A Summer In Gascony

by Martin Calder

  Jacques-Henri didn’t say much after the toast. Marie-Jeanne was kindly concerned that we would have a safe journey. Paul and Bruno wished us well. Nicolas seemed truly disappointed we were leaving. Au revoir Monsieur Martin!

  On the morning we left, I packed my things in my rucksack and brushed out my room at the farm, pausing to take one last look around. Jacques-Henri was pleased by this: he said I really was a gentleman-farmer after all. The turquoise espadrilles he’d given me the day I arrived were falling apart, and I had to throw them away.

  Standing on the front doorstep we bade our farewells to the family. Paul had his arm around Florence’s waist. Marie-Jeanne, as soon as she’d said goodbye, returned to the kitchen where she was starting to prepare the lunchtime menu – the Auberge would go on without us. Pattes came bounding out from the dappled shade under the trees. He pushed his head against me and I knelt down and rubbed his chest, by way of a goodbye. He wagged his magnificent fan tail, oblivious to the fact that we were about to leave.

  Jacques-Henri gave us a lift in the Renault. We stopped en route to say auf Wiedersehen to Hans and Lotte. We could see two hands and two feet, not belonging to the same person, sticking up above the artichokes. Hans and Lotte were practising yoga, but they turned themselves the right way up to say goodbye. Then Jacques-Henri drove us down to the bus stop on the main road, where we’d watched the Tour de France what seemed like a long time ago. He heaved our rucksacks out of the boot and shook our hands brusquely, then to our surprise produced a bottle of Armagnac as a leaving present. The last we saw of him was the white car turning up the narrow road towards Péguilhan. He waved but did not look back.

  The bus took us all the way to Toulouse, about an hour’s journey away. Along the route it pulled in and out of a succession of small towns and villages. Locals got on and off, and some of them looked curiously at the two strangers sitting at the back. With our rucksacks on the seats in front of us we must have looked like real backpackers – de vrais sac-à-dos-istes! In the central square in Lombez, a group of beret-topped old men were standing around chatting in the corner of the pétanque course, under the plane trees, bantering and no doubt putting the world to rights. They stopped talking to see who got on and off the bus.

  We arrived at our destination, the Gare Routière in Toulouse, at about lunchtime.

  ‘I hope we haven’t turned into country bumpkins,’ said Anja, as we got off the bus.

  Two thousand years ago, the ancient settlement of Tolosa was the bridge point for the Roman invasion of Aquitaine. The river Garonne was the frontier between the Aquitanians and the Gauls. Later it became the border between Gascony and the rest of France. When Anja and I had each made our separate ways to Péguilhan at the start of the summer, Toulouse had been an important stage on our way into Gascony. Now on our way back, it felt as though it was the symbolic gateway to the outside world. It was good that we were passing through together.

  Anja had been to Toulouse before and she suggested we head for the Place du Capitole. We made our way through winding mediaeval streets, in the shadow of tall, ancient town houses, with crumbling walls of reddish-pink bricks and yellow stone. At each crossroads we walked into squares of sunlight. Then suddenly we emerged into the grandiose heart of the city. For a moment the open square made us pause. One side was dominated by the imposing classical façade of the Capitole building. The others were lined with arcades of chic boutiques, cafés, restaurants and grand hotels. It was lunchtime: the square was busy and the café terraces were full. There were businessmen in shirtsleeves, smartly dressed Toulousaines engaged in serious shopping, and students everywhere. The atmosphere was vibrant and energetic.

  We could see why Toulouse is known as la ville rose, most of its buildings were pink. The Capitole was faced with rose-pink bricks and pale pink marble columns. Even the pavements were pink, whether they were dyed tarmac or coloured stone. The effect was a subtle, ambient pink light throughout the city.

  We sat at a table under the grid of big, square parasols in front of the café Le Florida. This seemed to be where the stylish came to see and be seen. When the waiter deigned to serve us, we said we would like ice cream. He insisted we try the speciality violet variety.

  There is a charming story behind the violets of Toulouse. They are a particular strain, a highly fragrant variety called la violette Parme de Toulouse, grown in the hills outside the city. The story goes that the first flower came to the city a couple of centuries ago, when a soldier from Toulouse, serving in the army in Italy, returned home with a violet as a present for his sweetheart. She planted the violet and, when it grew, she took cuttings and gave them to friends and neighbours; gradually more and more people grew violets, all from that first little plant. In time an industry developed around the violet, and the people of Toulouse adopted the flower as their emblem. Brides getting married in the Capitole typically carry a posy of violets.

  Our ice cream was a true violet colour, perfumed and smooth, speckled with tiny, gritty pieces of crystallized petals. We ate slowly, savouring the moment and taking in the scene. This was the perfect place for people watching; after all, in Péguilhan there had been very few people to watch.

  Anja and I spent the rest of the afternoon and the evening in Toulouse, waiting for the night train to Paris. With nothing particular to do, we walked down to the river and whiled away the carefree hours lolling on the grass of the Quai de la Daurade, looking out over the broad, sweeping curve of the Garonne. Toulousains strolled along the riverbank path, stopping here and there to admire the view. A few cyclists whirred quietly by. The ripples on the water glittered in the sunlight like scattered diamonds.

  A man dressed as a harlequin walked up to us, handing out flyers for a restaurant called L’Arlequin. The vivid colours of his diamond-patterned costume jarred with the muted pinks, greens and blues of the riverbank. He presented us with a flyer, then took off his hat and bowed with an exaggerated flourish. We thanked him and promised we would go to his restaurant that evening. He grinned with just one half of his face.

  ‘À la bonne heure, mes amis, à la bonne heure,’ he said as he tiptoed theatrically away, like a mischievous character in a play.

  I crumpled the flyer into my back pocket, and in spite of our promise we forgot about the restaurant.

  With our feet dangling above the river, I poured a slug of Armagnac into a plastic travel beaker and we shared it a sip at a time. The warmth of the spirit coursed through our veins. We half-closed our eyes and sat until the light faded and the Gascon sun had slipped behind the Toulouse skyline.

  ‘Look,’ said Anja softly, pointing to the streetlamps on the bridge, fitted with pink covers that hung like pennants. The pink light of the lamps replaced the glow of the sun. ‘They think of everything.’

  Late in the evening, we walked to Matabiau station and boarded the overnight train for Paris. We hadn’t thought to reserve couchettes for the eight-hour journey; they were all fully booked and we had to make do with ordinary seats. For the first few hours we shared a compartment with a man who sat in silence. He made us feel uncomfortable. The train stopped somewhere in the middle of the night – we didn’t notice the name of the station – the man got off and we were left to ourselves for the rest of the journey.

  Peering between the orange pleated curtains at the darkness outside, we watched the country racing by in the night shadows. We saw hills in outline beneath an indigo sky. Anja’s cheek brushed gently against mine. We felt excited and free. Curling up together on the seat, lulled by the rolling of the carriage and the steely roar of the wheels, we eventually fell asleep. The next thing we knew we were being woken in the morning by the jolts of the train as it crossed the points approaching the Gare d’Austerlitz.

  In Paris the air was crisp and fresh. We climbed the hill up to the Place de la Contrescarpe, which for us held the charm of a small provincial town square in the midst of the metropolis. The fountain spouted and sparkled, shopkeepers briskly washed down the
pavements in front of their premises, people walked past on their way to work – the city was coming to life around us. We had breakfast on the terrace of the Café la Chope on the angle of the square. Inside, the coffee machine spluttered and hissed behind the counter. We heard the gentle clatter of cutlery on plates and saucers as the waiter brought our breakfast out to our table, creamy coffee and soft brioches parisiennes. Anja’s eyes were a misty pearl blue in the early morning light and her face was radiant. I took a mental snapshot of her sitting across from me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m taking your picture, so that I never forget this.’

  She smiled serenely and looked down at her coffee. The moment was perfect.

  We spent a few days in Paris, at a nice, bright hotel in a quiet street off the Rue des Écoles, on the edge of the Latin Quarter. We stayed for as long as our money lasted. On our last morning, with a few hours to spare before we took our separate trains to different countries, we went on a final walk through the city. Somewhere near the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where the streets became quieter and the shops more select, we stopped to look at the sumptuous window display of a grand old chocolate shop: Debauve & Gallais. Maison fondée en 1800 ~ Fournisseurs des anciens rois de France. House founded in 1800 ~ Purveyors to the former kings of France.

  This was our last day and we were feeling extravagant. As we went inside, a bell tinkled quietly over the door. It was like entering another world: polished wood panelling, marble columns, gleaming mirrors. Debauve & Gallais’s premises were a temple to chocolate. We stood bedazzled before a half-moon glass counter, looking at lavish displays. Small signs with copperplate gold lettering stated the country of origin of the cocoa used for each type of chocolate: Ecuador, Ghana, Madagascar…

  The female assistant, immaculately dressed in a grey uniform and a hairnet, smiled attentively.

  ‘Madame, Monsieur, vous désirez?’ she asked, pretending not to notice that we didn’t look like her usual customers.

  We weren’t sure what to reply at first, we were so struck by the contrast between this luxury and the simple life we’d been living in the country. But the rich smell of the chocolate and the opulence of the display were seductive. We picked out some pistoles, flat, round chocolates like big old coins, with flecks of gold leaf set into the upper surface. We had just enough money for a dozen. The assistant carefully packed them in an exquisite gift box, royal blue and pale grey, embossed with the shop’s emblem, a blue-and-gold oval shield adorned with a gold crown and fleurs-de-lis.

  Anja remarked that the shop was very beautiful. The assistant told us it had been designed by the architects whom Napoleon had chosen to create the retreat at Malmaison for the Empress Joséphine. All we could do was nod and look suitably impressed.

  As we walked out of the chocolaterie, it began to rain heavily. We took shelter outside a café on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. The rain drummed on the ivory-coloured awning above us and bounced off the pavement at our feet. Standing out of the rain, we fed each other nibbles of chocolate and gold. The cars swished through the rain, throwing up clouds of spray, stopping and starting to the sequence of the traffic lights, like metallic waves ebbing and flowing to the rhythm of the city.

  We took the Métro to the Gare de l’Est, where Anja boarded her train back to Germany. We lingered out our goodbye in the doorway of the carriage as other people climbed aboard, jostling us with their shoulders as they mounted the steps. Down the platform, a whistle blew.

  ‘Anja, promise me we’ll keep in touch,’ I insisted.

  ‘I promise,’ she said, folding her arms around my neck.

  The guard came along closing the doors and reluctantly I stepped down onto the platform. Anja leant out of the window and waved as the train slowly pulled away. I waved back until she disappeared from sight.

  I walked across the city to the Gare Saint-Lazare, where my train to Dieppe was due to leave in a couple of hours. It was raining more gently, a warm, steady drizzle after the downpour. The rain heralded the last stage of my journey home to England and gave me a foretaste of the weather I was going to have to get used to again.

  I came back to England on the night ferry. The boat docked in Newhaven at dawn. The engine rumbled deep inside the ferry as it pulled alongside. Seagulls shrieked as they circled overhead. In the shivery sea air I felt calm and as I looked back across the Channel, I recalled a few lines from Matthew Arnold’s poem ‘Dover Beach’:

  … on the French coast, the light

  Gleams, and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

  Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.

  Slipping behind the approaching autumn was a golden summer, which had been how all summers should be. I put my hand in my pocket and found the acorn I’d picked up from the drive in front of the Auberge the morning we left. It made me think about what would be happening back at the Auberge and the farm. Cazagnac family life would be continuing without us. Any moment now the cockerel would be giving the village its early-morning wake-up call. Marie-Jeanne would soon be preparing breakfast, and Jacques-Henri would be leading the sheep out into the fields, without me to help. Pattes would be wondering where I’d gone. I imagined Monsieur Fustignac getting up early to polish his tractor. Hans and Lotte would be out in their garden facing the rising sun, practising their first yoga of the day, and the sun would be streaming through the east windows of the Auberge. It might be raining in England, but in my mind’s eye, in that enchanted place on a hilltop in Gascony, the Auberge would always be bathed in sunshine.

  At the end of the season the old building would be settling down for a well-earned rest. The refurbishment of the gîtes was complete. This had been only the second year the Auberge had been open for business and the first year it had been fully functioning. I was pleased that I’d been there near the start, and hoped I’d made a good contribution to its future prosperity. Mighty oaks from little acorns grow. I thought about the autumn tasks Jacques-Henri had wanted me to do, pruning, digging, tidying, shovelling, new challenges for the new season – I knew in my heart that one day I would return.

  EPILOGUE

  ANJA AND I KEPT OUR PROMISE TO STAY IN TOUCH. WE EVEN met up a few times, in London, Paris and Heidelberg. We wrote to each other as well; this was before emails and text messages killed off the habit of writing letters.

  For a few years I concentrated on building a career. I lived in Paris for a year, but I didn’t go back to Gascony. I remembered that summer as a unique and magical time, like a golden capsule, somehow separate from the rest of life. Then unexpectedly, Anja sent me a letter with a cutting from a German newspaper, a feature article on the gastronomic delights of Gascony, showcasing in particular the Auberge at Péguilhan. Illustrating the article was a photo of Jacques-Henri! There he was, raising his wineglass in a welcoming salute and smiling cheerfully with the same old twinkle in his eye. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming wave of warmth and affection for Gascony and an irresistible desire to return.

  A few months later, as I drove up through the double hairpin bend leading to the village, I passed the sign for Péguilhan and smiled at the familiar name. When I reached the Auberge, good memories came flooding back. Why had I taken so long to return? It felt like coming home. The flowers and shrubs around the buildings were more plentiful than ever. The children’s swing was still in the clearing in the trees. It felt strange to return as a guest rather than a stagiaire.

  There have been some surprising changes. Jacques-Henri is no longer there, so I never saw him again. The farm has been sold and Marie-Jeanne runs the Auberge. The eldest son, Paul, has a family and is waiting to take over the business. The Auberge has been extended to the side, creating a large kitchen and a spacious restaurant and function room. Nevertheless, in some respects it hasn’t changed at all. The treads on the rickety old wooden staircase still feel as though they might give way underfoot, and the bedrooms are exactly as they were.

  Stagiaires ar
e not employed any more, instead apprentices are taken on as part of the government’s work training scheme for young people. The Auberge provides work experience for the brevet, the professional qualification in the hotel and catering industry, and of course the French government contributes towards the costs. I asked one young woman working for Marie-Jeanne in the restaurant how long her placement lasted.

  ‘Two years!’ she sighed, resignedly, making it sound like a very long time, and so it probably seemed for a lively young person from Toulouse to live so deep in the countryside.

  Pattes has long since passed away. There are a couple of dogs in the village who resemble him, with big paws and fan tails; they bound up to greet visitors in the same friendly manner. I’d like to think he had his way with some of the local female dogs and left his offspring behind.

  The changes to Péguilhan since I first went there are a story of growth and inward investment rather than real change. The village now has a bus service and a post box, and the Mairie has been given an arcaded stone façade, making it look like a bastide-cum-hacienda. Hans and Lotte have sold their eccentric blue house and moved on. I hope their Mercedes is still running, wherever they are. The village café has closed. I was told that Monsieur Fustignac had died, so Madame Parle-Beaucoup and her husband later sold up and moved to a retirement home in Boulogne-sur-Gesse. I was amused to learn that the nightclub La Guinguette – and I still can’t pinpoint where it is – is still going strong after several closures and reopenings.