Monday, August 10, 2015
It rained last night, not heavily, but a sprinkling.
However, Wednesday showers are expected, and Thursday there will be storms through out the region.
Happy news for the vignerons!
Mornings the baritonal hum of farm machinery can be heard, and walking Beau along the back road behind the house, they pass us, giant tires lurching along, the farmers aloft in the cab.
The weather is cooler and parents are preparing for the rentree September 1. Stores are stocked with school supplies organized parents have already started buying.
Summer is sloping to its end.
Monday, August 10, 2015
Saturday, August 8, 2015
To Plan For: The 2015 Vintage
Saturday evening, August 8, 2015
It rained from early morning through the day and has not stopped yet. Beau and I did a hike up to the marble quarry and extended the walk to go as far as Citou a village in the mountains before turning back because of the coming rain. Tomorrow more of the same is expected.
Besides the coolness, there is another reason to be glad about the raindrops. If we have a few more days like this, the 2015 vintages in most of France will be as exceptional as those of 2009. The first part of the summer was very hot and dry, perfect conditions for the development of the wine grapes. The cool weather now preserves the juices in matured grapes which will be extracted in a few weeks. If the summer goes well for the vignerons, in these last weeks before the harvest, the juices will reach their maximum flavor. If there is no further rain, but instead sun, it will not be as good a year as 2009.
For those of you who would take the opportunity to buy French wine in an exceptional year, stay tuned to the weather reports and the associated reports filed by those who follow the French wine market. If it is an exceptional year, in the United States it is possible to buy Bordeaux wine "futures" through Sherry-Lehman in New York City.
What buying futures amounts to is agreeing to purchase three cases of wine to be delivered to Sherry-Lehman in two years. Sherry-Lehman has offered storage of the wine in their cellars for an additional year as part of the purchase price. This amounts to a very decent saving on the per bottle price of a Bordeaux. For instance, bottles Bill and I bought in 2006 (which we took possession of in 2009) ran about $25/a bottle, rather than the $45 each would have cost had we bought the individual 2009 bottles at Sherry Lehman when they became available. If you like Bordeaux, it's a way of laying down bottles without paying too much.
The wine from 2009 now? Not comparable to an Haut-Brion of the same year, but exceptional in comparison to Bordeaux from other years in the same category, for which you might pay much more because its French and its what your wine merchant has available.
It rained from early morning through the day and has not stopped yet. Beau and I did a hike up to the marble quarry and extended the walk to go as far as Citou a village in the mountains before turning back because of the coming rain. Tomorrow more of the same is expected.
Besides the coolness, there is another reason to be glad about the raindrops. If we have a few more days like this, the 2015 vintages in most of France will be as exceptional as those of 2009. The first part of the summer was very hot and dry, perfect conditions for the development of the wine grapes. The cool weather now preserves the juices in matured grapes which will be extracted in a few weeks. If the summer goes well for the vignerons, in these last weeks before the harvest, the juices will reach their maximum flavor. If there is no further rain, but instead sun, it will not be as good a year as 2009.
For those of you who would take the opportunity to buy French wine in an exceptional year, stay tuned to the weather reports and the associated reports filed by those who follow the French wine market. If it is an exceptional year, in the United States it is possible to buy Bordeaux wine "futures" through Sherry-Lehman in New York City.
What buying futures amounts to is agreeing to purchase three cases of wine to be delivered to Sherry-Lehman in two years. Sherry-Lehman has offered storage of the wine in their cellars for an additional year as part of the purchase price. This amounts to a very decent saving on the per bottle price of a Bordeaux. For instance, bottles Bill and I bought in 2006 (which we took possession of in 2009) ran about $25/a bottle, rather than the $45 each would have cost had we bought the individual 2009 bottles at Sherry Lehman when they became available. If you like Bordeaux, it's a way of laying down bottles without paying too much.
The wine from 2009 now? Not comparable to an Haut-Brion of the same year, but exceptional in comparison to Bordeaux from other years in the same category, for which you might pay much more because its French and its what your wine merchant has available.
Prouihe, Castelnaudary and Soreze
Saturday, August 8, 2015
The Feast Of Saint Dominic
One of the extraordinary things about living in Languedob-Roussillon is the presence of many foundations of religious, as they used to be called. There are forty-eight different ones, some monasteries, some convents, some priories.
A few Sundays ago at Mass at l'Eglise de Saint Michel, the seat of the archdiocese in Carcassonne, a Dominican priest assisted the principal celebrant. Or it might have been at Saint Vincent, also in Carcassonne, I can't remember. Or it might have been both. What I do remember is that the principal celebrant welcomed the Dominican, spoke of the upcoming feast of Saint Dominic and encouraged the flock to visit a place near Fanjeaux in the Lauragais to see the extraordinary things going on there.
I have gotten to know a bit about the Dominican order because the priests in residence at the church I attended in New York, Notre Dame, were Dominicans from Poland. Dominicans use the suffix O.P., after their names, which stands for Order of Preachers. The name derives from the purpose for which Saint Dominic, a Spanish monk, started the order.
Specifically, the Dominicans were founded to try to educate the people of southwest France, then a separate country known as Occitan, to return to the Church of Rome and away from the heresy of Catharism. In brief, Cathars believed in two Gods, a good and an evil one, the former attached to the spirit, the latter to the material, as well as believing that only an elite could know the Divine. Their rejection of the material world implicitly rejected the Catholic doctrine that the body and the soul will be united in heaven, the doctrine of the incarnation, fundamental Catholic teaching.
Saint Dominic founded the order eight hundred years ago this year, and it has perdured, even if its efforts to persuade the Languedociens to turn away from Catharism were insufficient to prevent the conflicts between Cathars and Rome from erupting into the wars known as the Albigensian Crusades.
The order began with a few women recovered from Catharism to whom Dominic was spiritual father. That is to say that the Dominican nuns are the "first Dominicans", as the monastery came after. The women Dominic gathered around him went with him to Prouille, a hamlet near Fanjeaux, establishing a convent there. It is to that convent that the priest at Saint Michel referred, and to which I traveled yesterday.
After romping through many a cratered country road in the Lauragais, I reached the monastery at Prouille (pronounced PRWEE-yeh). It is a massive grey ruin, open to the light, an enormous wooden cross behind the transept, the only decoration in the entire building. The broad grey arches and the individual wooden chairs (there were no pews) emphasized the austerity of the space. A few nuns were busy preparing the space for today's celebration of the founder's feast day. Dressed in below-the-knee (but not floor length) white habits with a veil (but no covering of the throat), they are "modern" in their turnout. I prayed briefly, went to the gift shop to buy postcards and a reproduction of a portrait of Saint Dominic by Fra Angelico, and thought I would like to return to enjoy the quiet at Prouihe another day.
However, the material world beckoned: I had a noon lunch reservation at Le Tirou, well thought of restaurant in Castelnaudary, a half hour away. Castelnaudary is, with Albi, one of the towns to see if you are interested in the history of the Cathars. It is also a town to visit if you are interested in cassoulet, which the natives claim was invented there. Curiously, Le Tirou serves only from noon to 1:00 p.m., so I did not want to be late, particularly as I had planned to go over the border of l'Aude into the village of Soreze in the Tarn, an adjoining department, in the afternoon. The museum of glass there opens only in the afternoons; I wanted to visit it in time to return to Caunes before the end of the afternoon, an ambitious schedule.
I had no difficulties fulfilling it, though: Le Tirou was as professional a restaurant as any I have visited in the Languedoc since I arrived, so there was no delay there. And the food was outstanding, the best I've tasted in the provinces: a salad of warm goat cheese on a crusty round of toast, set on greens dressed with walnuts, a little pot of honey on the side to start. As a main course, aiguillettes of duck cooked in its own juice, a light broth, with squares of roast potatoes also flavored in the jus, and ratatouille, too. Not to waste the liquid, I dipped the 4-grain bread supplied, until I had sopped it all up --delicious! Dessert was a pot de creme, followed by coffee, as is done in France. Exceptionally, I had wine with the meal, from Cahors, a southwestern town in the Lot departement.
Everything was delicious, and off the prix fixe menu. There is nothing comparable in the rustic Minervois, where the ambitions of chefs are much more modest. To eat well, you have to drive, I have concluded. Le Tirou also sells reasonably-priced products made in its kitchens: a lentil stew, stewed pork sausages in juice, a stew of broad beans known as feoulade, another of haricots vets, and of course, foie gras. I came home with a cache of jars to be stored away for fall eating.
***
The countryside of the Lauragais part of l'Aude is more like that of the adjoining Tarn than the Minervois: where the Minervois is a mix of Mediterranean and pine forest, the Lauragais is wide-pen countryside, with vast fields of grain and sunflowers everywhere, a golden land. Over the departement line and into Soreze, I discovered that: Soreze is a medieval village of 2,000 people, the streets lined with half-timbered houses with wattle and daub masonry. Also, top stories protrude over the lower. The houses are charming, with a number for sale, although I suspect living in one would have its challenges. The Museum of Glass is in a much newer building --by French standards--early 19th century. The former hospice now contains 1700 pieces of glass and had a special exhibition devoted to a glass maker active during the Belle Epoque.
***
Once again, my decision to live in southwest France has borne fruit. I will return to all the places I visited again. And my appetite for more exploring has been whetted: I have not even visited Cahors or Rocamadour, two and a half and three hours away, respectively, and significant medieval villages. However, I can see them on the drive up to Tulle in Correze, when I drive to Paris on a road trip with Beau that will be my last week in the countryside.
The Feast Of Saint Dominic
One of the extraordinary things about living in Languedob-Roussillon is the presence of many foundations of religious, as they used to be called. There are forty-eight different ones, some monasteries, some convents, some priories.
A few Sundays ago at Mass at l'Eglise de Saint Michel, the seat of the archdiocese in Carcassonne, a Dominican priest assisted the principal celebrant. Or it might have been at Saint Vincent, also in Carcassonne, I can't remember. Or it might have been both. What I do remember is that the principal celebrant welcomed the Dominican, spoke of the upcoming feast of Saint Dominic and encouraged the flock to visit a place near Fanjeaux in the Lauragais to see the extraordinary things going on there.
I have gotten to know a bit about the Dominican order because the priests in residence at the church I attended in New York, Notre Dame, were Dominicans from Poland. Dominicans use the suffix O.P., after their names, which stands for Order of Preachers. The name derives from the purpose for which Saint Dominic, a Spanish monk, started the order.
Specifically, the Dominicans were founded to try to educate the people of southwest France, then a separate country known as Occitan, to return to the Church of Rome and away from the heresy of Catharism. In brief, Cathars believed in two Gods, a good and an evil one, the former attached to the spirit, the latter to the material, as well as believing that only an elite could know the Divine. Their rejection of the material world implicitly rejected the Catholic doctrine that the body and the soul will be united in heaven, the doctrine of the incarnation, fundamental Catholic teaching.
Saint Dominic founded the order eight hundred years ago this year, and it has perdured, even if its efforts to persuade the Languedociens to turn away from Catharism were insufficient to prevent the conflicts between Cathars and Rome from erupting into the wars known as the Albigensian Crusades.
The order began with a few women recovered from Catharism to whom Dominic was spiritual father. That is to say that the Dominican nuns are the "first Dominicans", as the monastery came after. The women Dominic gathered around him went with him to Prouille, a hamlet near Fanjeaux, establishing a convent there. It is to that convent that the priest at Saint Michel referred, and to which I traveled yesterday.
After romping through many a cratered country road in the Lauragais, I reached the monastery at Prouille (pronounced PRWEE-yeh). It is a massive grey ruin, open to the light, an enormous wooden cross behind the transept, the only decoration in the entire building. The broad grey arches and the individual wooden chairs (there were no pews) emphasized the austerity of the space. A few nuns were busy preparing the space for today's celebration of the founder's feast day. Dressed in below-the-knee (but not floor length) white habits with a veil (but no covering of the throat), they are "modern" in their turnout. I prayed briefly, went to the gift shop to buy postcards and a reproduction of a portrait of Saint Dominic by Fra Angelico, and thought I would like to return to enjoy the quiet at Prouihe another day.
However, the material world beckoned: I had a noon lunch reservation at Le Tirou, well thought of restaurant in Castelnaudary, a half hour away. Castelnaudary is, with Albi, one of the towns to see if you are interested in the history of the Cathars. It is also a town to visit if you are interested in cassoulet, which the natives claim was invented there. Curiously, Le Tirou serves only from noon to 1:00 p.m., so I did not want to be late, particularly as I had planned to go over the border of l'Aude into the village of Soreze in the Tarn, an adjoining department, in the afternoon. The museum of glass there opens only in the afternoons; I wanted to visit it in time to return to Caunes before the end of the afternoon, an ambitious schedule.
I had no difficulties fulfilling it, though: Le Tirou was as professional a restaurant as any I have visited in the Languedoc since I arrived, so there was no delay there. And the food was outstanding, the best I've tasted in the provinces: a salad of warm goat cheese on a crusty round of toast, set on greens dressed with walnuts, a little pot of honey on the side to start. As a main course, aiguillettes of duck cooked in its own juice, a light broth, with squares of roast potatoes also flavored in the jus, and ratatouille, too. Not to waste the liquid, I dipped the 4-grain bread supplied, until I had sopped it all up --delicious! Dessert was a pot de creme, followed by coffee, as is done in France. Exceptionally, I had wine with the meal, from Cahors, a southwestern town in the Lot departement.
Everything was delicious, and off the prix fixe menu. There is nothing comparable in the rustic Minervois, where the ambitions of chefs are much more modest. To eat well, you have to drive, I have concluded. Le Tirou also sells reasonably-priced products made in its kitchens: a lentil stew, stewed pork sausages in juice, a stew of broad beans known as feoulade, another of haricots vets, and of course, foie gras. I came home with a cache of jars to be stored away for fall eating.
***
The countryside of the Lauragais part of l'Aude is more like that of the adjoining Tarn than the Minervois: where the Minervois is a mix of Mediterranean and pine forest, the Lauragais is wide-pen countryside, with vast fields of grain and sunflowers everywhere, a golden land. Over the departement line and into Soreze, I discovered that: Soreze is a medieval village of 2,000 people, the streets lined with half-timbered houses with wattle and daub masonry. Also, top stories protrude over the lower. The houses are charming, with a number for sale, although I suspect living in one would have its challenges. The Museum of Glass is in a much newer building --by French standards--early 19th century. The former hospice now contains 1700 pieces of glass and had a special exhibition devoted to a glass maker active during the Belle Epoque.
***
Once again, my decision to live in southwest France has borne fruit. I will return to all the places I visited again. And my appetite for more exploring has been whetted: I have not even visited Cahors or Rocamadour, two and a half and three hours away, respectively, and significant medieval villages. However, I can see them on the drive up to Tulle in Correze, when I drive to Paris on a road trip with Beau that will be my last week in the countryside.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
GPS Follies
August 5, 2015
I leave Prades (or Prada as it's known in Catalan) around 9:00 a.m. I set the GPS to use toll roads, thinking it will take me to Perpignan, where I'll pick up the peage to Carassonne and home.
At one point, the GPS directs me onto a local road rather than the one direction Perpignan, but I trust in its wisdom.
That was a mistake. I should have followed my instincts, as the GPS takes me through a part of the Pyrenees and the Languedoc forest, rather than Perpignan and the Narbonne road. The first part of the trip involves negotiating hairpin turns high in Pyrenees Orientales into l'Aude via the most direct route: through the mountain villages. I am going through tiny village after tiny village with no sense of where I am. Worse, the GPS sends me through streets so narrow I "ding" the car trying to negotiate them. Fortunately, locals show me a better way, but I definitely do not want to do this again.
For the last part of the trip, the GPS takes me through the Corbieres, lower lying mountains, dry and known for producing a tannic wine. It is a relief to be on lower ground, still more of a relief when the gentle hillsides of the Minervois come into view. The most ordinary of Minervois villages look like beauty spots compared to the stark and austere villages of the Pyrenees.
I am exhausted, but glad to be home, glad to be in Caunes.
I leave Prades (or Prada as it's known in Catalan) around 9:00 a.m. I set the GPS to use toll roads, thinking it will take me to Perpignan, where I'll pick up the peage to Carassonne and home.
At one point, the GPS directs me onto a local road rather than the one direction Perpignan, but I trust in its wisdom.
That was a mistake. I should have followed my instincts, as the GPS takes me through a part of the Pyrenees and the Languedoc forest, rather than Perpignan and the Narbonne road. The first part of the trip involves negotiating hairpin turns high in Pyrenees Orientales into l'Aude via the most direct route: through the mountain villages. I am going through tiny village after tiny village with no sense of where I am. Worse, the GPS sends me through streets so narrow I "ding" the car trying to negotiate them. Fortunately, locals show me a better way, but I definitely do not want to do this again.
For the last part of the trip, the GPS takes me through the Corbieres, lower lying mountains, dry and known for producing a tannic wine. It is a relief to be on lower ground, still more of a relief when the gentle hillsides of the Minervois come into view. The most ordinary of Minervois villages look like beauty spots compared to the stark and austere villages of the Pyrenees.
I am exhausted, but glad to be home, glad to be in Caunes.
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Re-thinking airbnb
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
I had hoped my stay in Prades would be restful, but it is not to be. The temperatures are very high --about 88F at almost 7 p.m. and I have not even a fan in my bedroom. Last night I tossed and turned, as the pillows I was given have a sweaty smell. My hosts have washed them, but someone sweated into them and the smell oozed its way into my consciousness through the night until the moment I went into the bathroom and took out a bath towel to wrap the pillow in.
My stomach is queasy, too. I wonder whether I am suffering from a bit of altitude sickness. Then again, I am again in an airbnb with others, not what I was used to last year, on my trips to the Cote d'Azur. I have let my hosts know that if I don't feel better tomorrow, I will depart for Caunes.
This raises, of course, the idea of whether I ought to go to Rome. From what I see on the posting for the apartment, there will be no air conditioning. And Rome, is, if anything hotter than the Pyrenees in the month of August. When I stayed there with Bill about 15 years ago, we were in a luxury hotel, and it had air conditioning.
Sometimes it is better to pull the plug than find oneself feeling under par in a foreign location. Better to give my tickets for the next two nights' concerts, cancel my stay and make it to my own bed, where I will be much more comfortable.
I'll make up my mind shortly, but all my latest experiences with airbnb have taught me a few things:
1. Always ask whether an apartment is on the ground floor;
2. Always ask whether you will be sharing with anyone other than the owner of the property;
3. Always ask whether there is air conditioning.
Chances are, there won't be. Europeans don't pay for a/c, which they believe noxious. "Yes", a/c/ is not good for the environment, but at my age, without it, I might as well stay home.
***
Then again, I had a viscerally negative reaction to Prades. I had expected the village to be prosperous, thanks to the Casals Festival. Instead, it is shabby and dirty and lifeless.
At last night's concert, the crowd could have been patrons for Glimmerglass, the opera festival in Cooperstown, New York. Older, reassuringly well-dressed, I could not tell the French and Spanish from the Americans: everyone's dress identified them as belonging to the cosmopolitan, affluent class that takes vacations at high cultural festivals.
The concert was superb, devoted to Spanish music and French music influenced by Spain. A pianist, Jose Fernando Perez, a pupil of Alicia de Larocha's, captivated me with his playing. I left at half-time, though, as I did not want to fight the traffic leaving the festival. Memories of the struggle to get to a car at Tanglewood, among other venues, persuaded me that, as I was alone, it was probably better to leave when I had the road to myself.
Tonight, though, I gave my ticket for an evening of woodwind quintettes, to my hosts, who gave it to their daughter. I expect I will give the other two away as well, and depart first thing in the morning. My reaction to staying in my hosts' house (an expansive 70s suburban in a neighborhood that could be anywhere) is not just founded on the heat, but also my memories of staying in boarding houses with my mother and sister when my mother was settling my grandfather's estate. Eating together with strangers is not, generally "A Room With A View" --unless Maggie Smith and Denholm Elliot are among the guests.
That is not the case where I am staying. The other people staying here clacked their doors loudly at all hours of the night, whether they were using the toilet, showering or departing. I find myself feeling suffocated by having to interact with strangers with whom I have in common only the desire for cheap lodging. I like my autonomy, although I ought to have taken it into account in booking with my hosts in Prades.
If Prades had any charm, I would probably stay. The magnificent church of Saint Pierre, with extraordinary retablos is breathtaking. And it's probably the only church I've ever seen where Saint Peter dominates the center of the altarpiece, dressed in his gold papal mitre and red robes trimmed with gold. The church is, in effect a museum, containing also reliquaries of obscure saints. Renovated n 2012, it is a jewel.
It stands in the middle of a less-than-prepossessing village square, itself more recommendable than the main street of Prades and the streets that run across it. Empty storefronts are everywhere, and those shops open sell food just as they did when Casals lived there --he must have been a man with spartan tastes. His willingness to settle somewhere where no one would afford him any particular deference --in contrast to that he would have received had he settled in Paris, or New York, for instance-- bespeaks an admirable commitment to his principles.
I, however, am here as a visitor, and entitled to make my own judgments. The ruggedness and toughness of the Pyrenees is not for me. As I write this I am in the altogether, sitting on a bath towel. That, too, is probably scandalous, even to Audrey and her boyfriend, Baptiste, let alone my hosts and the neighbors. The people of the Pyrenees are very conservative, and reticent --no one has said Bon jour to me once, unless I initiated the exchange. Give me Caunes and the Minervois.
I had hoped my stay in Prades would be restful, but it is not to be. The temperatures are very high --about 88F at almost 7 p.m. and I have not even a fan in my bedroom. Last night I tossed and turned, as the pillows I was given have a sweaty smell. My hosts have washed them, but someone sweated into them and the smell oozed its way into my consciousness through the night until the moment I went into the bathroom and took out a bath towel to wrap the pillow in.
My stomach is queasy, too. I wonder whether I am suffering from a bit of altitude sickness. Then again, I am again in an airbnb with others, not what I was used to last year, on my trips to the Cote d'Azur. I have let my hosts know that if I don't feel better tomorrow, I will depart for Caunes.
This raises, of course, the idea of whether I ought to go to Rome. From what I see on the posting for the apartment, there will be no air conditioning. And Rome, is, if anything hotter than the Pyrenees in the month of August. When I stayed there with Bill about 15 years ago, we were in a luxury hotel, and it had air conditioning.
Sometimes it is better to pull the plug than find oneself feeling under par in a foreign location. Better to give my tickets for the next two nights' concerts, cancel my stay and make it to my own bed, where I will be much more comfortable.
I'll make up my mind shortly, but all my latest experiences with airbnb have taught me a few things:
1. Always ask whether an apartment is on the ground floor;
2. Always ask whether you will be sharing with anyone other than the owner of the property;
3. Always ask whether there is air conditioning.
Chances are, there won't be. Europeans don't pay for a/c, which they believe noxious. "Yes", a/c/ is not good for the environment, but at my age, without it, I might as well stay home.
***
Then again, I had a viscerally negative reaction to Prades. I had expected the village to be prosperous, thanks to the Casals Festival. Instead, it is shabby and dirty and lifeless.
At last night's concert, the crowd could have been patrons for Glimmerglass, the opera festival in Cooperstown, New York. Older, reassuringly well-dressed, I could not tell the French and Spanish from the Americans: everyone's dress identified them as belonging to the cosmopolitan, affluent class that takes vacations at high cultural festivals.
The concert was superb, devoted to Spanish music and French music influenced by Spain. A pianist, Jose Fernando Perez, a pupil of Alicia de Larocha's, captivated me with his playing. I left at half-time, though, as I did not want to fight the traffic leaving the festival. Memories of the struggle to get to a car at Tanglewood, among other venues, persuaded me that, as I was alone, it was probably better to leave when I had the road to myself.
Tonight, though, I gave my ticket for an evening of woodwind quintettes, to my hosts, who gave it to their daughter. I expect I will give the other two away as well, and depart first thing in the morning. My reaction to staying in my hosts' house (an expansive 70s suburban in a neighborhood that could be anywhere) is not just founded on the heat, but also my memories of staying in boarding houses with my mother and sister when my mother was settling my grandfather's estate. Eating together with strangers is not, generally "A Room With A View" --unless Maggie Smith and Denholm Elliot are among the guests.
That is not the case where I am staying. The other people staying here clacked their doors loudly at all hours of the night, whether they were using the toilet, showering or departing. I find myself feeling suffocated by having to interact with strangers with whom I have in common only the desire for cheap lodging. I like my autonomy, although I ought to have taken it into account in booking with my hosts in Prades.
If Prades had any charm, I would probably stay. The magnificent church of Saint Pierre, with extraordinary retablos is breathtaking. And it's probably the only church I've ever seen where Saint Peter dominates the center of the altarpiece, dressed in his gold papal mitre and red robes trimmed with gold. The church is, in effect a museum, containing also reliquaries of obscure saints. Renovated n 2012, it is a jewel.
It stands in the middle of a less-than-prepossessing village square, itself more recommendable than the main street of Prades and the streets that run across it. Empty storefronts are everywhere, and those shops open sell food just as they did when Casals lived there --he must have been a man with spartan tastes. His willingness to settle somewhere where no one would afford him any particular deference --in contrast to that he would have received had he settled in Paris, or New York, for instance-- bespeaks an admirable commitment to his principles.
I, however, am here as a visitor, and entitled to make my own judgments. The ruggedness and toughness of the Pyrenees is not for me. As I write this I am in the altogether, sitting on a bath towel. That, too, is probably scandalous, even to Audrey and her boyfriend, Baptiste, let alone my hosts and the neighbors. The people of the Pyrenees are very conservative, and reticent --no one has said Bon jour to me once, unless I initiated the exchange. Give me Caunes and the Minervois.
Monday, August 3, 2015
Caunes to Prades
Monday, August 3, 2015
I could have gone to Prades in an hour and 45 minutes, but I wanted to avoid the toll road and take the route through the Pyrenees, as the sky today has been clear and warm. It took me three and a half hours to reach Saint Thomas les Bains, a thermal spring an hour from Prades, but it was a chance to see the part of the Pyrenees that runs through l'Aude and l'Ariege (Pyrenees Audois et Ariegeois).
Much of the trip involved driving hairpin turns through the forest. I went to Saint Thomas via Axat, picking up a young hitchhiker from Reunion, the French island in the South Pacific. He works as a juggler and plays the guitar to make a living, and to helps bring in the wine harvest when the it rolls around. The rest of the ride I listened to France Culture, which featured a discussion of influence of Fernand Braudel in general and his interest in the role of Seville at its apogee in particular, followed by a lecture on New French Philosophy, which covered all the arguments Foucault, Baudrillard, Derrida and their successors had with each other.
You drive up to the baths at Saint Thomas and think you've reached a mining settlement in the Rockies: there's a square little house with a sign in large letters that says "SAINT THOMAS" at the end of a road on an incline. Once inside, it's basic: 6 Euros and a towel, but the baths are outside, and you have to take a hot shower outside before you can soak in the three pools, which are small. However, the shower is deliciously hot, sulfurous and alkaline. The thermal spring's waters pour down on you, massaging every muscle. I found the location a perfect spot to stretch out my muscles, tired from the long drive.
Saint Thomas was not as close to Prades as I had thought, but the drive promised a wonderful end. The Pyrenees opened out before me as they had not in l'Aude or l'Ariege: this is country you take deep breaths in. However, Prades was disappointing, a poor village with something I had not yet seen in my gallivants around the Midi: burnt-out cases, down and outs, clustering around the post office, of all places. There were no stores proudly selling local goods, just a SPAR, with products from chains, what the French call la grand distribution.
Fearing my experience in Tarbes was going to repeat itself, I made my way gingerly to my airbnb address. I needn't have worried, Dominique and Sofi, my hosts, live in an enomous house in the heights of Prades, overlooking the immensity of Mont Canigou.
My room has a lovely view of the mountains, and the rooms are clear and airy --and quiet. Dominique is a chef, and a teacher of would-be chefs, and Sofi is a masseuse. They raised their children in Nantes, and now that their son has graduated as an engineer, working in Pau, and their daughter is completing her university studies at Toulouse, Dominique and Sofi decided to move to Prades and give running a bed and breakfast a go.
Judging from the beautifully presented salad of vegetables from their garden and the three goat cheeses I was served, I think they are likely to succeed.
And I am likely to have a restful week, listening to chamber music at the nearby abbey of Saint Michel de Cuxa from tonight through Thursday, reading up on Rome before my trip next week, and generally enjoying the change of scene. Now that I know something of the history of Mont Canigou, it seems easier to understand why cellist Pablo Casals moved to Prades:
Mont Canigou has steeply rising flanks, and it is not far from the Mediterranean, a dramatic vista that led people in the 18th century to believe it was the highest mountain in the Pyrenees. --That distinction belongs to Mont Aneto, near the Bay of Biscay in the Western Pyrenees (11, 168'). However, Canigou, at 9, 137 feet, is no small potatoes, either. And the mountain is an icon of Catalan nationalism: the Catalan flag flies at its summit, and on the night of June 22, the eve of Saint John's Day, there is a relay of torches lit from a bonfire at the summit carried by runners throughout Spanish and French Catalonia. By choosing to live in Prades, Casals identified himself firmly with Catalan nationalism (suppressed by the Franco government) and against Franco. At the United Nations in 1971, to receive the "Peace and Freedom Medal", he delivered these brief remarks, which confirm his pride in his Catalan origins:
But let me say one thing. I am a Catalan. Today a province of Spain. But what has been Catalonia? Catalonia has been the greatest nation in the world. I will tell you why. Catalonia has had the first parliament, much before England. Catalonia had the beginning of the United Nations. All the authorities of Catalonia in the 11th century met in a city of France, at that time Catalonia, to speak about peace. 11th century! Peace in the world and against, against, against war, the inhumanity of war. This was Catalonia. I am so so happy, so moved to be here, with you.
His memory lives on at the festival.
I could have gone to Prades in an hour and 45 minutes, but I wanted to avoid the toll road and take the route through the Pyrenees, as the sky today has been clear and warm. It took me three and a half hours to reach Saint Thomas les Bains, a thermal spring an hour from Prades, but it was a chance to see the part of the Pyrenees that runs through l'Aude and l'Ariege (Pyrenees Audois et Ariegeois).
Much of the trip involved driving hairpin turns through the forest. I went to Saint Thomas via Axat, picking up a young hitchhiker from Reunion, the French island in the South Pacific. He works as a juggler and plays the guitar to make a living, and to helps bring in the wine harvest when the it rolls around. The rest of the ride I listened to France Culture, which featured a discussion of influence of Fernand Braudel in general and his interest in the role of Seville at its apogee in particular, followed by a lecture on New French Philosophy, which covered all the arguments Foucault, Baudrillard, Derrida and their successors had with each other.
You drive up to the baths at Saint Thomas and think you've reached a mining settlement in the Rockies: there's a square little house with a sign in large letters that says "SAINT THOMAS" at the end of a road on an incline. Once inside, it's basic: 6 Euros and a towel, but the baths are outside, and you have to take a hot shower outside before you can soak in the three pools, which are small. However, the shower is deliciously hot, sulfurous and alkaline. The thermal spring's waters pour down on you, massaging every muscle. I found the location a perfect spot to stretch out my muscles, tired from the long drive.
Saint Thomas was not as close to Prades as I had thought, but the drive promised a wonderful end. The Pyrenees opened out before me as they had not in l'Aude or l'Ariege: this is country you take deep breaths in. However, Prades was disappointing, a poor village with something I had not yet seen in my gallivants around the Midi: burnt-out cases, down and outs, clustering around the post office, of all places. There were no stores proudly selling local goods, just a SPAR, with products from chains, what the French call la grand distribution.
Fearing my experience in Tarbes was going to repeat itself, I made my way gingerly to my airbnb address. I needn't have worried, Dominique and Sofi, my hosts, live in an enomous house in the heights of Prades, overlooking the immensity of Mont Canigou.
My room has a lovely view of the mountains, and the rooms are clear and airy --and quiet. Dominique is a chef, and a teacher of would-be chefs, and Sofi is a masseuse. They raised their children in Nantes, and now that their son has graduated as an engineer, working in Pau, and their daughter is completing her university studies at Toulouse, Dominique and Sofi decided to move to Prades and give running a bed and breakfast a go.
Judging from the beautifully presented salad of vegetables from their garden and the three goat cheeses I was served, I think they are likely to succeed.
And I am likely to have a restful week, listening to chamber music at the nearby abbey of Saint Michel de Cuxa from tonight through Thursday, reading up on Rome before my trip next week, and generally enjoying the change of scene. Now that I know something of the history of Mont Canigou, it seems easier to understand why cellist Pablo Casals moved to Prades:
Mont Canigou has steeply rising flanks, and it is not far from the Mediterranean, a dramatic vista that led people in the 18th century to believe it was the highest mountain in the Pyrenees. --That distinction belongs to Mont Aneto, near the Bay of Biscay in the Western Pyrenees (11, 168'). However, Canigou, at 9, 137 feet, is no small potatoes, either. And the mountain is an icon of Catalan nationalism: the Catalan flag flies at its summit, and on the night of June 22, the eve of Saint John's Day, there is a relay of torches lit from a bonfire at the summit carried by runners throughout Spanish and French Catalonia. By choosing to live in Prades, Casals identified himself firmly with Catalan nationalism (suppressed by the Franco government) and against Franco. At the United Nations in 1971, to receive the "Peace and Freedom Medal", he delivered these brief remarks, which confirm his pride in his Catalan origins:
But let me say one thing. I am a Catalan. Today a province of Spain. But what has been Catalonia? Catalonia has been the greatest nation in the world. I will tell you why. Catalonia has had the first parliament, much before England. Catalonia had the beginning of the United Nations. All the authorities of Catalonia in the 11th century met in a city of France, at that time Catalonia, to speak about peace. 11th century! Peace in the world and against, against, against war, the inhumanity of war. This was Catalonia. I am so so happy, so moved to be here, with you.
His memory lives on at the festival.
Saturday, August 1, 2015
Over The "La Montagne Noir" To Castres)
Saturday, August 1, 2015
I had a great day in Castres, but "Getting there is half the fun" is not something I would ever say about driving there over La Montagne Noir this morning. There was heavy rain yesterday, and the weather report spoke of further rains, but I thought the weather in the area I'd drive would clear, based on the weather in Caunes. So I set my GPS for the fastest route.
The fastest route took me halfway down the main street in Caunes, Avenue du Minervois, then made a right turn for Citou and Lespinassiere, two progressively more remote mountain villages. From that point on, the fog took over, along with the rain. I was the only person on the road for most of the trip, which lasted two hours, rather than the normal hour and fifteen minutes. At times, the visibility on the narrow road was one foot with high beams on, the next white strip being all I could see, rolling at a pace of 10 kilometers an hour. I drove on, and at one point, turned right rather than left. The GPS told me, "Make a U-turn, if possible." Ha!
A few feet further on, however, there was a turn-off to a private house where I did make a U-turn. However, while I was doing so, two large black hounds bounded, barking, down to where I was. My window was open, so I pushed the "close" lever as fast as I could, protecting myself against an unknown as best as I could. I need not have worried: the dogs came over, sniffed, then lifted up their legs, satisfied they had done their duty.
At one point, the rain pouring down, I decided to stop the car to get my bearings before going forward. A few minutes later, a lonely white camionette approached which I hailed with all my might.
The young man who stopped had a "hoodie" on, the hood of which he lowered to speak with me. His handsome, bearded face was a good sign. When I asked whether I was truly on the road to Castres, he answered, "'Yes' it's about another fifteen to twenty minutes."
It took me about twice that long to get down the mountain, but once I did, I was glad. Castres is a beautiful town, the building materials made of ivory stone, and the city is immaculately maintained. Market day on Saturday is a good time to go: there are at least three fromagers, each commanding long lines for their products. I bought two logs (bucques) of goat cheese from Albine, a nearby village, along with a raw milk Camembert from Normandie, and a small slice of another cheese, a Gabach Vieux cow's milk cheese with a crinkly rind.
I also bought some beautifully colored tomatoes and grape tomatoes, Norwegian-style bread and a half dozen fresh figs.
The Place Jean Jaures, where the market is held, also features a cafe, Tendance, which makes some of the best coffee I have ever tasted. Cleanly modern in design, it conserves the standards of coffee-making that held sway before the days of "pods" and "K-cups", as well as providing exquisite teas of many varieties.
Castres has several bookstores, and a few antique dealers with exceptional offerings. One, off Place Jean Jaures, was selling a pen and ink sketch of a hussar made by none other than the man who would be Napoleon III. The quality of clothes and shoes on sale was also far superior to that on offer in Carcassonne and l'Aude generally. The Tarn department, which includes Albi, another town with high-quality offerings, seems clearly better off than l'Aude.
And I cannot speak of Castres without mentioning Le Musee Goya, a museum of art from the Spanish-speaking world housed in a former bishops's palace designed by Mansart and gardens designed by Le Notre. La Musee Goya has three Goyas, one a knowing self-portrait, another a portrait of a friend, and finally, a gigantic group portrait of a meeting of The Company Of The Philippines presided over by King Ferdinand VII, painted in 1815 (Autoportrait aux lunettes, Portrait de Francisco del Mazo et La Junte des Philippines) .
What is interesting about The Company Of The Philippines is not its size --it must be twenty feet long-- but the back story. Goya was commissioned to memorialize a meeting of the board of governors of the colony of the Philippines over which the king, Ferdinand VII presided. In the original sketch for the painting, Goya placed the head of the board beside the king, as he had been when the meeting took place.
However, after the meeting, Ferdinand VII fired the chairman and in the painting Goya, with the consent of the Board, placed the now former chairman off to the side, in the shadows by the door on the right, a pointed commentary on his fate. The company was dissolved not long after the commission was delivered. The painting ultimately made its way to Castres, where it was purchased by another painter, Marcel Briguiboul. Briguiboul perceived rightly that the Spanish influence on French painting was enormous and gave his entire collection, containing paintings by Murillo, Zurbaran, Ribera, Goya, and others, for the creation of the museum. Standouts in the collection are Ribera's Saint Augustin, the Goyas and the medieval retablos.
My errands completed, the ride back took me back through La Montagne Noir again. If you ask the GPS for the fastest route to either Castres or Albi, it will take you through La Montagne Noir. Driving the same road where I had inched, white-knuckled a few short hours before, confirmed the wisdom of taking it slowly on the Circuit de la Montagne Noir. Next time though, I'm taking the long way around.
I had a great day in Castres, but "Getting there is half the fun" is not something I would ever say about driving there over La Montagne Noir this morning. There was heavy rain yesterday, and the weather report spoke of further rains, but I thought the weather in the area I'd drive would clear, based on the weather in Caunes. So I set my GPS for the fastest route.
The fastest route took me halfway down the main street in Caunes, Avenue du Minervois, then made a right turn for Citou and Lespinassiere, two progressively more remote mountain villages. From that point on, the fog took over, along with the rain. I was the only person on the road for most of the trip, which lasted two hours, rather than the normal hour and fifteen minutes. At times, the visibility on the narrow road was one foot with high beams on, the next white strip being all I could see, rolling at a pace of 10 kilometers an hour. I drove on, and at one point, turned right rather than left. The GPS told me, "Make a U-turn, if possible." Ha!
A few feet further on, however, there was a turn-off to a private house where I did make a U-turn. However, while I was doing so, two large black hounds bounded, barking, down to where I was. My window was open, so I pushed the "close" lever as fast as I could, protecting myself against an unknown as best as I could. I need not have worried: the dogs came over, sniffed, then lifted up their legs, satisfied they had done their duty.
At one point, the rain pouring down, I decided to stop the car to get my bearings before going forward. A few minutes later, a lonely white camionette approached which I hailed with all my might.
The young man who stopped had a "hoodie" on, the hood of which he lowered to speak with me. His handsome, bearded face was a good sign. When I asked whether I was truly on the road to Castres, he answered, "'Yes' it's about another fifteen to twenty minutes."
It took me about twice that long to get down the mountain, but once I did, I was glad. Castres is a beautiful town, the building materials made of ivory stone, and the city is immaculately maintained. Market day on Saturday is a good time to go: there are at least three fromagers, each commanding long lines for their products. I bought two logs (bucques) of goat cheese from Albine, a nearby village, along with a raw milk Camembert from Normandie, and a small slice of another cheese, a Gabach Vieux cow's milk cheese with a crinkly rind.
I also bought some beautifully colored tomatoes and grape tomatoes, Norwegian-style bread and a half dozen fresh figs.
The Place Jean Jaures, where the market is held, also features a cafe, Tendance, which makes some of the best coffee I have ever tasted. Cleanly modern in design, it conserves the standards of coffee-making that held sway before the days of "pods" and "K-cups", as well as providing exquisite teas of many varieties.
Castres has several bookstores, and a few antique dealers with exceptional offerings. One, off Place Jean Jaures, was selling a pen and ink sketch of a hussar made by none other than the man who would be Napoleon III. The quality of clothes and shoes on sale was also far superior to that on offer in Carcassonne and l'Aude generally. The Tarn department, which includes Albi, another town with high-quality offerings, seems clearly better off than l'Aude.
And I cannot speak of Castres without mentioning Le Musee Goya, a museum of art from the Spanish-speaking world housed in a former bishops's palace designed by Mansart and gardens designed by Le Notre. La Musee Goya has three Goyas, one a knowing self-portrait, another a portrait of a friend, and finally, a gigantic group portrait of a meeting of The Company Of The Philippines presided over by King Ferdinand VII, painted in 1815 (Autoportrait aux lunettes, Portrait de Francisco del Mazo et La Junte des Philippines) .
What is interesting about The Company Of The Philippines is not its size --it must be twenty feet long-- but the back story. Goya was commissioned to memorialize a meeting of the board of governors of the colony of the Philippines over which the king, Ferdinand VII presided. In the original sketch for the painting, Goya placed the head of the board beside the king, as he had been when the meeting took place.
However, after the meeting, Ferdinand VII fired the chairman and in the painting Goya, with the consent of the Board, placed the now former chairman off to the side, in the shadows by the door on the right, a pointed commentary on his fate. The company was dissolved not long after the commission was delivered. The painting ultimately made its way to Castres, where it was purchased by another painter, Marcel Briguiboul. Briguiboul perceived rightly that the Spanish influence on French painting was enormous and gave his entire collection, containing paintings by Murillo, Zurbaran, Ribera, Goya, and others, for the creation of the museum. Standouts in the collection are Ribera's Saint Augustin, the Goyas and the medieval retablos.
My errands completed, the ride back took me back through La Montagne Noir again. If you ask the GPS for the fastest route to either Castres or Albi, it will take you through La Montagne Noir. Driving the same road where I had inched, white-knuckled a few short hours before, confirmed the wisdom of taking it slowly on the Circuit de la Montagne Noir. Next time though, I'm taking the long way around.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)