Provence for All Seasons. Gordon JD Bitney
knowledge, the problems remained fundamentally the same—the land and the weather. And even though I had no vines, I was in the middle of wine country, and I wanted to know what it took to make the wines I enjoyed so much.
Pierre Luc was displaying an optimism that I hadn’t heard before. There was none of the despondency that I had seen last summer when his wife had left with Violette and he had been living alone. Their return in the fall had changed him. All the same, I knew that he hadn’t tended a vineyard, made wine or ever worked at anything.
When I returned home, I told Hélène about the day’s work and what Pierre Luc had said. “He didn’t do a minute’s work with us and has never tended a vineyard.”
“You’ve read Tom Sawyer?”
I stared at her, but she had turned her back and continued ironing. I felt troubled by all of this because I sensed that Pierre Luc was divided between his family responsibilities and his lazy ways with his old chums who hung around the Bar des Amis.
Cover Art
Across the valley from the villa, Montagne Garde Grosse reaches an altitude of 944 metres. On the peak there is a telecommunications tower and a cleared space where paragliders take flight on warm summer afternoons when the thermals are rising from the valley below. The village of Nyons rests there, hemmed in and sheltered by Garde Grosse and a set of hills, from the bitter winds of the Mistral from the north and the Vent du Sud from the south. Warmer than the surrounding countryside in this microclimate, Nyons takes the nickname ‘le petit Nice’.
Chapter 3
truffling ~ dog tales ~ cycling for croissants
WE DECIDED TO GO into Nyons for the outdoor morning marché that has been held every Thursday for centuries. It was small at this time of year, with only the most diehard merchants in attendance, dressed in heavy winter coats to fend off the cold, stamping their rubber boots on the ground and rubbing their hands together. Their faces were ruddy, and as they talked their breath sent puffs of mist into the air as if their words were visible. The couple that sold roasted chicken were more fortunate as they could bask in the heat of their rotisserie where banks of chickens turned on skewers. We shared in the warmth while Hélène reacquainted herself with madame and bought one hot off a skewer.
By noon, the regulars were gathering at La Belle Époque and already the bistrot looked busy.
“Bonjour, Monsieur/Dame!” the owner’s wife smiled warmly.
“Bonjour, Madame.”
“Comment allez-vous?” she asked.
“Bien, merci. Et vous?”
Then her husband came over to shake our hands and lead us to a table.
The menu du jour posted on the chalkboard on the wall read: ‘escalope de veau avec sauce blanche’. We both ordered the veal, and when the plates arrived at the table the waitress turned out to be our friend Alice from the nearby village of Vinsobres.
“You’re still here!” Hélène exclaimed. “I thought you were moving back to Quebec.”
“Oui, oui. That is true. But it didn’t work out. Here, my parents can look after my daughter while I earn some money. She will start school next year. Excuse me, I’ll come back. The boss wants my help.” And she headed off to serve other tables.
Every now and then she stopped at our table to get in a few more words. As we left, Alice waved at Hélène and held one hand up to her ear.
“I’m to call her tomorrow, and we’ll get together to catch up on things. I think she’s met someone . . .”
When we opened the door of the house, the telephone was ringing. Hélène moved quickly to answer it.
“Bonjour, Suzette!—Oui, oui. Nous sommes arrivé dans la tempête hier soir.—Oui! C’était terrible. . . .”
Hélène had adopted the clipped provençal argot of Suzette, so I gave up listening and went back to the bedroom to finish unpacking my suitcase. A few minutes later I got a summary.
“That was our neighbour, Suzette. She knew we were driving in last night and was worried when we didn’t arrive on time. She says we were lucky. The TV5 news announced that a semi-trailer had jackknifed on the A8 Autoroute and several people died. She thought we might have been involved. Oh, and with all the fresh snow Jean wants to go skiing in the Alps. Are you interested?”
“Yes, but I am going truffling with Marcel tomorrow.”
I had jumped at the chance to actually see how a dog finds truffles, and I wanted to dig one out with my own hands and smell its earthy, pungent aroma. A truffle, however, is a fungus like the mushroom that matures in the fall and raises its cap above the ground to send spores into the air. A truffle never breaks the surface, remaining out of sight while it matures during the winter.
Marcel lived in Bouchet and was one of those self-contained, hardy farmers who knew how to live off his land and within his means. Even though he accepted the government grants that had become a way of life to so many French farmers, he remained cautious and preferred to be self-reliant, guarding his privacy and independence. He was one of those people who typically lived their entire lives in the village or on the land where they were born. They rarely visited other nearby villages unless they had business there, were hard-working and never asked favours from anyone. Each family had to (and was even proud to) subsist on the resources available. And in turn, each community would rely on its members unless it was absolutely necessary to seek help from another community. To use a tradesman from another village was viewed as a serious breach of solidarity.
The next day I drove over to meet Marcel. When I arrived he was already standing at his front door. It was early and a cold wind blew the low, grey clouds overhead.
“It’s been wet and muddy. Not good conditions for the dog to pick up scent.”
He called his dog, which came around the corner of the house at a run. When it saw me, it stood off and barked aggressively. He patted it on the head and the dog settled down again.
“Truffling dogs are valuable and are often stolen,” he said, grimacing. “I lost a good dog once, so I’ve trained this one to bark at strangers.”
We got in my car and, with the dog between Marcel’s legs, drove to a wooded hillside where he pointed to a spot to park. The dog jumped out of the car and turned to Marcel, wagging its tail with expectation.
As we began walking into the scrub oak trees, our boots made squishy sounds on the ground that was soggy from the recent snowfall.
“She won’t truffle if she feels I’m not paying attention. She does it to please me. It’s like a game to her. When she finds one, I have to reward her with attention and a treat of some sort. If I were to ever beat her, she would never again truffle for me.”
The dog began sniffing at the ground ahead of us. Every now and then she looked back to make sure Marcel was following, then went on with the hunt again. Nothing much happened; so we walked deeper into the woods. After about half an hour the dog still hadn’t found anything.
“I think she feels I’m neglecting her. Let’s you and I stop talking and I’ll just talk to her. Maybe that will get her on track.”
We walked some more through the scrub oak trees and undergrowth, letting the dog lead the way.
“Bien, bien,” he cooed as if talking to a baby. This seemed to kindle a spark in the dog and it began sniffing more earnestly. Then it stopped and started energetically pawing at the ground. Marcel walked over, bent and stroked the dog’s head, talking to distract it from further digging. He reached into a pocket of his windbreaker and gave the dog a tidbit to eat. Next he pulled a small garden trowel from his other pocket. After loosening the soil, he dug his free hand into the mud, brought up a handful and filtered it through his fingers. He was left with a few round stones that he picked through and tossed away, until several lumps remained in his hand.
“Here,”