Languedoc Arrival
(Part 2)
My wife Cathey and I have traveled the States extensively, Mexico as well, but as we began planning for our retirement our attention turned to Europe. The idea of living in a place where the greatest dilemma of the week might be whether to take a spur-of-the-moment day trip to Barcelona or a weekend getaway to Florence, and the determining factor is the parking situation at the local train station, appealed to us. We searched for a climate to our liking, not too hot in the summer for my sake, not too cold in winter for Cathey’s. And both of us are tired of shoveling eastern Pennsylvania snow. The southern coast of Western Europe seemed the place to start.
After visiting the Algarve in Portugal and deciding that it wasn’t quite right for us, we took a look at Spain. A co-worker whose family has a house on the Costa Brava wasn’t very encouraging – super hot in the summer and lots of new, resort-style development. Barcelona is an exciting city, Seville has history and charm, but we’re really not urban oriented folks. So we decided to skip Spain and head for the Languedoc region of southern France.
Our decision to fly into Paris, then drive the 800 or more kilometers to our ultimate destination near the shores of the Mediterranean, might at first seem a waste of precious vacation time and energy. But we’ve found that we get the most satisfaction from just this kind of self-directed auto touring. We can sniff the air, taste the local wines and cheeses, get the feel of the dirt between our toes. Flexibility appeals to us as well. Hopping off the A71 on a whim to gape at the Old Town atop the hill overlooking modern Montlucon while nursing a Pelforth Brun (dark beer) in front of the Café de la Gare is as relaxing to us as a massage and a sauna at our health club in the States.
But I get ahead of myself - our Montlucon excursion took place on our way back to Paris as our vacation came to close.
We spent our first vacation night on our way south from Paris in Brive-la-Gaillarde. Just south of Limoges along the A20, Brive is a major rail and highway hub serving the economy of the region as well as being a convenient, inviting center for regional tourism - although not the most picturesque of villages in and of itself. The hilltop Church of St. Martin, a modest and unprepossessing edifice, is named for the Fifth Century Spanish aristocrat who destroyed local pagan icons and was promptly martyred by an ungrateful populace. Within easy strolls from the church are neighborhoods featuring narrow alleys lined with homes retaining the characteristics of Thirteenth Century architecture, not to mention broad, newly paved pedestrian walks constructed to the benefit of chic Twentieth Century shops.
We dined and spent the night at the wonderfully named Hotel de la Truffe Noire (Hotel of the Black Truffle) – clean, modern rooms with spacious baths, reasonably priced and with a restaurant to die for. http://www.la-truffe-noire.com. After a satisfying petit dejeuner described as a buffet americain in the hotel’s vaulted cellar, we packed the car, stopped at the market for the makings of lunch and hit the road.
Would you believe that my love affair with the Languedoc began in a highway rest stop? We pulled over for our picnic in sight of Carcassonne, the old city’s walls just discernable across lush green fields. Behind the city, blue-gray hills in the distance. Above, clear blue skies. Around us, French families and tourists on vacation were eating, playing and passing around binoculars and long-lens cameras for a better look at the city where Costner filmed his version of the Robin Hood legend. At least four different languages could be heard spoken.
Cathey and I pulled out our baguette, smeared on some sweet French butter and layered slices of saucisson and country pate. The wine was red, cheap and good.
I was hooked.
NOTE: The French have a reputation as bad drivers – fast and aggressive. Don’t believe it. Well, the fact is that they are fast and aggressive. Like me. But they’re not bad drivers. On this first leg of our trip, after 800 kilometers (500 miles, my American friends) of driving on four-lane highway, we only encountered two cars meandering in the left-hand lane. Every other time that we moved up on a car going slower than we wanted to in the left lane, the driver pulled over. Compare that to an American drive of equal distance.
Of all the real estate agents and property advisers that we contacted prior to out trip, the most useful turned out to be Paul Pasco. He referred us a wonderful little two star hotel in the small, quiet but centrally located village of Nissan lez Enserune, on the road between Beziers and Narbonne, called the Hotel Residence.
The owners are Philippe and Bernadette Sans. He’s the chef and she’s the hostess. Neither speaks very much English but after two evening semesters of community college French and a bit of private tutoring, Cathey and I can make ourselves understood well enough. There are rooms in the old main house that are spacious enough and comfortable with the bath ensuite - the guidebook term meaning that you don’t have to share the toilet down the hall – and there are newer rooms in a wing off the back that face the pool. The management will allow you into the office for internet access, DSL no less.
Let’s sample a typical day - in this case, our second day in Languedoc. We begin with petite-dejeuner - breakfast. Self-service beginning at 8:00 a.m. every morning, there’s plenty of hot coffee with milk either cold or heated, orange juice and a variety of teas for drinking. Cathey doesn’t even begin to think about the food until she’s worked her way through most of her second cup of coffee. I dig right in. I usually start with an assortment of fresh fruit accompanied by a pain au chocolat – a wonderful French invention for starting the morning off right. After that I move to a hard-boiled egg and, depending on my mood, either yogurt or slices of cold cuts and cheese with a chunk of a fresh baguette and pats of butter. Neither of us is into cereals but a couple of varieties are always available. It’s not a big spread by some standards, but it’s varied enough so that you don’t find yourself eating the same things every day, and it’s all fresh. That’s the real secret of French food. Fresh, fresh, fresh.
After breakfast we washed and brushed, then hopped into our rented VW minivan and headed through the town of Narbonne - population about 50,000 - on our way to visit the Abbey Fontfroid. Founded in the 12th century, home first to Benedictines, then Cistercians, there was a time about one hundred years ago when a wealthy American attempted to purchase the buildings and have them taken down and reconstructed in Chicago. The French government and a local businessman interceded. The abbey now remains in its original setting and is an important stop on any tour of the great buildings of the region.
On our way back from Fontfroid, we stopped to investigate Narbonne. Running through the center of town is the Canal de la Robine, tree-lined and picturesque, home to tourist boats and pleasure craft. We ate lunch in a sidewalk café. Full plates of salad - Cathey’s with chunks of camembert and goat cheese, arranged on slices of bread and run under the broiler, mine topped with slices of grilled red pepper and filets of anchovies. A carafe of local red wine accompanied the meal and a cup of espresso finished it off. With the VAT Tax, the French tax on all - and I mean all - sales that comes to close to 20% but that keeps most other taxes very low, our meal cost about $24.00.
After scoping out a local supermarket for no other reason than to satisfy our curiosity as to price and availability of the necessities (all there, some more and some less expensive than back home), we decided to visit a chateau in the neighborhood for a taste of the local wine. Languedoc is responsible for 40% of all the wine produced in France but it has a reputation for being mediocre, particularly the reds. The vintners are said to be working on it, however, and we wanted to give them a chance to prove their mettle. As we drove up to the Domaine St. Basile, a woman in a little Peugeot came backing out of the driveway. She waved us off, indicating they were closed, but then she stopped her car, came to my window, and asked if we were headed for Beziers - the next town over. Our hotel was in that direction, so we indicated in the affirmative. “Suivez moi.” Follow me. Off we went.
It turned out that we had met Madame Perrier, the owner and vigneron (winemaker), no relation to the “water” people, who had decided to invite us into her home to taste her wines. On her patio, she showed us a grenache, a chardonnay, a syrah, and a haute couvee (a combination of syrah and cabernet suavignon). We opened a bottle of the haute couvee - a hearty, uncomplicated red good for accompanying a meaty meal. With the most expensive bottle coming to about $6.50, even with the rotten exchange rate, we decided to buy a bottle of each. We have her card and her cell number and we’ll buy a case or two to begin stocking our cellar when we return.
After a quick nap back at the hotel, it was time for dinner. It is clear that Philippe is a passionate cook. I think that the Sans own the hotel just so Philippe will have a captive audience. Not that I’m complaining. Several of the guests with whom we spoke were return customers - the Hotel Residence is the perfect place to anchor investigations of the region. It’s off the tourist track but it’s within an easy drive of anywhere and everywhere. We have conversed with several British couples who were in the area to look at property and each were returnees to the hotel.
Typically, Philippe offers three appetizers, three entrees, and three desserts along with the typical French finish - a cheese plate. Each night, Philippe drops one of each and adds one of each so that guests always have something new to choose. On our first visit, dining was available for guests only. No longer true. Now a menu is posted at the front door of the hotel and there are nights when Philippe is clearly cooking for more walk-ins than guests.
For starters, I chose an interesting combination - a small salad of mixed greens topped with slices of Serrano ham and a tangy vinaigrette accompanied, on the same plate, by a portion of crème brulee with a bit of house pate coating the bottom of the dish. Just extraordinary. Cathey’s salmon tartare, fashioned in one of the rings of which Philippe is so fond, was fresh, salmony and sweet.
For my entree I chose beef cooked down in wine, shredded and topped with garlic mashed potatoes - formed in a ring - accompanied by a Muscat sauce. Cathey’s entree had several layers, tastes and textures - bits of cuttlefish amongst pasta green (spinach) and pasta black (mushroom) atop a combination of diced fresh tomatoes and sun-dried tomatoes - formed in a ring - with a “sauce” of local olive oil and fresh basil. There were crusty chewy rolls for cleaning our plates and we chose a carafe of local rose to drink. The French have a word for food like this - scrumptious!
As usual, Cathey passed on dessert. I had a portion of apricot sorbet over almond ice cream - formed in a ring - with fresh currants atop, thin slices of pear and apple beside, and a bit of syrupy sauce. Coffee at the finish.
Each night, a different meal. Each night, just as satisfactory. And the bill for our room and our meals and our wine combined came to just over $60 per person per night.
The discerning reader will have noted by now that I take a particular interest in the food that we eat in France. Deal with it. I’m a free lance restaurant critic and food writer.
Perhaps we were wise, for the sake of our waistlines, to move to the Chambres du Canal, a B&B in the village of Capestang along the Canal du Midi, for our second week. The breakfast was less comprehensive though just as satisfying and our dinners were often simple picnics - bites of local pates, cheeses and sausages accompanied by a baguette and a bottle of wine taken on the patio facing the Canal with our hosts, Simon and Julia Wollen, occasionally joining us at the start for a sip of something special. The Wollens are Brits who have carefully renovated this old, spacious home along the Canal. They were eager to learn of our experiences, free with useful information and advice. Charming.
Languedoc is a simply marvelous corner of the globe. The climate is among the best in the world - a bit warm in the middle of the summer, but the winters are mild with only occasional freezes and, every few years, dustings of snow quickly dispersed by the Mediterranean sun. Spring and fall are spectacular. The villages are clean and well-kept, the country roads are satisfactory two-lane blacktops often lined with and shaded by ancient trees, and there are no billboards to impede the views of hundreds of acres of carefully cultivated vineyards. Even today, there is no suburban sprawl. You are either in a village or in the country. It is easy to see why many of the great French Impressionists chose this region for resting and honing their landscape skills and why so many Europeans - and the occasional atypical Americans - find Languedoc so engaging for vacationing or retirement.
And forget the fiction of the rude French who hate Americans. Not a single false note has ever shadowed our visits. Oh, I suppose that Parisians can sometimes be counted on to demonstrate a certain air of superiority, but on the whole we’ve found that the French appreciate a sincere attempt to learn the language and get with the flow of daily life.
In Languedoc, that flow can only be described as leisurely. One awakens early enough, if only to be assured of the freshest baguette and croissants, but shops other than the bakeries rarely open before 9:00 a.m., often as not 10:00. And everything except the restaurants and cafes close down at noon for at least one and as many as two hours. Takes getting used to. But there it is. Life at a different pace.
We’ve bought in. You should try it.
In the next installment, we’ll discuss negotiating a pre-approved mortgage and finding our property.
