Home to Montlaur....

Thursday, February 12, 2009 to Friday, February 13, 2009

Why do we brave the night crossing? The darkness stretching into tomorrow, the maw of the ocean, tossing and cold below, ready to swallow us whole if this contraption fails. Why do we leave the comfort of warm beds and enfolding arms? Or the certainties of a rhythm, born of all the days and nights of habit, of growing towards the light of laugher and joy in the bosom of all that we have known all of our lives. Knowing which side our bread is buttered on speaks of loyalty, of self interest, of a manifest sense of what is good for us and yet is it that self same knowledge that drives us into the void, out of our comfort zone, into the realm of new experience.

I can only think, landing bleary eyed in Paris once again, that it is some part of our better selves that drives us, a curiosity about the world and our place in it. Not so much an exercise of who we are but of where we fit. We test ourselves again and again in life and listen for the tuning fork hum of resonance when we find that place in the world that is made from the same stuff as us. It warms to us as we to it I think. The sun follows us there making for brighter days. The breezes soften to caress us upon arrival. Toil there, unlike anywhere else, is a joy. All forms are pleasing to the eye. This is what Maugham spoke of when he wrote of a stranger finding home in a far off land, this feeling of belonging, of being a part of something.

It did not occur to me until writing this note that I survived another Friday the 13th. For those unaware, Friday the 13th has been considered an ill-luck day since 1307 when thousands of Templar Knights were rounded up in one day all across Europe and the near east. Charged with heresies against the church, many were tortured and killed in what has come to be known as an incredible power play on the part of Phillippe the Second of France. Perhaps the first corporate raider, he was really after the wealth of the Templars, a wealth that somehow eluded him. And now I sit very near the old fortress of Montlaur, many a scion of which followed the Templar path.

The Delta flight was difficult, uncomfortable due to some back strain I suffered this past week lifting some drywall. I did not get much sleep, something I usually count on when flying overseas. I arrived on time at 10:00 and I was able to get my bags quickly (about 15 minutes) and make my way from Terminal 2E at Charles de Gaulle to the TGV station located between Terminals 2E and 2C and D arriving around 10:30 am. On this trip I had elected to take the train rather than renting a car and driving. If you plan to take more than 2 train trips during your stay then the Anytime/Anywhere France pass is the best option when travelling alone. You can find it on the Rail Europe web site.

When taking the train option to get to Montpellier it is best to set up your air ticket to arrive before 8:30 am. Then you can get the 9:30 TGV direct to Montpellier and be there at about 1:00 pm and at the farm by 1:30 if you’re being picked up. That way you still have a good part of the day to unwind from the trip and slip into your new abode.

If you arrive after 9:30 as I did this time (I had been planning on renting a car and driving so it didn’t matter when I arrived) the next Montpellier TGV is 11:43 am and on some days it does not travel direct. On this day it did not. I took it for 2 horus and 15 minutes to Valence train terminal, got out and waited for an hour for the next train to Montpellier (not something you really want to do when you’re sleep deprived, but fortunately I grabbed the International Herald Tribune, an oasis of English comprehension amid an ocean of lingua Franca)and arrived at 4:44 pm. Carried my bags the too long a distance to the Rental Car park and got my Avis car in a few minutes, leaving there by 5:10 pm.

One of my favourite things is to go provisioning. I like to do it when I arrive so that the farmhouse is “fully stocked” with all the French stuff I like. Then I can hunker down for a few days without worrying too much about anything. Others prefer to soak in the atmosphere of the south of France upon arrival, waking in the morning and going to find some local café where the residents eye you up with overweening curiosity while you stumble through ordering an espresso and a pain au chocolat. I CAN do that, I just prefer not to.

This is the part where I must tell you that its obvious that we North Americans have lost our way somehow when it comes to basic foodstuffs. By basic I mean wine, cheese, bread, fruit and vegetables. Not only does the average European demand much better quality in these things but they get it. And not only do they get it but it tends to be at prices that are from 30 to 65% less than we pay even after converting the $ to Euros. I don’t now if maybe they are rampantly using children for jobs in the supply chain but whatever it is they’ve figured out a much better way to feed themselves than we have.

Now fully “provisioned” I made my way to the farm. It was dark and cold but still around 40 degrees F. Opening up the farm in the dark (sunset came and went while I was “provisioning”, lingering over the manifold cheese selections I think) was a treat. It has been a couple of months since I was here. Everything was draped in sheets and the water was turned off. That was the first to turn on and then to turn on the water heater. After that to start up the small heaters inside the farmhouse and store my “provisions”. It took a while to get everything opened up and in its place. I could see my breath on the air as I worked and was thankful for the 50 below Canadian made sleeping bag I had stored in the closet. Finally, I was set and making myself first a cup of hot tea and then a rye and ginger I set about reading a draft of a book an old friend of mine has just written; something of the adventures of Captain George Vancouver in the Pacific Northwest around 1792. I felt strangely sympathetic to their isolation and sufferings as I shivered inside my sleeping bag. I wonder what Captain Vancouver (sounds like a Canadian superhero!) would say if he could see us now.