Of Rivers, Baguettes and Billabongs. Reg Egan
that dog which was so clearly visible from the bedroom?
That boy — that boy of long ago. Me, of course, but no longer me. He is a child whose occasional thoughts and actions I can describe but as I look back, it is as if he is a character in a book. I turned and went slowly back through that beautiful forest and up the steep road to our hotel.
Our destination on that day was St. Martin-Valmeroux, or more correctly a hostellerie out from that town and in the valley of the Maronne.
We had by-passed the famous mountain peak of Puy-de-Dôme — the haunt of the Celts and the site of the temple of Mercury built by the Romans in the first century BC — and so we had to take the word of the guide books that on a clear day you could look back to Clermont-Ferrand in the East, that Beaujolais was visible and even the summit of Mont Blanc. We would console ourselves with the view from Puy Mary to the south in the Cantal. Anyhow Puy Mary at 1787 metres is higher than Puy-de-Dôme.
When you leave Puy-de-Sancy you descend rapidly to Le Mont Dore (not the mountain, the town) and what a charming bustling spa and ski town it is. How curious that it has prospered while the relatively nearby Saint-Nectaire has declined. We stopped to buy our lunch at a lovely boulangerie (half, or a demi-baguette). It may be hard to believe but we then had the choice of three fruit shops. One of those shops also sold wine and liqueurs naturally, and so we were able to discuss the merits and shortfalls of one of the local aperitifs, Gentiane. We did not buy a bottle.
We by-passed La Bourbole and took the little yellow D645 which goes uphill and through a dark and lovely oak forest. You meet no one on the road — there is no traffic — but the surface of the road is smooth and adequate. I doubt that I’ve ever seen a pothole in the French country roads. When you see a profile of the bitumen it appears to be about 125mm in thickness (alright, five inches).
We went through La Tour d’Auvergne and Bagnols and then on to the red road, the D922, and then, how it happened I don’t know, but suddenly we were on the road to Trizac and chasing a church and a château. Trizac was sleeping peacefully in the spring sun and the town was quite amazing in its sombre hues of dark grey volcanic stones and roofs of lauzes-heavy, shale-type stones. The stone in the walls of the church was, in fact, a rich brown rather than the usual dark grey of the volcanic rock. You have to wonder how they quarried all the stone that there is in the buildings of France. The château that we had sought was closed for lunch, re-opening at 2.00 p.m. We journeyed on and found a very scenic spot for our picnic including (of course) a heavy stone table and stone bench seats.
Puy Mary (I don’t know why it doesn’t have a “de”, nor why it is Mary) is in the heart of the Monts du Cantal, and therefore in a corner of the Parc National Regional Des Volcans. You may not be able to see the Beaujolais or Mont Blanc from here but you won’t regret that. The green valleys with their intermittent forests and peaks, cones and rounded summits more than compensate for the spectacular views from the Puy-de-Dôme. The Vallée de Falgoux is not the most direct route back to the D922 but it is charming and a relatively easy drive.
We arrived at St. Martin-Valmeroux in time for a late coffee at a pleasant little café not far from the main road. What does this village consist of? More dark stone houses, with a hint of chocolate, a picturesque church and quiet streets. We found the road to the Valley of the Maronne without much trouble and soon were comfortably settled in a room with a view up the length of the valley. A view of stone (of course) houses with every now and again an isolated hut called a buron. These huts were used in the past for cheese making, and although they no longer serve that purpose, they are well maintained and add to the character of this lush valley with its distinctive cattle and its reserves of forest. Oh, but it was a valley of charm with its trout river, its pedestrian bridges for the use of anglers, its well maintained track along the river and its curious fences.
Everyone at the Hostellerie was talking about the village of Salers and how we must visit it the next morning. And so we made the short journey
Salers houses are all gables and towers and pepperpots and lauzes and seem to be in the same condition they were when they were built seven or eight hundred years ago. The amazing thing about this little town on the hill is that it exists of its own accord. It is touristy, yes, but it has its own life and commerce. The visitors make it busier, no doubt, but Salers would continue on its way even without the tourists. It’s easy to love Salers and I bought the best punnet of hybrid Fraise de Bois — every strawberry was perfect and the perfume outdid Chanel or Dior, or any of them.
Freda White, in her classic The Three Rivers of France (1953) says of Salers: ”Up the valley of the Maronne from (Valmeroux) lies Salers, perhaps the prettiest little town of the Auvergne. It was for long a judicial centre, and the towered houses around its tiny square belonged to lawyers, the ‘nobility of the robe’.” Ah, these lawyers, how often have we knelt and thanked the Good Lord for the profession of the law and its dedicated members.
CHAPTER SIX
Last night after our entrée and main course, we were allowed, or cunningly manoeuvred, to linger over the remaining third of the wine bottle. A cheese trolley was then wheeled alongside the table with knives, forks and plates, and naturally a basket of fresh and warm, sliced baguette.
“Five cheeses, cheeses of the Auvergne, local…” She picked up her knife and fork and leant towards our table looking from one diner to the other.
“This,” she said, “is the Cantal — very popular throughout France now and very ancient. I think it was mentioned by Pliny the Elder in the first century BC.” I nodded, and she skilfully cut a slice and put it on my plate.
Cantal is from the milk of the beautiful Salers cows. It is pressed twice — once when the curd is broken up and salted and the second time when it is pressed into its final mold. You can buy it young, jeune when it is at least thirty days old, medium or entre dou, when it is between two and six months in age, and vieux, when it is more than six months old. As in so many instances vieux is…best. Cantal cheese comes from what in the Auvergne is known as the Pay Vert.
Saint Nectaire comes from the high country around this little town, the communes of the Puy-de-Dôme (of the famous views), and from specified areas in the Cantal. It has been around since before Louis X1V. It is creamy, firm but springy in the mouth, and has perhaps a suggestion of mould, and it has a certain fame. Yes, we would have a slice, or tranche.
Bleu d’Auvergne is, of course, a blue cheese, again from cow’s milk and is very similar to Fourme d’Ambert. Its area of production is extensive and takes in part of the Lozere and even the Lot. And it is delicious. Another slice? Oui, merci.
The final cheese that I was tempted to take was from a farmer or fermier from the distant town of Saint-Jean-de-Chapteuil, the home of that Jules Romain fellow. And in addition that cheese was from goat’s milk, a change from the cow’s milk cheeses, splendid though they are. The cheese is dry, soft and full of flavour.
What a way to finish the last of the bottle, and what an excuse.
There is an excellent little book French Cheeses written by (yes, it’s true) Kazuko Masui and Tomoko Yamuda and they attempt the well nigh impossible and advise you on what wine goes with which cheese. The practical answer often is that you are simply tempted to have cheese to enable you to finish the wine that remains after the conclusion of the main course. Their advice, though, is good. They admit that there “are no hard and fast rules”, and suggest trial and experimentation.
Cheese has been made for the last five thousand years at least. Certainly there appears to be evidence of cheesemaking equipment in Europe and Egypt for that period. And Homer (9th or 8th century B.C.) in the Odyssey gives an excellent description of cheesemaking from goat’s and ewe’s milk and storage of the product in baskets in caves. Was it by any chance a blue cheese? Virgil in 52 BC also