Roussillon/Gascony, France |
Chateau de Jau, Cases-de-Pene, Perpignan, France
Thursday, 30th June 1995
It is now Friday, so I'll have to start by backtracking to yesterday. Events turned out unexpectedly unpredictable which threw me off balance - too off balance to start writing it all down. Now I feel I can start since we are lying in bed in the Chateau de Jau with a view of the steep terraced garden and its bed of vibrantly flowering lavender which dazzles in its velvety violet or purple (take your pick) against the bright green rows of vines. Not that we can see anything at the moment since it is midnight.
Back to yesterday and an early morning start . Up at five and by six on the road driven by Dennis to Gatwick.
On our arrival at Gatwick to check in our bags for our Air Liberte flight to Paris Orly we found the desk
unmanned. On enquiry at the ticket desk we were told that the man would be there shortly. Why, we asked ourselves, were some people almost happy to relate bad news? A clutch of travelers with luggage-laden trolleys had gathered to wait for the missing man. When he appeared it was to announce that the flight had been cancelled. A frisson of despair caught us. An elegant black lady tut-tutted, a young French man ruffled his hair anxiously. Arrangements would be made to ferry us to Heathrow by bus for an 11.30 Air France flight; but that would mean missing our connection with Air Inter to Perpignan. With a decisive stride Ralph marched across to the B.A. desk to buy us new tickets on a 9.30 flight to Paris Charles de Gaulle so that with a bit of luck we could get to Orly in time. I can't say that the B.A. girl was particularly enthusiastic about selling us spanking new single tickets or even sympathetic about the wreckage of our travel plans. It would have been so nice to hear her saying, 'Oh, what a pity! Now isn't that a shame?' But she didn't.
The 9.30 flight was late taking off. So we got to Charles de Gaulle an hour later than scheduled. Now Charles de Gaulle Airport was, at the time of its construction, the latest thing in airport design, an architect's vision. Built to resemble an amphitheatre, it literally goes round in circles. Outside we followed a circular concrete colonnade purpose-built to catch the traffic fumes. Having found a concrete hut for buying bus tickets, I left Ralph with our luggage trolley and battled amongst a plane load of French 'retirees' — 'en retrait' as they say. Viciously ignoring the efficacy of queueing they created an immovable bottleneck at the entrance by ignoring the exit door and going back through the 'Entrée'. Having bought the ticket I found Ralph among a sea of the grey bobbing heads of the elderly travellers who were pushing forward on the pavement in a state of terminal anxiety. When the bus clugged to a halt they pressed forward in hysterical panic. Once on the bus things calmed down and we could look out of the window. Around the peripherique the suburban conurbations glittered in the sunshine. A dramatic pall of smoke ballooned into the sky like a slow-motion bomb. Luckily it was not in our path but it looked as if quite a few buildings were on fire.
Well before we got to Orly it was obvious that we would miss our connection for Perpignan. So ever inventive we decided to fly somewhere else and hire a car. 'Beziers' I announced — and so it was, and just as well since the later Perpignan flight was fully booked. We ate salad, lamb and chips in the airport café and took off for Beziers at five o'clock and arrived an hour later. It was a hot and sticky flight. The air conditioning only worked when the plane was actually moving and we had to wait motionless for quite a while for the flight slot. We had rented a Hertz car through the very friendly Air Inter girl and looked forward to driving south and finding a small hotel for the night.
There was no-one at the Hertz desk so we hired a car through Budget. It was the last available one — at last the gods were being kind to us. We headed out on the N9 towards Narbonne but found no hotels to our liking — only Novotels and Ibis that faced the road bleakly and looked like abandoned soldiers' barracks. We made detours along smaller roads and found yellow stones villages with bridges over canals and medieval churches — but no hotel. Back on the N9, feeling travel weary in the mellow evening light we came upon just what we had been hoping for — the Hotel La Cigogne, nestling between the road and slanting rows of vines and cypress trees.
The patron was round-faced and avuncular with an engaging gap-toothed smile. His wife was a jolly soul of the sale-of-the-earth variety with a ready laugh and a smoker's cough. The paneled dining room with its robust mahogany counter gave the place an atmosphere of timeless domesticity. We had caught the hotel at its quietest, the very day before the holiday rush. We were shown rooms, numbers 9 and 11. They both looked the same with flock wallpaper, pink candlewick bedspreads and flimsy bathroom partitions. We chose room 11 and on opening the shutters discovered a lovely view of bright green vines beyond a row of cypress trees.
It was perfect. We sat at a pink-clothed table in the dark dining room and at the patron's recommendation ate grilled fish which had been caught that very day by a fisherman friend at Peyriac de Mer down the road, crudite from his neighbour's garden and a local wine (we passed the chateau the next day) called Chateau de L'Ille, Blanc de Blancs. It was made from four grapes, Merlot, Grenache, Morvedre and Syrah. It was delicate and had a smokey salty taste which opened out with the tasting of it — and for dessert the new season's melon filled with a port-like aperitif wine. We were asleep as soon as our heads touched the pillows and in the morning breakfasted on delicious coffee and buttery croissant.
Peyriac de Mer sounded intriguing. So we stowed our luggage in the boot of the car and followed the signs. The town consisted of a small square with a boulangerie and a tree-lined promenade above a placid 'etang' or pond. A sign post directed us to the port across a stone causeway and rocky hills with vines slanting down the lower slopes as if stopped short by the shimmering water. The port consisted of a wooden pier and a shingle beach with a few fishing boats. We watched a boat glide past, setting concentric ripples whispering on to the pebbles, turning the velvet water into billowing silk. A trio of Ibis stood delicately on water-covered rocks.
Time now to appear at the Chateau de Jau. We stopped off at the village, Cases-de-Pene, and drank a coca-cola in the village bar. We followed the road out of the village, turned right along a narrow valley of
vines and rocks and drew up at the Chateau winery, a modest warehouse. Another car drew up behind us. It was Estelle Daure, daughter of the family. I had met her once before at an Oddbins wine fair in London - slim, dark with a languid manner. She guided us to the Chateau past a cement factory which hadn't been there when Ralph was here in 1987 — a blot on the landscape which the family has been fighting against for a long time. Suddenly we had our first view of the Chateau on a steep cliff landscaped into terraced gardens where a purple sea of lavender met the vivid green of the vineyards. Approached along a pollarded avenue of ancient plain trees, the Chateau stands out as an elegant outcrop, painted a rich terracotta reminiscent of old Tuscan farmhouses.
The ground sloped upwards past the avenue of trees to large stone wine buildings which also house the art gallery run by Estelle's mother Sabine. A large square pool was shaded by a massive mulberry tree, its pale pink fruits still ripening. We left the cars there since a tractor was blocking the path further up to the Chateau. We climbed the steep pink and buff steps to the cloistered garden. An old lime tree had parachuted its seeds onto the ground. We leaned over a stone balustrade which seemed to project us into the glittering brightness of vines and boulders below.
The Chateau gallery was about to open its new exhibition on the theme of 'nudes'. Ralph's exhibition of silkscreens had been installed in a new and smaller gallery at Banjuls, one of the family estates by the sea. The Chateau was very quiet, the only person there being the maid who brought us a bottle of the house rose and a jug of water on to the terrace. She was a small wirey woman, quietly efficient. People drifted in and out of our field of vision for the rest of the day - art critics, the exhibiting artists, nieces and nephews of the Daures. We swam in the concrete swimming pool above the house, joined by various nieces and the children of one of the artists — a baby and a little girl of about four, their mother a fair flaccid girl and the father bald, with a fleshy nose and pale blue eyes with lashes so pale that there appeared to be none. At lunch we met them all — Sabine elegant and poised, Bernard quietly amused by the activity around him. We sat next to an American called Marc Willis who bore an uncanny resemblance to Jack Nicholson. He lives with his French wife painting and restoring old houses. He was a good companion and also saved us having to speak in our stilted French.
Originally we were to spend all our nights at Paulliles, the estate by the sea but since the vernissage for the Nudes exhibition was to be that night it seemed sensible to stay at the Chateau in one of the children's rooms overlooking the garden.
We fell asleep, not waking until the vernissage was in full gear. A thousand of the great and good strolled along the cobbled cloisters of the old buildings, the tables were laden with white cloths and wine glasses. White aproned waiters chatted in groups while the guests assembled, like flocks of birds resting before an arduous migration. The gallery space was splendidly airey. The rooms opened on to each other so you could see through each doorway into the next room and beyond to the very last one. Wide green views from the windows drew us away from the ponderous paintings of nude women in self-conscious poses on armchairs and sofas.
We found a comfortable seat under an awning on the far side of the pond and watched the world go by — a cross section of the local population from bourgeois couples in linen suits and designer dresses to farmers' sons in jeans and T-shirts. At the entrance to one of the caves we had noticed a man photographing a blue doorway with an old metal chair and broom and bucket in front of it. It amused us that he seemed so intrigued by such a simple picture rather than the grandiose display of art in the gallery. As we sat, the same guy walked by and leant for a moment on the balustrade. He came over and said, 'It's not often you see Golden Virgina Tobacco around here..' which started a long conversation. His name is Garth Beatty, Irish to the core with his red hair and inability to stop talking. He looked like a leprechaun. He lives in Perpignan and is married to a French girl. He spent a lot of time with the gypsies in the town and researches into their lives and photographs them. He had been invited to the vernissage by two homosexual friends who spent their time commenting on the womens' dresses. 'They'd really like to wear them themselves,' said Garth. He was an amusing companion amongst the self-absorbed and rapacious guests who grabbed the food as fast as it appeared on the tables. Slices of pizza, spicey sausages, fruit and pastries all disappeared as soon as they were laid down. When Garth left us we went back to the Chateau kitchen and the maid gave us bread, cheese, Chorizo and coffee. And then to bed.
Saturday, 1st July
We slept well and breakfasted late in the garden. People drifted to and from the table. Languid arrangements were made for getting to Ralph's vernissage in Paulliles by the sea. Eventually we decided to make our own way in our own car. Our hosts wanted us to stay another night in the Chateau because Estelle was having a party at Paulliles and they thought it would be too noisy for us.
The Clos de Paulliles is a wine estate on the coast East of Perpignan. Approached by a new coast road that winds its way at tremendous speed (or rather the French drivers do) there are ever-changing vistas of vine-covered slopes, rocky bays and glimmering sea. A dusty track winds down to the old stone buildings, the windows and doors painted in a vivid Spanish blue that reminds you that the Spanish border is only a few kilometres away. Walking through iron gates you find yourself in an enclave of low roofed buildings that create a terracotta-tiled courtyard with buff awnings and tables laid for lunch. At its perimeter are olive trees and peeping beyond the roofs are dark pines with pineapple haped cones. On the left a taller building has a high glass door into the gallery where Ralph's prints are displayed. They look impressive in the sparse vaulted space, the bull fight series (The Little Tin Bull Ring) in one room and the Leaders series ( Godhead, King and Queen, Revolutionary, etc) in the other.
Sabine was sitting with Le Maire, a tall bronzed man with an open-necked shirt and his chain of office which looked more like a security tag than the more splendiferous regalia we are used to at home. Having examined the exhibition, he had one question to ask Ralph: 'Was he for or against bullfighting?'. Ralph answered to the best of his ability — that it wasn't a question of for or against but more a question of human nature, power, pain, etc. We sat at a table to be greeted by Garth (Ralph had invited him) and were joined by a Scot, a friend of the family, called Gordon. He was a painter but also did theatre design to pay the bills (another case of 'Don't give up your day job', I suppose).
The Clos is run as a restaurant as well as a winery and we were served by waitresses in long white aprons, white blouses and long coffee-coloured linen skirts. It was a jolly lunch with terrine, duck, grilled vegetables, cheese and strawberries, served with the Clos de Paulliles rose wine (light and summery — we avoided the rich red one). We were joined by some jolly French people who laughed and guffawed their way through lunch.
The sky was as blue as could be but the wind suddenly grew strong and rattled the awnings. It signalled the exodus of the lunch guests for they suddenly seemed to have disappeared. The sea looked inviting so after getting the keys to the little flat which is situated up some steps behind the restaurant, we plunged into the water. It was truly wonderful. We had a soft drink at the little café, 'Sole Mio' at the end of the beach and went back to sort out our luggage at the flat. It commands great views across the vineyards and is compact and roomy with a large sitting room, bathroom and wide tiled terrace that looks out towards the sea.
We had just settled into our pre-prandial reading and writing when Garth arrived with his wife, Pascale and baby daughter. We walked with them across to the Sole Mio and ate marinated anchovies, mussels and fish. It is a tiny place. Pedro, the Spanish cook, worked in his little open kitchen and an exceedingly friendly waitress served us. It was so good to sit on the little cement patio, looking out to sea at the rotating beam of the lighthouse beyond the steep rocks at the far edge of the bay.
Sunday, 2nd July
I woke with a really nasty cold. It felt like flu but after a breakfast of egg, bacon and tomatoes cooked by Ralph I felt revived enough to walk along the cliff path where we admired the wide sea views and swam in a tiny pebbly cove. We had lunch at the Clos — the same menu as before — they keep the same menu throughout the summer since most of the clientele are passing through and are unlikely to make another visit.
We came back and slept. I woke feeling groggy. We decided to eat at the Sole Mio again. They made a reviving vegetable soup especially for me. There was a heavy warmth in the air and flashes of lightning on the horizon. It started to rain and we dashed under the shelter of the awning. Pedro tied up the umbrellas as the wind got up — 'they'll end up in Spain otherwise,' he said with a grin.
Monday 3rd July
We had a long sleep and made a late start to Couriolles with its medieval fort rising from the sea. We picnicked on a beach overlooking a moorish tower with a terracotta dome and shopped for a supper of artichokes and chicken with wine and chanterelle mushrooms.
I've rattled through the last couple of days because it's taken me so long to catch up with myself - what with my cold and the fact that writing a diary is not always easy. The intrepid lady travellers of yesteryear had the advantage of a slower pace of travel. They could end up for months at a time in the same remote Bedouin tent or African jungle — plenty of time to gather one's thoughts. For me, it is difficult to get away from the fast pace of life. I have only to look through the window to see cars whizzing along the coast road. The occupants are hardly looking at what they pass. They know where they are going. They have studied their tourist maps. But they don't know why they are going. The rocky headlands, the nestling towns are merely landmarks that guide them to their destinations.
Tuesday, 4th July
I am sitting on the terrace at Clos de Paulliles. We are waiting to go to the office below and phone about our flights home since we want to avoid the problems we had getting here. The weather turned windy and wet yesterday evening. The sky is still a misty gray but the sun is filtering through making it pleasantly warm to sit here on the top of the world.
My cold took a turn for the worst, so after supper I went to bed and slept till morning. So now I feel thick-headed but rested. Beyond the trees the sea is gray and silver and the vines are pale against the line of velvet cypress trees that grow perpendicular to the shore line.
3.00 p.m. — Had a pleasant trip to Cerberes, the last town before the Spanish border. We can't understand why Estelle told us that it is a place full of charm. It is rapidly being destroyed by concrete apartment buildings and cantilevered roadways. We bought some provisions there, sat in a café for a drink and then drove to Banjuls where we found a secluded cove for a picnic. The cove was surrounded by rocks shaped from layers of multi-coloured slate below a cream building that was some sort of marine institute. The sun came out and we basked like seals on the beach and listened to the waves lapping against the rocks.
7.00 p.m. — It has been raining heavily. We were looking forward to an evening walk up the hill to look down on the Clos but instead Ralph is writing his opera and I have just played two games of scrabble against myself. I haven't been able to read much. My eyes are too watery with cold. I haven't sketched either. Somehow I don't seem to have the concentration.
A little incident I should mention that made Ralph laugh when it came into his mind. Having lunch in the chateau garden, the bullet-headed baby of the pale-eyed artist had been placed in a baby walker with wheels. It went at quite a pace and everyone kept a watchful eye on it because of the nearby pond. But what no one noticed were the flowerbeds that had just been watered. Suddenly the baby toppled face down in the soggy soil. When his mother picked him up his face was caked in mud, like a negative photograph. It was comical indeed, especially in the luscious context of the garden with its palm trees and seeds wafting like snow flakes from the lime trees.
10.00 p.m. — After our supper of coq au vin we went for a walk. We were assaulted by warm fresh smells as soon as we walked out of the door. We followed a track by the vineyards behind the Clos. As we looked back we could see that a golden light had started to paint the hills and turn the sea into a glowing lake lying placidly between the gloomy headlands that shifted as we climbed upwards. Between the vines with their new growth which climbed along the shardy soil grew white cow parsley, lemon coloured broom and pale pink columbine. These flowers glowed with an incandescent light . A subtle rainbow arched across the valley from one headland to the other. We felt a sense of urgency, knowing that soon the sun would sink below the crest. Glancing backwards at this sight we gasped with wonder and took some hasty photographs which I was sure would never match the immediate experience of being there. Quite suddenly, as if a light switch had been turned off, the landscape became flat and dim. But there was still some lingering magic left as we sat on a slate wall on the crest of the hill and puffed our Golden Virginias. On the way back I plucked at the wayside flowers and was aware of their sweet scent on my finger tips. It was wild fennel that grew in clumps along the verges.
Wednesday, 5th July
We have stopped for a drink at the café in Cases-de-Pene having left Paulliles behind in teaming rain. We took the main road and tried to keep up with the French drivers who suffer from terminal road rage, gesticulating angrily when they overtake with an inch to spare from the on-coming traffic. We passed an accident — a car in a field, an elderly couple standing dazed beside their crumpled vehicle and an ambulance — a salutary lesson if any one were to take any notice of it.
We passed through Cases-de-Pene to Estagel but finding nowhere to park returned to a steep road opposite Chateau de Jau that gave us a splendid vantage point overlooking the chateau, its vineyards and the verdant valley snaking between rugged escarpments. Perfect for Ralph to do a panoramic view. We drove up the avenue of plane trees and parked beside the gallery. We enquired after Estelle at the restaurant by the square pond with its gushing fountain and weeping willow but she hadn't arrived. So we sauntered back along the avenue and sat for a while on old stone rampart overlooking the river. We could see the rocks on the river bed and fish lurking in the shadows. Swallows skimmed the water and a bird made a haunting sqwauking sound. We decided to wait for Estelle with a glass of vin d'ete at the restaurant. She arrived soon afterwards and we had a pleasant lunch of mountain ham, grilled lamb and saucisson. Sabine joined us for coffee to say that she'd like to work on a larger exhibition for Ralph. Originals are her preference. The weather was breezy and sunny by the time we said our good-byes and drove to Perpignan where our flight was delayed an hour, but hopefully we still have time to catch our connection via the elusive Air Liberte.
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