In the Mountains Again

Le Gite

My last post was written in a very different manner to my previous travel essays.  I wanted to try something new, but I don’t think my idea worked.  I wanted to write a story from the point of view of animals, as if in a fantasy novel.  I thought of the idea as I was falling asleep and the post wasn’t executed quite how I imagined.  I think perhaps I should stick to the voice I have spent the last several months developing—less interesting for me, but more pleasant for you. 

The Department of Ariège encompasses some of midi-Pyrenees.  The Ariège is entirely different from the Lot.  The Ariège is not a wine or foix gras area and seems poorer and more rural than the Lot.  However, the towns seemed to have an artistic, musical, and alternative edge to them that was absent in other places we had traveled in France.  There were hand-painted street signs, organic farm cooperatives, and evidence of community musicians.  

Beach Forest

We found the “Lasqueti Island” of France and Europe.  As some of you know, when we aren’t traveling around Europe, we split our time between the outskirts of Vancouver and a remote Gulf Island—Lasqueti.  Lasqueti is the hermit/artist/ community minded/environmentalist haven between Vancouver Island and the mainland.  Lasqueti is off the grid, reached from Vancouver by two ferries (one of which doesn’t take cars), and has an intensely functional community of about 400 permanent residences.  The demography of Lasqueti can be described by three main groups:  1) the old-timers who were the descendants of earlier pioneers, or who moved to Lasqueti before the 1960’s as loggers, 2) the back-to-the-landers of the 70’s and 80’s, and 3) a mix of other people who have trickled into the island community since then.  We fit in the third group—the people who became enchanted by Lasqueti culture and environment in the last 20 years or so and never want to leave.  Read what Lasquetions say about their island at http://lasqueti.ca/island-info/lasqueti-life. 

Vista on a Walk

In rural France, we found back-to-the-landers of the same generation and personality types as our friends on Lasqueti.  These are people who didn’t like political and social climate of the cities in their own countries or who wanted to renew their ties with the land. The Ariège, not considered prime real estate, was an area where hippies could buy land.  We met two sets of former hippies originally from Germany with whom we loved talking about politics and the trials of balancing city life and living off the land. 

The Cute End of Cows

Wolfgang owns 22 cows and produces organic cow cheese in the style of the Alps.  He doesn’t sell milk anymore because the taxation system makes it impossible for small farmers to compete with the large agribusinesses.  He doesn’t use solar panels because they are grossly expensive, but all the hot water he uses to make his cheese is solar heated.  Wolfgang also keeps bees and makes honey, and it was the best honey I have tasted since Greece. 

Two Ages of Cheese

Wolfgang’s farm is perched on the edge of the mountains up a long, convoluted road from the nearest village.  At each switchback we feared we had gone the wrong way, but the signs still led us upwards.  Wolfgang gave us a long tour of his farm and I found it fascinating.  I haven’t had much experience with organic animal farms.  We saw the cows come in from the fields and be stationed in the barn.  Then, my favourite part, we saw the cows get milked.  Apparently I have had a fascination with cows since I was a toddler and my dad thought it was very funny that I couldn’t wait to see the milking now.  The modern system is to attach four suction cups to the cow’s udders and the milk is taken right from the cow and is pumped directly into a vat for processing.

Playing Music with Doris

From the processing vat, the milk is pumped directly into the cheese room.  We didn’t learn the specific method of preparation, only that it was a traditional Alpine recipe from the area where Wolfgang learned to make cheese.  Then we saw the cellar where the cheese is aged.  It was like gaining secret access into a bank full of gold bars.  The shelves marched horizontally across the walls bearing their precious delicious burdens.  The cheeses were organized according to their age.  The young cheeses were pale and their edges exact as if defined with a ruler.  The older cheeses were richer yellow and the sides of the cheese were rounded.  We learned that the cheese is old and “alive” when the cylinder is no longer perfectly geometrical and the middle bulges slightly outwards.  The cheese room was beautiful.  

My First Attempt at the Tourte au Tatin

In appreciation of the tour, my father and I played fiddle for Wolfy and his wife, Doris. After two Irish fiddle tunes Doris even took out her accordion and we played traditional Bretagne, Ariège, and German folksongs.  We also shared my first attempt at the “Tourte au Tatin” recipe from Isabelle.  The upside-down pie tasted delicious, but I didn’t caramelize the sugar long enough.  “Gavia will have to try again,” said my Dad as he helped himself to a second piece. 

For more information on Wolfgang’s farm, see his website: http://le.pourteres.free.fr. 

On the day we left the Ariège, we detoured to visit Michael and Margaret (the owners of the gite where we were staying) in their secluded valley away from the busy life of the small villages.  A lovely one km walk through deciduous forest protects their valley from noisy neighbours and cars – not that there are that many around. 

Michael and Margret's

Michael and Margaret aim for self-sufficiency.  For most of the year, Michael and Margaret eat mainly from their garden and don’t need to venture into a supermarché.  When Michael first bought the property, he put in terraces on the sides of their steep mountain valley.  Now the terraces are filled with a bountiful vegetable and flower garden. They also have a solar panel array, but unlike us on in the rainy west coast, the sun provides sufficient electricity all year.  At worst in the middle of winter, they have sun on their panels from ten until three—five hours of direct sunlight!

The Entrance to Niaux

Sadly for me, after we said good-bye to Michael and Margaret, we began the slow process of leaving France.  Our plan was to drive to Perpignan, return the car, and catch the evening train into Barcelona.  Instead, we took a detour to the prehistoric cave of Niaux.  This presented an emotional quandary for me: do I face my claustrophobia or do I stay in the car?  I was torn; Niaux is known for the detail and quantity of its images, the art is said to rival Lascaux.  However, to access the chamber with the paintings, there is a 20-minute walk in a tunnel lit only by flashlights.  When the moment came to make my decision, adrenaline rushed through my veins and I panicked—before setting foot in the tunnel.  So I stayed and played violin in the cave’s cavernous entrance.  The acoustics were divine.  I enjoyed the solitude and the magic of music in a pre-historically sacred space, but I was disappointed to have succumbed to my fears. 

The Train Station in Barcelona

We missed our train to Barcelona in Perpignan and so we stayed the night in a surprisingly original “Comfort Inn” with an astronaut theme.  The receptionist had an inordinate fondness for Toronto (and Canada), so we were given a free breakfast.  On the whole, the French have been delightful, warm, helpful people and I was heartbroken to leave France.  I have also fallen in love with French cuisine and the French language.  I love the eccentricities of its grammar (perhaps I am mad)! 

One moment we were on a train in France, then we had crossed the border into Spain and the sounds of Catalan filled the air.  Our Italian SIM card on our cell phone even sent us a “Welcome to Spain” message.  Woe to me.