Of Rivers, Baguettes and Billabongs. Reg Egan
spirit”; for example, the spirit of a city.
My encyclopaedia sums up the word unanism as “the transcendent power of collective emotion…as a whole rather than the individuals composing it”. Rather like terroir, in some ways. I wonder if we should try and revive unanism. The cult of the individual: the me, me, what about me? has its merits, but perhaps a stimulating dose of unanism say every ten years or so.
Jules Romain also wrote Les Copains, which was set partly in the circular town hall of Ambert. As a result, an excellent local restaurant or auberge is known by that name. I always think of Ambert on the Dore River (another Dore), as being on the wrong side of the Massif Centrale, too close to the infernally busy St. Etienne. And besides, the waters of that Dore River flow to the north into the Allier, and then into the Loire. But that river redeems itself by flowing eventually through the oak forests known as the Allier and also the oak forests of the Tronçais (near St. Bonnet Tronçais, bien sûr) and those forests are very dear to the hearts of all winemakers, be they French or Australian, for there isn’t a winemaker in either country who wouldn’t fall to his knees for a whiff of a skilfully toasted barrique (225 litre wine barrel) from this blessed region. And perhaps I should say in passing that it is the subtlety of the toast that matters — toast that blends with and complements fruit, not oak that dominates it.
Auvergnats are those people whose hearts will never leave their somehow remote and wild countryside, even though they have streamed and continue to stream into Paris in their thousands. If I were a young man who lived within sight of the Puy-de-Dome, I too would go to Paris, but I would come back, or I would resolve to come back. I would not forget the Auvergne.
There are many reminders of the Auvergne in Paris: in its restaurants and its restaurateurs, its wine from St. Pourçain, its show business, its music, its literature and its politicians. Wasn’t Georges Pompidou born in Montboudie and weren’t the d’Estaings, both Charles-Hector and Giscard also sons of the Auvergne? Charles-Hector (18th century) and Giscard (20th century) were very successful in France but it must be said that Charles-Hector stumbled a few times as commander of the first French Fleet at the time of the American War of Independence and unluckily was guillotined during the Terror, as a reward for his efficiency as Commander of the National Guard during the Revolution. Giscard can and, no doubt, has claimed that he was a distant relative of the great Charlemagne.
And there was, or rather is, Jacques Chirac, one of the most enigmatic of them all, and long lasting. Chirac was born in Paris but spent some of his early life in nearby Corréze where his family had useful connections. Chirac and then Nicolas Sarkozy, quite a contrast for the conservative French. Sarkozy certainly was not born in the Auvergne. It is said that Auvergnants like to describe France as “The Auvergne with a bit of land around it”.
And finally we must give the Bourbons a mention. The Chateau of the Bourbon Dukes stands on the top of the hill in the town of Montluçon and the remains of the old feudal castle still exists on the rocky promontory of Bourbon l’Archambault, both in the north of the Allier Department. This general area was once known as the province of Bourbonnais. Henry 1V (“Paris is worth a Mass”) was the first Bourbon (son of Antoine de Bourbon, Duke of Vendôme and King of Navarre) and Charles X, who was deposed in 1830, was rightly, or wrongly, the last, or in any event, the last to reign. The old Louis-Phillipe imposed himself on the French for a while but then he made the mistake of preferring the Fleur-de-Lis to the Tricolor, and that was certainly that.
Auvergne, land of mists and snow, of mountain peaks and inverted cones, of icy rivers, waterfalls and gentle lakes, of grass and cereals of the deepest green, of shining clouds and skies of clear blue, of wonderfully long-horned red cattle and short but powerful horses, of sheep and goats and cheese and wine, of the headwaters, indeed the origin, of the Dordogne River, we love you. But we must move on, we must become more specific. You are still around us, but we must go back to Puy de Sancy and then journey south-west down the river to Bourg and Bordeaux. In short, we should become a friend of the river and maintain that friendship throughout its life: its turbulent youth in the Auvergne, its middle age in the Perigord and its old age from the Entre deux Mers to its death in the Atlantic.
CHAPTER FOUR
Picking up the rental car at Clermont Ferrand had not been without a little trauma and amusement, mainly with regard to our rejection of a somewhat battered Citroën, but finally we were on our way. We had determined on a direct route down to Puy de Sancy where we had booked a room, and that direct route was thus: on to the Autoroute the A75, exit 6 on to the D 978, follow the D 996 and straight on to Le Mont Dore (the town) and on to Puy de Sancy. We estimated that we would arrive at our hotel in the early afternoon. We hadn’t allowed for the loveliness of the country and the fascination of the villages along the way.
Even as you drive along the autoroute you are struck by the views on both sides of the road: hills close by, volcanic mountains in the distance and everywhere the gold and the green of the trees; the hills, the peaks, the dramatic valleys…It was hard not to stop and to take a D road to the East towards the forest of Livradois or to plunge in amongst the very volcans of the Auvergne on the West.
We kept to our plan, however and took our exit along the D 978. At 11.45 we arrived at the quiet village of Champeix. There were two reasons for us to be concerned. Firstly it was a Monday (not a good day for shopping in the French countryside), and secondly it was only a quarter of an hour until the whole village would close for lunch. The boulangerie was open and we got our demi-baguette and made enquires about the épicerie. It was closed, of course, but there was the Ecomarché at the top of the hill on the way out of the village, the less than attractive supermarchés that the French have allowed in thousands of towns and villages.
Never mind, it would have all we would need and indeed it did: walnut oil (essential for picnics in France), vegetables, fruit, water, cheese, delicious pâté de compagne (country terrine) and paper napkins et cetera. The punnet of hybrid wood strawberries (frais de bois) that I bought in my excitement, however, were well past their use-by date.
Champeix is just a pleasant village but the dwellings above the shops in the main street are all four floors in height. Why such accommodation in a place like this? Was it once home to more people than there appeared to be in 2008? It also had a small building which is somewhat rare in France. A toilet. Never mind that it was for men only. It is well known that women go but rarely. Toilets in France, or rather the lack of them, that is a lengthy subject. It is curious though that they are so little provided.
We found a spot to pull into for lunch and I walked through a meadow of grass, herbs and wildflowers to yet another fast flowing mountain stream. Everywhere there are streams or rivers, small and large and eventually they flow into the mighty Dordogne. If we had but a small proportion of these waters in Australia! There seemed to be more birds here than in other parts of France. I wondered if birds were making a comeback over here.
What a simple but what a satisfying lunch. Once…once a few trips ago we used to go into a restaurant for lunch. It was de rigour. How did we do it? And, more importantly, why did we? We hadn’t quite finished the baguette, so we crumbed it and threw it in the bushes for those French birds. The diesel fired, and we pulled back on to the road.
After you pass the turn off to the village of Verriers there is a small road on your left and a short way along there is a dolmen-something to gaze at and wonder about. It is a long way short of Stonehenge, of course, but what is it about these simple stones arranged by Celts some two thousand or more years ago. (Past Saint-Nectaire there is a menhir, and another dolmen but on the side road.)
Saint-Nectaire has been highly praised in some of the reference books (as has the cheese of that area) and it was with some excitement that we drove into the town and parked the car. What has happened to this famous little spa town? Our parking bay was next to the town’s public gardens, but alas they were overgrown and neglected. We walked up the hill towards a building which announced itself as the Casino.