Our House is Not in Paris. Susan Cutsforth
the pâtisserie I started to select the pastries to take to Philippe’s. Martine gently intervened and I learned that, when you are invited to dîner, it is customary not to take an everyday choice but rather an exquisite selection. So the fruit tarts, glossy in their glaze, and powder-puff choux pastries were carefully chosen, placed in a shiny white box and tied with a gold ribbon.
Then it was off to our first French soirée. We were ushered in by Philippe, accompanied by Melanie, to his courtyard, which looked like a stage set. There were flickering candles placed everywhere, including in all the wall niches. The table was beautifully decorated and a procession of delicious dishes was served. Escargot dripping with butter and garlic, a salmon wrapped in foil that was delicately apportioned at the table, and a medley of summer vegetables. Over digestifs to finish our wonderful evening, Melanie provided our entertainment with a hilarious display of belly dancing.
The night is one of those special occasions that linger for a long time in your memory. A combination of an exceptionally late night and a copious amount of wine was not, however, a very auspicious start to the following morning, when we set off early for the Pyrenees.
The Perfect Gîte
So many of the wonderful things that unfold in life hinge on sheer chance. And so it was in finding the perfect gîte. It all stemmed from the serendipity of finding a car park.
After our few days in the Pyrenees, we were heading for Figeac, a town Stuart had fallen in love with, when we had to collect Liz’s car. She had broken down there on the night she was driving to stay with us in Rignac. (Liz Campbell is another friend we have gathered on our travels. While she lives in Wales, we also met her when we were on our trip to India.) The drive back through the Pyrenees had been spectacular but it had also been a long, hot day. We had stopped for lunch in Albi and thought we may stay there a night, but the blistering heat deterred us from searching for very long. We decided to press on. By five we were weary and, as we were driving through a town I spotted a single car space next to the river. Even more fortuitously, it was next to a restaurant. Café at last. Sipping our café I then noticed an Office du Tourisme just across the Aveyron river.
We walked over the bridge and I asked about the availability of accommodation in the area. I listed all my requirements: a small gîte in a nearby village in a quiet rural setting, preferably with a pool. They laughed. By now it was the middle of summer and the height of the tourist season; there was simply no accommodation available at all. Surely we knew that everyone in France was on vacances?
Despondent, we headed back to the car. It was just what we had been told at the Albi Office du Tourisme. And then we saw it — a small sign at the end of the bridge with an arrow pointing along the narrow path next to the river: Chambre d’hôte. By now we were enchanted just by what little we had seen of the plane-tree-lined boulevards of Villefranche-de-Rouergue. The ducks floating past us on the Aveyron as we approached the chambre d’hôte with high hopes reinforced the charm of the town. La Closerie was hidden behind solid stone walls. We tentatively opened the wooden gate to discover an enchanting jardin with roses lining the path leading to a splendid two-storey stone building. We later discovered that it used to be a bathhouse at which travellers would stop and rest. I also found out later from Erick and Brigitte Hurault de Vibraye that la closerie literally means ‘pleasure garden’. It was now six o’clock. It was peak season. It was unlikely there would be a room but, voilà, there was! At last we could stop for the evening and resume our search the next day for somewhere to stay for our last fortnight in France.
Over croissants and café the following morning, I whimsically asked Erick if he also had a gîte in the country we could rent. Voilà! It turned out the upstairs of the adjoining part of their chambre d’hôte was a newly renovated gîte! Would we like to see it?
It was a long, narrow apartment that had never been rented, as it had just been finished. At one end there were a bathroom and a petite cuisine overlooking the jardin. Next was a sitting room, then not just one but two chambres. Most perfect of all was the terrace outside running the length of the apartment with a petite table and chairs perched overlooking the Aveyron. We had found our perfect gîte.
And so followed two glorious summer weeks. The intense heat meant that we were not inclined to go out exploring too far or for too long. Instead we adapted to the rhythm of being in a small French town. It was just right as we could simply walk everywhere, over the river and along the cobbled streets of the town. We fell into the cadence of the twice-weekly markets, woven basket slung over my arm to select luscious peaches and strawberries, then, as with wherever we were in France, a daily visit to the boulangerie and pâtisserie. Back to the spreading shade of the tree in the jardin, where Erick had also set up a table for us to enjoy long, lazy summer days. And, most marvellous of all, we forged an enduring and special friendship with Brigitte and Erick.
A Taste of Things to Come
On the last night of our first trip, we stayed in a small village, Le Caylar, near the spectacular Cirque de Navacelles on the road to Montpellier. This night during our trip was a necessity rather than a choice. A stepping stone to the final destination; this time, home. We would have much rather spent our very last evening in Villefranche with Brigitte and Erick, but it meant the drive to Montpellier would have been far too long the next day. We had to be in Montpellier early the following morning to return our by now much-loved Citroën and catch the train to Paris for our return flight. It meant, though, that we were also able to visit one of the most iconic bridges in the world, the Millau Viaduct. Its soaring expanse of steel and concrete over the river Tarn is stunning. The sight of it soothed our spirits, sad at the thought of leaving a country that had left an indelible impression.
After booking into our gîte we set off in search of the perfect country restaurant and memorable meal to end our trip. The village only offered pizza; we were determined, on this our very last night in France, that we were certainly not going to eat pizza. I had noticed on the road into the village a sign for a restaurant tucked behind high stone walls. My fleeting glimpse had made me feel it held the promise of all that is perfect in a French rural restaurant. So off we set, on our last evening drive of the year, down the winding lanes of France in search of the perfect evening meal. We found the high stone walls, the old French manor looked enticing, and we tumbled out of the car in excitement. It seemed to be the tucked-away country restaurant of dreams: the profusely blooming roses in the jardin and the white gravel path winding up to the shaded terrace for an apéritif before dîner. But then we saw the notice on the wall: it is closed one night a week, on Monday. Of course it was a Monday.
As we returned to the car I noticed a young Frenchman enjoying his evening apéritif on his front steps. A local; surely he would know where we could eat. ‘Non,’ he said; there was nowhere to eat around here it is the country and it is Monday. We sank back into the car with disappointment. It was getting late, and the only alternative seemed to be pizza. As we were driving off down the deserted village road I glanced behind and saw him running after us. ‘Oui,’ there was somewhere open after all on a Monday. ‘À gauche, à gauche, à droite, à droite.’ Left, left, right, right. Mmm, possibly I understood. We did get lost, but it was in the best way possible.
It was getting later and later. The chances of our memorable meal seemed to be becoming more and more remote. Then, voilà, we ended up seeing, quite by chance, one of the most stunning sites on our entire holiday. Getting lost does have its merits on occasions. Cirque de Navacelles.
We fell out the car and gasped in wonder. It was the middle of nowhere and yet here was this extraordinary and breathtaking spectacle. It was like a piece of the Grand Canyon with a tiny little hamlet nestled at the bottom in the ‘U’ of the river bend. Pizza no longer seemed so bad after all. This unexpected splendour compensated for the missed perfect meal.
And then, driving back to Le Caylar, we came across, by sheer chance, the restaurant we had been directed to. It didn’t matter that it