Another twofer.....

Welcome to Monte Lauro Vineayrds...


Another episode of the Adventures of the Baron de Montlaur….
Today we find him still incarcerated in Sommieres but the mind has powers of escape even if the body does not…..

June 25, 1622

It was past noon. All the prisoners in the congested dungeon had come to know the stillness in the air that signified the heat of the day. It was a particularly fetid smell, some part decay, some part filth, and some part the unmistakable odor of human misery.

The Baron shifted his weight, favoring the old wound over the new. The new was just a scratch after all while the old had pierced him entire through the thigh. But that was many years ago and while still painful, particularly in these conditions, it was the new “scratch” that worried him. It had been inflicted as they repulsed the first wave of attackers, just after the enemy’s cannons had opened the first breach in the wall. Now it was red and puffy, hot to the touch.

The Protestants had stormed forward like an angry nest of bees converging on the newly opened, arms length wide crack that had appeared in the wall. His men, patience sorely tested by the long bombardment, had been eager to the fight but the close quarters had turned the skirmish into a series of one-man contests. They could not afford to let the enemy in, nor did they have the wherewithal to push them too far out for fear of being overwhelmed. It was an untenable defensive situation and the Baron knew it, despite the relative experience and zeal his soldiers were bringing to the fight.

He had followed the cry that arose when the wall had cracked, as had the others. Sword in hand he had run to see one of his men bloodied and motionless on the ground, probably from the concussive blast that had torn open the stone. Several others had already reached the breach well before the Protestants had managed to and were taking up a defensive position. He looked at the sky, the late afternoon sun slanted down on them casting shadows.

“Good, it will be in their eyes when they come through.” He thought to himself. But that had not slowed them. They came screaming, the words of Martin Luther on their tongues, the blood lust of hate in their eyes. He had taken the first with a simple thrust and let the man’s momentum carry him up the blade. The second was more cautious, feinting left before attacking right. Years of experience on the training field, and in battle, in campaign after campaign, had tuned his muscles and nerves to the nuances of single combat. An honorable fight, fought fairly between two equals. But this was no fair fight and these were not his equals. He parried the attack and sunk his main gauche, the short left-handed sword he preferred to never be without, into the man’s gullet.

It was then, while disengaging, that one of the attackers had swung a rusty old weapon at him. His arm, caught by the weight of the dying man, could not parry the blow and it fell on his armored leg, scraped noisily along the protective metal before it bit slightly into the flesh above his knee. Not a bad wound as wounds go, and shortly the perpetrator had paid a full measure for it. But it was enough for the Baron to reassess the situation. Calling forward his old Master-at-arms to fight in jis stead he had retreated through the breach.

He had signaled for the few archers he had to post themselves on the wall above the breach while he directed three other soldiers to bring up one of the wagons, filled with pitch covered hay. On a prearranged signal the archers rose above the parapet and fired a volley at the front line of the enemy below. In the momentary confusion of this latest turn of events the defenders fell back through the breach. Another volley from the archers stayed the attackers for the few seconds it took for the advance guard to fall back through the narrow opening and to drive the wagon into the breach. The attackers howled their derision and clambered forward, pawing for a hold on the blockage. The first of them had just mounted the wagon and had just enough time to realize the predicament he was in before the whoosh of flame became a roaring wall of fire. What defenders were not caught in the flames fled before the intense heat, the archers taking liberties with their retreating backs.

The Baron touched his wounded knee. At time his fingers had come away sticky and red. Now he could simply feel the tenderness and heat of inflammation. He never felt the pain of these things until long past the actual fight but he had known this would take some tending. His wife had tended the wound but they had been overrun before it had healed properly. This dank and festering dungeon was not the ideal place for a clean knitting of the wound. With some sense of bitter irony he cursed the faculty of Medicine, founded by his ancestors, and now in the hands and under the influence of these headstrong Protestant zealots.


June 25th, 2009

Still I have not yet seen a drop of rain on this trip and mostly cloudless skies. Temperatures continue to be in the high seventies and eighties but the lack of humidity keeps it reasonably comfortable. Certainly the conditions have contributed to my cold clearing up. Although remnants still hang about in the morning it seems I am otherwise normal.

Today I simply must do the tiling and yet I found several excuses to put it off. There were beds to put together, plants to water, dishes and laundry to do. Not a lot, but enough to delay the inevitable for a few more hours. And then of course there was lunch to be prepared and a pleasant glass of white wine to be had. But then it was inevitable. The old floor, broken and pitted with wear, called out to me. “Fix me, make me new again. I want to live for another 500 hundred years.” Damned floor, it got to me.

So it begins. I started at two pm and it was after midnight that I cleaned up the tools and sat down for a rest. It was hard and grueling work but the result looked spectacular. Still the harder part, the grouting remained in front of me. With grouting, once you begin you pretty much have to stay at it. There is not much time for rest and you’re basically on your hands and knees for the duration. It’s like washing floors but the full length, DVD addition, complete with grunts, groan, sweat and cursing.


The new bedroom tile floor "ungrouted"....

But that will be tomorrow. For today I am done, tired to the bone and ready for bed.

June 26th, 2009

Well I can’t rightly start the grouting until at least 24 hours after the tiling, right? I have time for a few things yet. Let’s see…I’m out of dish soap. I must go to the store then. If I go to the store then I need to get some more pillows, a few throws, some spider repellant, some ant control product, some rose powder. And I might as well get the oil and antifreeze for the car….and some tie downs.

I recognize the pattern…this is the “way of grouting” or rather the “way of avoidance of grouting”. It is a whole philosophy unto itself. I’m sure there are tons of lost and ancient Greek, Roman, and Chinese texts that would expound on the various virtues and vicissitudes of grouting, its resemblance to penitence, its supplication of the will and the ego. Can one find happiness through grouting? Certainly, if one ascribes to the theory that hitting oneself in the head with a hammer is wonderful because it feels so good when you stop (it doesn’t actually, the pain intensifies for about 20 minutes depending on how many hits, how hard and how big the hammer was – don’t ask me how I know!)


The master bedroom steps repaired...(ungrouted"...

I happily do everything I can possibly do with few minor exceptions before I am confronted with the reality that I must do the grouting. With a resignation that weighs heavily in my heart I prepare the grout. It’s already 5 pm. This is going to be another late night. I have hope that a new tool, like an icing dispenser for cakes will make the work easier this time. With that in mind I make the grout thin enough to squeeze out of the funnel that I brought over from America (a land of very good grouting products). I filled up the funnel and proceeded. It worked fine until some small it of cake grout blocked the opening. Then I would squeeze hard and it would either come squirting out en masse or be so difficult that smashing it with a hammer prove my only way forward. And this technique required a different stance. Both arms were busy with the funnel so all of my weight was on my knees and legs. I found I could not sustain it for too long.

Defeated but still in servitude to the grout I reverted to my old method, cursing the tiles and the grooves and the grout roundly in turn. Getting it in was only a third of the battle. Washing it up took the other third. Round about 10:00 with about one third of the floor done I had to give up. Something tells me I’m getting older. When I was a young man I could grout all night with a case of 24 beers at hand. Now I’m done at 10 pm and only a half-bottle of wine the worse for the wear. The good news is that I can take a nice, long, hot shower outside by candlelight. The bad news is that the grouting will still be there tomorrow.

Lets play catch up...two days for the price of one...

June 23, 2009

Another breezy, warm sunny day, where even in the recesses of the old farmhouse the morning light penetrates. This morning I woke up at 9:00. This has been the most difficult of transitions for me in recent memory. Perhaps its because of the cold I’m experiencing. It continues to drag on through a variety of symptoms but at least I feel more energetic and ready to do some work.

Today I’m doing some finishing work in the new bathroom, completing a part of the new wall I began to install there on the last trip and refurbishing an old sideboard that I had previously salvaged …we do things the green way at Monte Lauro Vineyards…no thing is wasted before its time! I also tried the new linseed oil on the new (old) tile floor that was installed last time. It really brings up the color of these 300 year old tiles.

I remember that I have the leg of lamb to cook. I’ve never cooked a leg of lamb before and wonder exactly how I should do it. However I do it I know it will benefit from a bit of time marinating. With this in mind I take a walk to the Place du Vieux Chateau, conveniently just the opposite side of the farmhouse. All along the farmhouse wall grows wild herbs, savory, thyme and rosemary. Handfuls of these are redolent with their oils and I add them to a bowl with fresh local olive oil. Mixing this up I poured it into the bag the lamb came in and wrap it tightly to sit for a few hours.


The new table...

I also decided that the day was so beautiful that we could set up the dinner under the tree in the courtyard. On the last trip I had made a table top out of two boards that I found hidden away in the barn. They were a good two feet wide and cut from a single tree. I guessed they were perhaps one hundred to one hundred twenty years old based on both the size and the saw cut. They had a beautiful curve to them and I had managed to make a single cut down one side leaving one straight edge and one curved edge. Attaching them together along the straight edge gave me a tabletop about two meters (6 feet) long and about one meter (40 inches) wide. I used this now set on two sawhorses, or what passes for saw horses in France. Over this I put a fine Italian tablecloth completing the setting with matched dishes, cutlery and wine glasses for six. I put the leg of lamb in the oven at about 5 o’clock to start and added diced carrots and potatoes that ad also marinated in olive oil and herbs at around 6 o’clock.

Benjamin arrived early to prepare an appetizer, which was melon soaked in port and prosciutto, as well as a salad which was tomato and mozzarella. Christian and Corinne arrived around 7:30 with dessert, a cherry pudding that looked amazing (and as I found out later, actually was, once you got used to pulling out the pits).


Sitting into the table...

Alexandrine Garnotel, the archeologist who is working on the Chateau, and her husband arrive around 8:30 bearing wine from the region where one of her biggest digs is occurring near Maguelone about 30 minutes to the south on the sea coast.


The Leg of Lamb by Michael B.

As the host I was kept busy checking on things but Benjamin and Corinne also kept tabs making sure everything went well. We had a wonderful dinner over several bottles of wine, making sure that we spilled a few glasses on the Italian tablecloth just to break it in. When we got to the subject of the Chateau and the Association I was very pleased when Alexandrine, who will be the President of the Assocaition, turned to me and said earnestly in her best English, “On zis I want to work whiss you”. I responded that I also seriously wanted to work with her for the good of the Chateau and that we would all be members of the Association. I would provide for my Micro-Leaseholder clients, membership in the association each year of their active membership and I would seek other members at large in North America. “Together we can rebuild the Chateau.” I said, satisfied that we are now clearly going down the right road.

We made a lot of fun this evening and continued to build some good relationships. More than anything I am struck by the generosity of spirit and openness of these people. The fact that my poor French is only a minor obstacle is testament to their goodwill. It did however not prevent them from mentioning that I should learn more French. “Yes, I should learn more French, mes amis!” But that will be another day!


Another great evening with some wonderful people!

June 24th, 2009

Many people have commented that they like the blog and the style in which I write it and to them I say thank you. A few go so far as to ask for more detail and some others advise that I should keep it light and easy perhaps with more pictures and less prose. The variety of commentary is great but it begs the question; why am I writing this. More than any other reason, that I can think of I write this blog because I want to paint a picture that you can see yourself stepping in to. It is because you could easily be sipping a glass of wine here with me, you could be making your favorite dinner for all the guests, or something you’ve never made before, you could be touring around on your own trying various wines, or if you’re really lucky you could be helping me grout a new 300 year old tile floor. It’s just that easy…you decide to do it and then you do it. And the cost is so reasonable. You could barely live at home for what it would cost you here…and I doubt you could go into your back yard and dig around the ruins of a real old castle. That you can do here. There is no end to the great things you could find yourself doing. So that’s why I write it…I hope all of you decide to come sometime in the near future.

Today Jean Pierre Martin is coming to take a look at the vineyard and walk through it with me. So I puttered around the farm all morning waiting for him…watering the flowers, doing the dishes, vacuuming (there is no end to vacuuming in an old stone house). Benjamin dropped by for a coffee and was here when Jean Pierre arrived. I had a letter for him that I’d written (translation by Kappes! Merci) outlining some import opportunities and priorities that I had. After looking it over we discussed it a bit and then went to look at the vineyards.


Jean Pierre in the vineyards....

By this time Christian had joined us so we went as a foursome out to walk the vines. The first lot was Carignan. The grass had been recently cut between the vines and Jean Pierre was satisfied with the overall look and health of the plants. He noted some minor mildew but no pest or butterfly larva. Apparently certain butterflies really like grape vines. The Merlot plot looked even healthier. We then drove on to the Sauvignon plot. It was interesting to note every other plot of vines around us had zero, read zilch, undergrowth around the vines. Even the middle of the vines between the rows was barren.

Jean Pierre explained that his philosophy (and ours by the way) was to use all natural methods to minimize pests. Grass and other undergrowth amidst the vines provides habitat for the natural predators of the pests that feed on the vines and grapes. So leaving it to grow moderately ensures that there is an abundance of natural controls in place to “mind” the vineyard. Further, the root systems of various field plants act to retain more water than bare soil and while they may try to consume it the ever-thirsty grape vine roots go to where the water is. The natural competition for water strengthens the grape vines and makes them hardier in what is generally considered less than fertile soil.


The scorched earth way....

To illustrate his point we examined several of the vines in a neighboring plot where not so much as a blade of grass disturbed the symmetry of the rows. Evidence of butterfly larva was everywhere as well as the larva of a few other pests, which feed on the grapes rather than the vines or leaves. The cycle of herbicide application leads to a requirement for pesticide application ultimately contaminating the wine with these agents. Better to simply mow the grass every now and then, apply some natural organic fertilizer and let nature take its course.


The Natural way....these two vineyards are less than 20 meters apart!

Walking through the last plot, closest to the farm, we made a great discovery. IT wasn’t anything to do with the vines. It was to do with the fencerow, or rather what was in it. Now blackberries, or “mure” as they call them in France grow everywhere and they are insidious, territorial and aggressive. Cleaning them out can be a bloody challenge, (emphasis on the bloody eh Leslie!) I was staring at this massive jumble of mure probably twenty feet thick and ten to twelve feet high. Millions of blackberries to be sure and they will certainly be tasty in September but I noticed these green fruits sticking out of the jumble. The more I looked the more I saw. It appears that the whole fencerow was an orchard and, left to its own devices, has been overgrown with mure. But a few brave souls could probably clean it out in a weekend and we’d have a plum orchard right close to the farm.


The wall of "mure"...in the midst of which the plum orchard thrives...

It doesn’t take much to get me excited but that is the kind of thing that does it. So off we went to lunch in St. Bauzille in the highest spirits.

The rest of the day I spent prepping for the task of tiling one of the bedroom floors, rebuilding an old wardrobe, and generally psyching myself up for the hellish grouting job that was coming down the pipe. I don’t mind grouting generally but these old tiles are so dry they suck all the moisture out of the grout within seconds so that it becomes like pushing stiff powder around. It sucks!

Early to bed tonight so that I will be fresh tomorrow and able to think of more excuses to put off the tiling (and hence the grouting).

Curioser and curioser...

Back to the past once again....

June 22, 1622

“Yes, that’s one protestant that will be answering for his blasphemies as we speak! “ Jacques, the old Master-at-arms, managed, a throaty cough rising from his chest as he spoke.

“ I could see the life fade from his eyes.” said Jacques, the youngest among them, recounting his experience as his voice trailed off. “One second he was there, the next he was not,” this last in a whisper. Many of the older retainers nodded. They had all been in the throes of battle before. The slipknot of life was tenuous at best. It could come undone at any time. One wrong parry, one undefended thrust and, as the playwright Shakespeare had said, “They’ve made worm’s meat of me”.

They’d all recounted their moments over the past few months. The Baron de Montlaur himself had offered his most vivid recollections of the battle. What else had they to do, shuttered away in this fetid dungeon. As high summer approached, and the flies made fools of the less than tolerant, a good story, well embellished, was a diversion that they all needed.

“When the wall was breached,” breathed Henri, “I knew they would be coming.” He leaned into his chains , even sitting as he was on the cold, stone floor. “I knew. And I knew I would have to be there, in the breach to meet them, What else was there to do? “ Anguish stole like a thief into he voice.

“There was nothing for it.” The Baron said, “ You did what you had to do.”

“But it was my friend Gaston, whom I saw first. “ Tears streamed silently down his face in the darkness. “He was screaming as he charged us. We grew up together near Montpellier. Played in the forest together. Why did it have to be him?”

“There is no answer to that question. “ Odilon, an older soldier, offered from the dim recesses of the dungeon. “We can only face the challenges that we face in life with all that is in our hearts, and do all that we are able. Beyond that God has no right to ask of us.”

The Baron peered into the blackness, gathering the few atoms of light that penetrated the gloom. In a far off corner he thought he made out the wounded Odilon, cradling his injured sword arm. “I’ll have to find something for him to do after this is all over.” He thought to himself. “Too good a man to let go.”

Looking up toward the front of the Chateau de Montlaur

June 22, 2009

I’m going to have to highly recommend this time of year to people. First of all the weather has been and is projected to be clear, cloudless and beautiful. It’s slightly breezy with cool winds from the north, coming off the Cevennes. Low humidity and temperatures in the high 70’s and low 80’s. It’s comfortable to walk in, work in or drive in so long as you’re not exposed to it constantly. And of course finding a wee bit of shade to rest in is never very hard. Inside the farmhouse the temperature seems a relative constant 68, the winter cold in the thick, stone, walls slowly giving way to the summer warmth. And f course the French have not yet fully begun their vacation season and so have not swarmed the area.

I’m in the thick of some flu or bad cold I picked up in the States. It saps the strength and leaves me listless but I did manage to spend a good part of the day cleaning and tidying up. I watered the plants and had time to try a new experiment, planting tomatoes upside down in a basket I’ve hung on the wall of the old chicken house. My dad would be interested to see how it works. He could grow pretty much anything and was always tinkering with new ideas for the garden. I hope to have that kind of time and effect here in the days to come.

Corinne stopped by to get a shopping list for the dinner I am throwing tomorrow. I offered her some money but she refused saying (I think) that it was really inexpensive and from some good local producers. I’m inviting her and Christian as well as Alexandrine, the local archeologist who has been doing the preparatory work on the Chateau. We plan to discuss developments for the Chateau. In France it seems that work, of the type that will be required by the Chateau, is best administered through an Association. This Association can have a variety of rights and obligations to the owners, to the community and to the government that make its work transparent for everyone. The advantage is that it can raise funds to support its mandate, has preferential tax status and is generally seen as benign by most of the other bureaucratic institutions that it has to deal with, from the Mayor’s office, to the fire station, police and emergency crews, and to the regional and national governments. Active associations are responsible for a majority of the restoration work of National or Classified monuments due the expensive nature of restoration of these treasures.

The disadvantage is that it is often beyond the control of the owners and when things don’t go according to the mandate or charter of the particular association, or there is significant disagreement with respect to direction, it can be a lengthy and expensive process to end that relationship.

The Chateau has been under one just such Association for a long time with the past few years seeing the relationship terminated by the courts. Hervé de Montlaur, the proprietor of the Chateau and the brother of Jean, wants a relationship with a different association that can bring preservation money, expertise, and direction to the project. His concerns are safety and security as well as stabilization of the structures.

With that as background, I’m hosting this discussion because I will be bringing Monte Lauro Vineyards and my client base to the table as proponents of and participants in the Chateau’s restoration. Alexandrine has committed to heading up an Association that will be chartered to preserve and protect the Chateau and will do so by taking the necessary steps to secure funding, both private and government, as well as local fundraising with the Chateau as a backdrop. This might include concerts, tours and such and will also include, as time and resources permit, further exploratory archeological digs. The principal near term focus is on stabilization of the existing structures, which carries a price tag of about 80,000 euros. It is my intention that we be charter members of the Association and that as much as 10% of company profits go into the Association’s fundraising efforts.

I spent most of the rest of the day preparing for some tiling work in the bedrooms upstairs. Corinne returned around three with a couple of bags of groceries including a big leg of lamb from the local shepherd, who grazes his flocks across a number of La Ferme’s fields. It’s meant to be roasted over an open fire she said. Perhaps with a little olive oil and rosemary picked fresh from the farmhouse walls..

Around 6 o’clock Christian called me to his house for a meeting with a local resident who heads an association with the charter to support the life of the local community and preserve its standards of living. It really is a group that is opposed to the community’s development plans, scheduled over the next 2-3 years and they want to development an alternative. Part of their thinking is that the future of the Chateau is of primary importance to the community and so their plans include it as a integral part of their alternative.

It’s clear that no matter which side of the fence you are on here, the Chateau is a beloved part of the local history and color and everyone has a stake in it. Me, I’m a simple man; I just want to rebuild it.

Ok..worse than i thought!

(See the teensy-weensy "7"...that's home!)

June 21, 2009

I slept late. Christian came knocking at 11:00 and I could barely drag myself aright to answer the door. I had missed the bread man surely. Damn! Best milles fiuelles for about a buck per piece in the world. Not to mention great baguettes, pain aux chocolate, pain escargot (raisin rolls), tarte aux pommes etc. all for cheap and delivered in his little blue van right to the village square, every day but Monday. And I had slept through him. Damn!

The weather is beautiful…breezy and about 80 degrees; very little humidity, very few clouds, and so much sun that it kind of burns the eyes. They had a very rainy spring, which accounts for the profusion of growth everywhere, including fig tree shoots. They are legion. Now I am a fig fan but this is ridiculous. I was here last year and the old tree roots did not have new shoots. But this year those same roots are bursting with new fig tree wannabes.

I spent the day finishing the grass and cleaning. It’s a great feeling to bring back some semblance of order to the place. It’s one of the things about participating in this endeavour that I think is most worthwhile, that is being able to make your own mark. And while most of the marks here I’ve made myself, I am not alone. Every Micro-Leaseholder or guest that has visited has left their mark here already, in some coat of paint, some stone wall built or removed, some rose of fruit tree planted.

This is a place where, over time, you can share the things you most love with others who will appreciate them. I’m sitting here writing, looking out the door, through the courtyard and out across the valley. It’s not only beautiful but it’s peaceful as well. A certain serenity pervades the place and nothing can take that away. Well, maybe something, like a big party but I doubt it, I seriously doubt it.

Not too worse for the wear...

June 20, 2009

Well, that wasn’t so bad. I think I actually got a few hours sleep. It’s 7.25 am and we’re landing at Charles De Gaulle, right on time. A lot of turbulence on this flight but to their credit they kept us well informed and told us when it was going to be bad. I guess they’re all hypersensitive with that Air France flight disappearing. I’ve got to say, I know the US airlines have about the worst record on the planet but I just feel comfortable in an airplane where I know the captain or his first officer have landed on an aircraft carrier a few hundred times, or they have flown combat missions over hostile airspace. Maybe I give them too much credit but I’m prone to believing in the concept of a baptism by fire. Alright, enough about fear of flying.

Thanks to my girl, I have a bad cold. I don’t know how these things work but she had it and now I have it. It’s bad enough that I have it but to fly with it just sucks. It makes everything worse. Headache becomes monster headache, sinus congestion becomes the mother of all sinus congestions, dry scratchy throat becomes parched enduring-the-Gobi-desert throat with water being parsed out by flight attendants who think it’s gold they’re dispensing. Fortunately I have the in seat movie system…what! It’s not working! Oh my God! I want my money back!

Needless to say, I arrived in Paris refreshed and clear headed. It was a joy to walk the two kilometers to the TGV station from my arrival gate. I felt that surely I had been through the trials and I had survived. Now all that remained was a leisurely train ride at 320 km/hr for a few hours to get me close to my destination. Christian would be there to pick me up and everything would be happy and gay.

Well almost! Indeed, it was a few hours (first class is such a great treat by train), and in fact I only had to wait a few minutes for Christian. But there was no sleep on the train either. I don’t know why…can’t explain it other than being excited about getting back to Montlaur. It is, after all, the most beautiful place in the world. A guy can’t be faulted for being excited. In any event I arrived at home with Christian at around 2:00 pm and I decided that I had to cut the grass. It was about 1-2 feet high everywhere and it just wasn’t what I had in my mind. I don’t want anyone else to arrive here with the grass that high. It’s not right. After several hours I had the grass in hand and could take a wonderful outdoor shower. Dinner with Christian and Corinne was superb as usual. A little quiche appetizer and then tomatoes with a nice stuffing served to fill the void. I took a bottle of Chateau de Aveyllans Syrah 2007 over, made by Jean Pierre Martin, our vineyard manager. It was superb.

One of the many signs one must navigate from Aeroport Charles de Gaulle

Driving the new van was also a treat. It will serve all those who come to the vineyard and I must say I enjoyed driving it…even late at night when I was so tired I could have fallen asleep in a bed of thistles. However that is a good way to make the time adjustment…stay up as late as possible…then hit the hay, you may sleep a little later the next morning but you’ll adjust a lot faster.

Let's go back in time....

three hundred eighty seven years back....what was happening in this area on this day? The Baron de Montlaur was being held for ransom along with a number of his family and retainers in the fortress in Sommieres, a protestant stronghold. Suffice it to say they did not have access to wine, let alone good stuff... let's take a peak...

June 19, 1622

Something scuttled away in the darkness. It was enough though to rouse the Baron. Sleeping on stone floors for the past two months had not quite matched the comfort he had become accustomed to. The slightest noise would wrench him back to the reality he now shared with twenty-two of his loyal retainers. Another fourteen, the Baroness, her attendants and assorted wives, daughters, sisters and children were ensconced somewhere else in the complex, most probably in Sommieres. He had not seen them since the day after the Chateau had fallen.

“Chateau” was a kind word for it, he thought. It was a fortress really, had been for more than half a millennia, first against the incessant incursions of the Moors and then, as a stronghold to exact the tribute that kept his domain running. And that required a lot of tribute. And lately, beset at every turn by these upstart Protestants, it had become harder than ever to administer the will of the king.

He rolled over to try to find some comfort in a different curve of stone. His chains jangled softly in the darkness eliciting a groan from another quarter of the dungeon, and a few muffled coughs. Surely the King was negotiating for their release even as they lay tormented in this foul dungeon. He was now fully awake and considered again their plight, for what seemed like the millionth time.

He remembered vividly the attack on the Chateau. How could he forget the masses of the Protestant Army stretched across the plain in their thousands. He could see the Duke de Rohan, on his charger, ordering the placement of cannon and the various sappers who would form the initial assault on the Chateau, trying to undermine the defenses. Once the battle was joined he could feel the rumble of the cannon as they belched their black smoke and hurled death across a mile of divide. The smell had drifted on the breeze across the ramparts, acrid and burning in the nostrils, and every volley ripped away what had taken centuries to put in place. And yet they had stood resolute. A conviction, once accepted, is more enduring even than stone.

They were eighty-five. Eighty-five against thousands but God was surely on their side. And they had stood bravely for three days. Three days of relentless pounding. Three days of vigilance and sallying to the point of attack. Three days of little sleep and little appetite. Sheltering not only his family but a dozen of God’s servants, priests who had been caught out on the road and who had sought shelter as the Protestant army had borne down on them. He’d rather a handful of the King’s swordsmen than the sycophantic men of religion that had crowded through the gates just before they were closed, but fate was a tough master.

Still it had been his duty to see to their safety. He had not even thought twice about it. It was not his way to ponder the perplexities of life. He was a soldier, a noble and his duty was clear. Honour the King and the Lord his God as proclaimed by the Catholic Church. No further discussion was necessary. He had done what he could, none other could ask him for more. A fitful sleep reclaimed him.

(Fast forward to the present)

June 19, 2009

Travel…getting ready….stress….it seems that I am perpetually getting ready to do the next thing. Whatever that is! When I got home in April it seemed that June 19th was so far away, that so much could be accomplished in that gaping void of time between now and then. And yet here I am! Frantically packing at the last minute, cutting the grass (because I swore that I would even though its raining), giving last minute directions to the friends that I know will take care of things when I am gone (thanks Big Rich and Glenn).

Strangely though, it is the very practice of travel that opens up new voids of time. Oh you can certainly fill the spaces with newspapers, the latest new paperback by your favourite author, or whatever movie the airline sees fit to play during your passing. But regardless of that there always seems to be some time were the mind is left to ponder the inanities of life. Perhaps it is the nature of this type of time that it asks more of us than we’re used to giving. It asks that we think, that we ponder the why’s and wherefore’s of what we’re doing. A mind left to its own devices is a scary thing.

I can attest to this by the fact that I pondered, not without some sense of joy, the many ways in which that mother could quiet her screaming (and I mean top of the lungs) infant. And I admit to indulging myself in more than several minutes of fantasy about what the gentleman next to me could do with his selfish elbows….am I wrong here in believing that we’re each entitled to half of the armrest?

But of course there were moments of reverie. I am, after all, on my way to the south of France. The beautiful south of France, vineyards stretching as far as the eye can see, quaint villages having festivals in honour of some dead saint or pagan rite of passage, wine flowing in rivers, bread, cheese…all the things that matter a whit in life. And of course my favourite thing, I get to build some more…spin out of nothing, something beautiful, something profound.

Creation…it is not a mystery why we have creation myths. We are projecting. To shape something with your own hands…even for a moment, the blink of an eye, there it is. I did that. No matter that that wind will erase it, or the sun will beat it unmercifully into dust. Rain will wash over it for a thousand years but it will always be mine. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it can only change its form. This is what we are, agents of change, in a universe of energy. How do you want to make your change? I will make mine here.

Reflections

As I made my way home by train, plane, automobile, train and automobile again across the French countryside, to Paris then New York and on into the upstate region I could not help but think about some of the many ideas, challenges, opportunities and experiences that my work has brought to me. Some of these thoughts are germane only to me while others might be of interest to many people. Certainly the more you, my clients and friends, are involved in Montlaur the more it will affect you. Someone asked me recently what the effect of this place was on people who visit. My reply, right off the top of my head was that people come to inhabit Montlaur for day and Montlaur will inhabit them for a lifetime. Such is the quality of the place, such is the nature of the experience, it is one of those things that for the right people it becomes a passion, as rich as any that might be engaged in, as rewarding as any that might be experienced. And I offer it up as one that can be made to be yours, that you can always have a part of and be a part of. There is no other vacation experience like this …indeed it is not a vacation at all…it is life.

Montlaur needs its friends and its companions. It needs attention and love and affection. For too long it has languished in the realm of fairy tale castles. It needs to become real again and that is the honour and responsibility that everyone who joins me will share in. And there will be wine along the way.