Reflections of Sunflowers (11 page)

‘Nonsense!’ declared the Mayor.

‘Nonsense, is it?’ cried the
Curé
. ‘Why, your own wife slipped over twice last week!’

We translated an edited version for Thomas. Elliot was, as usual, in a world of his own. We drank toasts; one for Matthew and his coming birthday, another for Mike, looking so much better and grateful for his continuing recovery. Then, sadly, we toasted our old friends, Barry and Edward, no longer with us but so much a part of our memories of gatherings of friends at Bel-Air.

The days flew by as they always do when the family are at Bel-Air and all too soon it was their last market day. We arranged to meet Jonathan, Miranda and Abie, who were also leaving for England in a few days’ time, at our usual rendezvous, Le Winger, the bar in Libos market. As the weather was not promising, instead of a picnic at Bel-Air, we decided to take them all out to lunch to a restaurant we thought they would enjoy.

It was in the very early years at Bel-Air when we first discovered the Hôtel Climat, as it was then called, nestling at the bottom of the square behind the church in Fumel. Its centrally heated, spotlessly clean and simple, modern interior was a welcome change on cold evenings in spring when our house was still in a very primitive condition and we had been labouring in the
garden all day. When the temperature had plummeted with the setting sun, the wind had begun to whistle under the door and the fire had almost gone out, we would spruce ourselves up, put hot water bottles in the bed and set off to dine very cheaply in what, by comparison with our unrestored interior, felt like extreme luxury.

Now renamed Hôtel Kyriad, it is, as before, extremely well managed by a sweet-faced Madame Anne-Marie Julien, originally from Holland, and her French husband. Some of the staff have changed over the years but they take their cue from Madame and are always friendly. I still remember an elderly waiter in a rusty black jacket who, one lunchtime, when I was not particularly hungry, introduced me to the cheapest way to eat there. The restaurant has self-service buffets of hors d’oeuvre and of desserts, each costing only, at that time, 30 francs.

‘For only 60 francs, Madame,’ he said gently, ‘you can choose and eat as much or as little as you like.’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘Why bother with
le menu
today?’

It was quite a revelation when, for the first time, we went to the restaurant during the day. We ate outside on the terrace at the rear of the building. The view from there stretches down across the panorama of the Lot valley and up to the splendid trees in the gardens of the Hôtel de Ville, once the Château of the Seigneur
de Fumel. The Château, home of a noble family since the eleventh century, was rebuilt in the sixteenth century in the same flamboyant style as the Palais du Louvres. Unfortunately for the family they fell foul of the local populace in the long and bitter wars of religion, and the Seigneur was brutally murdered. The beautiful terraced garden, designed in the eighteenth century, can still be visited.

The small town of Fumel is now known chiefly as the site of the only heavy industry in the area. The iron foundry, which draws its power from a barrage built over the river at the base of the town, still provides a great deal of employment. During the war it was from one of the offices at the factory, where many of the workers were Communists, that, in March 1943, members of the local Resistance were recruited. The accounts of their activities, kept in the archives at Bordeaux, make interesting reading.

The group were extremely well organised. They had small English radios which had been parachuted in, as well as arms which were hidden in nearby farms all over the region. Morning and evening liaisons were established but very soon one of their leaders, Conti, was arrested by the Gestapo and they were forced to lie low for a while. When they resumed their activities, as a further precaution, the parachute drops were given code names. They were somewhat literary, being ‘
Gauthier
’ and ‘
Honoré
’.

The messages to be passed identifying the location were ‘
les feuilles sont chassées par la tempête
’ (the leaves are chased by the storm), indicating that the drop was at ‘
Gauthier
’. ‘
Si seulement vous vouliez m’aider
’ (if only you would help me) told the listeners that it was to be at ‘
Honoré
’. They set ambushes and immobilised many trains by simply blowing up the wheels on the front and back wagons.

One of their more daring and successful exploits was the capturing of weapons and ammunition from the Gendarmerie at Villeneuve. Tipped off by a sympathetic gendarme at Fumel they set off in convoy, at one point hiding in the high ground at Penne while a German convoy passed by on the road beneath them. They arrived at Villeneuve at 11.45 a.m., turning their lorries in order to be able to leave at speed. As they relieved the gendarmes of all their weapons they describe the mixed reactions of the police, some hiding their approval, others clearly unsympathetic to the Allied cause. It was market day in Villeneuve and they loaded up their booty; 23 light machine rifles, six revolvers, a large quantity of ammunition and three brand new Simca sidecars, to the cheers of the watching crowds. They also warned them of an approaching German column with a group of the hated Milices – French police loyal to the Nazis – so the Resistance beat a hasty retreat back to Fumel, no doubt well pleased with themselves. But it was a dangerous game. There
are many small memorials beside the roads to mark the spot where a brave partisan met his fate. M. René, our old builder, who helped us so much when we first started work on the house, still reminisces about his days helping the Resistance. Today, the factory workers amble out at the end of the day, and climb on their bicycles to ride home peacefully.

The Hôtel Kyriad added an infinity pool to the small terraced garden, the first I had ever seen. I imagined floating right over the edge. I’ve never actually seen anyone swimming in it. Perhaps guests staying in the hotel take an early morning dip. We introduced Raymond and Claudette to the restaurant. They were impressed and came occasionally during the winter – a rare treat for them. Their two menus, which between the unlimited choice of starters and puddings always include a simple but well cooked
entrée
, with a demi pitcher of house wine, cost them only 27 Euros together. As they said ‘
Pour le prix, c’est remarquable!
’

Changing from one hotel chain to another didn’t seem to change anything else. I imagine that Kyriad, the new owners, who have apparently more than 160 hotels in Europe, recognised a successful manager. The restaurant is usually full. There are not many English – it is not ethnic enough for the tourist; no rough stone walls decorated with ancient farm implements;
no
confit de canard
, or
lapin aux pruneaux
on the menu. We, of course, don’t mind this. Those we can eat
chez
Claudette.

As we strolled through the market that morning, the clouds thickened. Not much chance of the sun breaking through for a few hours, we thought, and were glad we had decided to eat indoors. Perhaps if it cleared up later the kids would all get a late swim. Le Winger was crowded but Abie soon spotted us. After the boys had raced about and downed their Cokes, they took their turn at the table football. There’s always a queue on market days. Fair shares of time are carefully checked by small, sunburnt, beady-eyed children. They stand all down the sides of the table, elbows on the edge, chins propped on their hands, watching the players. At last we prized them away and, our shopping completed, thought about lunch.

Abie decided to ride with our two boys. I went off with Jonathan and Miranda to another of the many car parks, which surround the town, but with which I was unfamiliar, to show them the way to the restaurant. Cars were already leaving as we arrived. The ‘nose bag panic’ as a friend of mine calls it. That determined, almost manic rush to eat, no matter what else is happening, that seizes the French, once the midday bell, or siren, has sounded. Market traders,
unless they are North African, will pack up and leave, even if still faced with a queue of customers. For twenty minutes or so the roads are crammed with drivers, seemingly desperate to eat. While our car park emptied as if by magic, we too began to feel hungry. The only problem was that Jonathan’s car refused to start.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Miranda airily. ‘It sometimes does this. Just ignore it for a few seconds and it will be OK.’

The few seconds turned into more than a few minutes but still the car, a fairly new Renault people-carrier, did not respond. As the remaining cars began to leave, the last stragglers starting their engines without difficulty and racing across to the exit, we began to worry. There we stood, bonnet up, looking at the engine without the vaguest idea what to do. Fortunately, the last car on its way out of the vast, empty car park stopped. The driver got out and joined us.

He was English, charming, accompanied by his wife and with two little girls in the back of his car. He clearly knew a bit about engines but nothing would start ours into life. How could they help? They obviously felt bad about just abandoning us. I didn’t have the number of the hotel, neither was I sure about the number for directory enquiries. We knew that the others, waiting patiently to order, would begin to worry. By luck, our
good samaritans turned out to be on their way to visit the Château of Bonaguil. Did we know how to get there? We did, and this was fortunate, as they needed to go into Fumel and past the Hotel Kyriad. They offered me a lift.

For some reason, I’m not quite sure now why, Jonathan insisted on unloading from his car into theirs the things he had borrowed from us that summer. He was very concerned to return them before they packed up and left. There was also a large cake in a box, a present from Miranda and a last minute purchase of a long stick of celery.

Madame was at her desk in the small elegant foyer, when I struggled in, balancing the celery on the cake box, my arm through a large coil of dirty yellow garden hose, the other wielding a heavy chainsaw. As I tried to explain she pealed with laughter. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Just put them anywhere. You must be very hungry.’

The rest of the family looked relieved to see me. I was indeed hungry but Adam immediately volunteered to return to the car park to fetch Jonathan and Miranda, who he reckoned would be equally so. The only problem was that, as he had no idea where the car park was, I had to postpone my order and return with him. Jonathan, meanwhile, had managed to phone the emergency services only to be told that everyone was at lunch. Of course! With relief we all
set off again to the restaurant, the ever-patient staff by now enjoying the drama. Hardly had Jonathan begun his starter when his phone rang. An angry voice said, ‘I’ve left my meal, Monsieur, I am at your car. Where are you?’

Adam’s taxi service was once more in operation. While I managed to begin my meal and the boys chose yet another pudding, Adam and a gloomy Jonathan watched the mechanic doing his best. Nothing, however, would persuade the Renault to start and it was finally towed away to a garage and we all trooped back to finish our meal in an almost deserted dining room.

With only one car between nine of us there was nothing for it but to return to Bel-Air in relays. My daughter-in-law, Caz, and I enjoyed walking back about two kilometres to the bar where we were later picked up. Back at Bel-Air, at last, we all sat down to a strong cup of tea. As they had no means of getting home, Jonathan and Co. moved into the green room, much to the boys’ delight. The sun came out and we all swam. Mike managed twenty lengths and got a cheer.

The next day was spent to-ing and fro-ing to the garage. By late afternoon and many, ‘
Ah, Monsieur, dans une heure, c’est possible, mais
…’ type of responses it became increasingly clear that the problem with the car was complicated. Raymond came past
on the tractor with a load of plums and tut-tutted sympathetically. ‘
Et c’est une marque Française
,’ he said ruefully, adding that we were all invited down to the farm later for dessert.

After supper the children went for yet another swim. As always they were reluctant to get out of the pool and Claudette phoned at just after eight-thirty to ask where we were. I was surprised, as dessert on the farm is usually a movable feast, anytime up to ten p.m. We gathered the children, hurried them into their clothes and all piled into our, fortunately large, estate car, the boys giggling in the boot as we went very slowly down the bumpy track.

We soon saw why she had phoned. Raymond stood in his striped jersey waiting to take Miranda and Jonathan and the children out for a trip in the old Citroën before it got too dark. Off they went, roaring across the courtyard, while we sat peacefully enjoying one of last year’s prunes in
Eau de Vie
, tipped into our still-warm coffee cup. The next day a hire car was organised, our guests left to pack up their house and we drove our family to Agen to catch the TGV to Paris. The boys loaded up their back packs, their golf clubs and bags. Many kisses and waves reached us from the window as we watched the great, smooth, powerful train pull out. They were gone. As we drove back from Agen we caught the strong scent of marigolds as the first dusty fields of
brown, ripe sunflowers were being harvested.

Bel-Air seemed awfully quiet. Our temporary but inevitable sadness was comforted by the thought of several very peaceful days before our next guests would arrive.

The group of old friends who were coming to stay would be our last visitors of the summer and, even as we prepared for their arrival, we were beginning to plan our journey home to London. Mike was feeling so much stronger that we decided not to put the car on the train. We so enjoy almost always choosing a different route to and from Bel-Air. While others boast about doing the entire journey in just so many hours, we, who of course have the great advantage of ten, or even twelve weeks ahead of us, take several days coming; staying in and exploring interesting areas.

Some places merit a second visit. One such is Fontevraud. Here the effigies of Eleanor of Aquitaine, her husband Henry II and her son, Richard the Lionheart, lie in state on the tomb of the Plantagenets.

I have always been fascinated by Eleanor; intelligent
and highly educated child of Poitou, the land of romance and troubadours. The girl who, aged barely fifteen, wed the seventeen-year-old heir to the throne of France, the pale, ascetic young Louis. At first Eleanor captivated her young husband, while shocking most of the court in Paris, including her mother-in-law, with her exotic ‘southern’ ways. She followed him dutifully on crusades with a retinue of maids, chests full of dresses and jewels and a troupe of musicians to entertain her. But once she had set eyes on the handsome, virile and highly intelligent Henri, Duke of Anjou and Normandy, almost ten years her junior, she was determined to marry him. She set about obtaining an annulment of her marriage to Louis and two months later in the spring of 1152 she and Henri were quietly married. Two years later the young Duke became Henry II, one of England’s most successful kings and she his radiant queen. She bore him six children and the first years of their marriage were happy. When Henry eventually tired of her, she was a virtual prisoner in England until, on Henry’s death, she returned at last to her beloved France. She took the veil and became Abbess of Fontevraud but, until the last days of her turbulent life, she continued to involve herself in the political ambitions of her children and grandchildren.

Another town that we have revisited is Chauvigny. The Hotel Lion d’Or is very comfortable and the cuisine excellent but what we enjoy most is to walk
in the late afternoon sunshine up and up into the old city. The interior of the Église Saint-Pierre is a painted miracle with capitals of wonderfully carved animals; curly-maned lions, back-to-back, and a winged bull with fearsome claws. If you wish, you can watch real eagles fly from the ramparts.

The only other town we have visited twice is La Flêche. It was not chasing history this time but the recommendation of a good hotel and an excellent restaurant that drew us there initially. Le Relais Cicero was, we were assured, something special. It seemed worth driving just that little bit further to spend the first night in a really quiet hotel and eat at the intriguingly named
La Fesse d’Ange
. The ‘Angel’s Bum’ was, we were also told, two minutes walk from the hotel and the food extremely good. We booked, just to be sure.

We found La Flêche itself without difficulty and drove into the square. The Relais Cicero was at number eighteen, Boulevard Alger, a turning to the right. But there was no right turn. Facing us, the square was filled with a monumental building. As we turned, inevitably, left, I read over the great doorway the, to me, mysterious word
Prytanée
. As we then turned right and continued for about half a mile alongside this walled building we realised how vast a space in the centre of the town it occupied. It was clearly something to be investigated later. Having completed
the square we finally found le Relais Cicero almost hidden in a garden.

The hotel was originally a seventeenth century convent, later converted to a bourgeois house and furnished accordingly. There is an elegant annexe of a slightly later period but we were able to stay in the original part. Our room was huge with incredibly ornate wallpaper, brocaded armchairs, a wonderfully large bed and crossed swords over the mantelpiece. The winding staircases creaked and there were very old books laid out to read in all the reception rooms. The restaurant,
La Fesse d’Ange
, was reached from the garden by passing through a courtyard and under an archway. I can’t remember what we ate. I have only a memory of something delicate, exquisite sauces and tall, rather aristocratic and willowy waitresses. The whole experience was – what shall I say? I suppose ‘angelic’ might be the appropriate word.

In our quiet room overlooking the garden we slept later than usual. We had intended to investigate the
Prytanée
which we had learnt was a military academy, but we lingered over breakfast in the panelled dining room and couldn’t resist some of the beautiful and fascinating books just lying around. After eventually checking out we found that we would have to wait for a guided tour of
La Prytanée
which would itself last over an hour. As we had arranged to spend the next night with friends a good day’s drive further on, we
reluctantly decided that a full appreciation of La Flêche, clearly a very interesting town on
le Loire
would have to wait for another year. A repeat performance at both the hotel and the restaurant would be no hardship.

On our second visit we resisted the sleepy charm of the bedroom with the crossed swords and presented ourselves early next morning at the great doorway of the
Prytanée
. A row of extremely smart cadets sprang to attention and one was designated to be our guide. As we passed through the series of wonderful buildings and courtyarded gardens we learnt that they were originally founded as a Jesuit college by Henri IV. There were separate buildings designated for different uses. There was the ‘
salle des actes
’, where the pupils of the Jesuits were taught the art of public oratory, and the wonderful Chapel where their religious duties were performed. The church is extremely beautiful with a great deal of marble and jasper. Henri IV bequeathed his heart and that of his wife Marie de Medici into the keeping of the Jesuits. Elaborate niches were designed in which the hearts were placed, but they were destroyed during the revolution and the hearts burnt. Today there remain only the ashes in a heart-shaped reliquary. The Jesuits were expelled from France in 1782 and the college began to take on its present function as a military academy. It is named after the Prytaneum of the ancient Greeks in Athens where the sacred flame was kept alight and where the
most distinguished men were admitted. Today’s young men are preparing for entry into the
grandes écoles militaires
in an institution where the great philosopher Descartes was educated, but our fresh-faced and gallant young guide was, endearingly, more keen to explain the tradition of the cadets pushing each other into the pond on graduation.

Over the years Raymond kept telling us about a visit he and Claudette had made to a place called Puy du Fou. They had gone on an organised coach trip and he urged us to visit it on one of our journeys south. As far as we could gather it was a ‘
son et lumière
’ spectacle.

‘
Oh, c’est magnifique!
’ he had said. ‘
C’est vraiment quelque chose à voir. C’est l’histoire de la Vendée. Quatorze mille spectateurs!
’

Mike wasn’t sure that he wanted to go anywhere with 14,000 other people but I was intrigued. As we prepared our next summer trip I saw that Puy du Fou lay south-east of Nantes. We could make a slight detour on our downward journey I thought, and see what it was that had so excited Raymond. I planned a route that would, I hoped, get us somewhere near there on our second night.

The first night we stayed at Château-Gontier. We didn’t book but the Hostellerie de Mirwault looked interesting in the Guide Michelin. Just out of town and by the river Mayenne, it sounded promising. We
drove over the bridge into the town and turned right following a sign.

‘Are you sure we haven’t missed it?’ asked Mike as we continued some distance down a winding road. But no, we turned into a drive and there it was, right on the edge of the river. The hotel was an addition onto a much older building and the rooms were in a modern, well-furnished, single storey annexe. Apart from one other couple we were the only guests. It was incredibly quiet. The hotel seemed to be run by only two staff: a very pretty dark-skinned blonde and a young boy. They moved quietly and efficiently about but did not speak unless spoken to. The food was good but not extraordinary, the bed very large and comfortable.

The next day was Wednesday and market day in Château-Gontier, and we lingered until midday before making our way south-westward towards Puy du Fou only to learn that we were out of luck. The spectacle only took place at the weekends. I was annoyed with myself for not realising that, as the huge cast was composed of local people, this was likely to be so. We consoled ourselves by eating like lords in La Rochelle. At least we were seeing a different region of this amazing country. We decided to go on down the west coast through
le Marais
with its lakes and streams. Sunflowers seemed to have caught on here too. Once they were only grown in the real south. Now, with
new varieties developed, they march in splendour ever northwards.

The town of Blaye, on the Gironde, looked an interesting idea. As we drove in it looked even more intriguing but, alas, Blaye was
complet
. Every room had been taken for ‘
Le Jumping National
’. We continued our journey south and finally arrived at the tiny Hotel Saint Christophe in Bourg sur Gironde. The hotel was friendly, quiet and cheap with a good restaurant just across the road. The local wine cooperative proved also to be a place in which to linger, sample and buy the excellent
Côte de Bourg
. And so, without having seen Raymond’s ‘
spectacle
’ but with a few interesting bottles for him to show that we had at least tried, we made our way eastward to Bel-Air. We stopped for lunch at Allemans-du-Dropt, another riverside town with one of the most attractive picnic spots I know.

I resolved to arrange things better the following summer and in July, before we left London, I telephoned to book for the spectacle at Puy du Fou in three weeks’ time.

‘
Mais, Madame, c’est tout complet
,’ was the response.

‘All fourteen thousand seats?!’

‘
Oui, Madame
.’

‘Any hope for the following night?’ I enquired

‘
Désolé, Madame, mais c’est complet pour toute la saison
,’ was the reply.

Clearly Puy du Fou was something of a phenomenon
or the marketing was superb, or both.

We decided nevertheless, to travel via Château-Gontier again and stay in what I had named the ‘ghost hotel’. It was such a peaceful place to spend the first night after all the traumas of packing up in London, catching the ferry, and getting through Caen; although the sheer wonder of crossing the Seine by the
Pont de Normandie
always lifts my spirits. Our bedroom in the Hostellerie de Mirwault was just as charming, with elegant fabrics, bottled water, an orange on a plate. We sipped an aperitif in the garden beneath a huge tree – a
cedrus atlantica
, planted, so the label said, between 1650 and 1700. We strolled along by the river where small cottages were hung with petunias, then turned back to the hotel, watching the insects hovering above the dark water, smooth as glass before it reached the weir.

In the hotel itself there were vases of scented lilies. Beautiful bone china bowls and tureens decorated the restaurant. This time it appeared that we were the only clients and we moved into the small dining area at the far end, which is the oldest part of the building. Originally a pavilion café, it is six-sided and its three long windows overlook the weir. The dying sunlight lit up the far bank as we began our meal in this dream-like place. We ate a salad with
lardons
and
gésiers
, which was followed by a very good steak with
morilles
. The cheese board came with walnuts
and the dessert was
tarte aux poires et myrtilles
. The whole tranquil experience cost us 280 francs and we never saw the patron or anyone else. The young boy to whom we paid our modest bill in the morning told us that the patron was English but not often there. It remains a mystery. Unable to see the spectacle at Puy du Fou, we continued south to visit another kind of spectacle of which I never tire. The wonderful 14th-century tapestries of the Apocalypse in the Chateau d’Angers are even better lit and displayed than before. We sat mesmerised for about an hour, then joined a guided tour. There is always some exquisite detail to be discovered.

The following year, absolutely determined to get to the spectacle at Puy du Fou, I booked our seats just after Easter. It seemed prudent to also book a hotel, but for one night only in three months’ time. The proprietor of the hotel, La Terrasse in Mauléon was quite unperturbed.

‘
Oui. Oui, vous irez au spectacle sans doute
,’ he said. ‘We’ll give you a key to come in late.’

The hotel was small, comfortable and totally unlike our ‘ghost hotel’, being completely full and everything overseen by an affable patron. There was a real air of excitement among the diners that evening, many of them with teenage children. We set off into the dark without much idea of what to expect. The brochure was fairly lurid. During daylight hours there was also,
we learnt,
a parc historique et écologique
covering 30 hectares, complete with a recreated 18th-century village and displays of falconry and horsemanship. We thought that
le spectacle
might suffice.

As we drove about twelve kilometres through the dark, it seemed bizarre to think that all this activity was hidden somewhere deep in this silent and thickly wooded countryside. As cars began to converge and we turned, following clear signs, up a well-made, tree-lined road we began to appreciate just how well organised was the whole affair. Red jacketed and smiling marshals appeared, to wave us on. Others directed us to swift and efficient parking in a vast, well-lit clearing in the forest. Hundreds of cars and coaches were already neatly lined up. People scrambled out of their cars clutching jackets and rugs. Children stowed drinks, packets of sweets and crisps in their pockets. More smiling stewards pointed the way and we followed a steady stream of people along a small, softly lit, woodland path. There were no queues, no bottlenecks.