hello and goodbye.’

  ‘Just one word for both? That’s quite simple.’

  ‘Oh yes, we’re a simple people,’ he laughed.

  As my lesson with Monsieur Fustignac continued, I found I had to make an effort with my mouth to mimic the sounds he was making. Hearing Gascon spoken, sonorous and full, the southwest French accent that I’d found so difficult to understand at first seemed to make sense – this was where it came from. Monsieur Fustignac told me that the Gascon tongue had grown out of the meeting of the old tribal language of the mountains with the Latin of post-Roman Aquitaine. It was important, he said, to prevent it from disappearing altogether. Speaking Gascon for him was an act of defiance.