Читать книгу Of Rivers, Baguettes and Billabongs - Reg Egan - Страница 14

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was hard to leave the Vallee de la Maronne, but we were consoled by the thought of the D roads ahead, the forests and the villages set so unobtrusively (except for super and hypermarches) in the rolling countryside.

So it was off. On to the D922, across the river and up the hill, foot hard down on the superb little diesel.

Morning tea was in a forest where wild flowers bloomed abundantly in the grass. There were gentians, of course, wild orchids which remind me of hyacinths, nigella (which I love dearly, but because of my mother, not, I hasten to assure you, because of the English cook), foxglove, buttercups, forget-me-nots, violets, geraniums — very small and quite delicate, scarlet poppies, marguerites, naturally, and…and all sorts that I didn’t recognise.

The trees that provided an almost solid background were oak, birch and linden. I can’t recall on previous trips seeing so many linden trees nor do I recall their dense foliage or their size. The first of these trees that I ever remember recognizing was in the south-eastern corner of the Flagstaff Gardens in Melbourne. And the first birches I remember seeing were in a delightful coloured glossy brochure advertising the glories of a Renault Dauphine. Unfortunately I was only an articled clerk at the time and people of that income could aspire to Dauphines but they could not actually buy them. Tolstoy describes a birch forest in War and Peace and his description is quite wonderful. The birch trees of Melbourne are all dying but there is a splendid Australian “birch” which we hope to meet on the Darling. It is known as the leopardwood tree.

We guiltily ate our pain chocolat in the weak spring sun, had a mandatory slurp of bottled water and then resumed our journey. The taste of that pastry and chocolate (pinched from the breakfast basket) remained with me for many kilometres. It is true — stolen fruit and pastry, like stolen kisses, are best.

The outskirts at Argentat presented themselves at 11.45 — the bewitching hour. I stopped outside a boulangerie not far from the Dordogne. We took our demi-baguette with us towards the bridge, but then I turned and made my way back to the boulangerie for I couldn’t free myself of the aroma of quiche lorraine. I bought two small ones. All this patisserie in one day, but the appetite for pastry is infinite. At least I believe that it is.

Argentat when approached from this direction is dramatic. The river was high, almost in flood and it lapped some wonderful medieval houses overhanging its banks. There were turrets and balconies and verandahs and in the background on your left there was a massive church tower and on your right two elegant church spires. On the opposite bank and upstream along a small beach were cafés, bars and restaurants. Argentat is famous for its old quarter and for its Tours de Merle a short distance out of the town and in the valley of the Maronne. It also attains some fame in my memory for the tall and lean and extravagantly moustachioed waiter who was delighted to show us to a riverside table under an umbrella and to bring us two coffees, seulement, despite the fact that it was still lunchtime and he was busy. I left him a tip of two euros, the least I could do, and he smiled and bowed and said “arrivederci” as if we had given him a fortune. Bloody flattering Italiani!

The Lords of Merle built the original castle in the eleventh century on a spur overlooking a bend in the river. Sons and descendants of the original Merle built their own towers. The castle and most of the towers are now in ruins but those very ruins evoke the Middle Ages and the so-called Hundred Years War. It was easy to find a pleasant spot for our late lunch and a look at the map for a leisurely journey downstream on the little roads that sneak along the left bank of the Dordogne.

Walnuts and the Dordogne — it’s like saying bread and cheese or meat and potatoes: they are the perfect companions. The walnut, I’m informed, is a “native to south-eastern Europe, Central Asia, America and China.” It was introduced to France by the Romans, it seems, and how comfortable it has made itself in France, especially in the Valley of the Dordogne. You’d swear it was native to the area, it is so well adapted there. Of course, it is the soft-shelled variety, which I imagine had its origin in Persia, now part of Iran.

Whenever you come across a relatively small plot of land with rich soil you will see walnut trees, and the trees always look young. The French renew the trees about every thirty years or so, for with age their production drops off. And, in any event, the demand for good sound walnut timber is constant, so why not have the best both ways.

There’s a wonderful family-run walnut mill at Ste. Nathalène in the Enéa Valley some eight or ten kilometres east of Sarlat. Father and son manage the mill and mother is in the shop and it is certainly worth a visit. The whole of the mill, including the massive and powerful press, is run by a huge water-wheel. Its power is amazing. The nuts are shelled (by various families as far as I could gather) and the kernels are finely crushed and heated to about 50ºC. The pulp is then pressed, and slowly, ever so slowly, the oil seeps out. But what oil it is, and how delicious to soak the bread of a fresh baguette in it.

My enthusiasm for walnut oil, and its relative scarcity in Australia, combined to cause me to endeavour to press our own oil from our very own tree. So, after dinner one night, I took a bag of our freshly picked nuts and I shelled them and I then put them through the vitamiser. Then I put them in a pot with a small quantity of water and I heated them as mentioned and then I put them in a press, a small press that we use for sampling grapes before vintage. I pressed and pressed. No oil. I threw the whole of my weight and strength into the job — a bent handle on the machine but no oil. I was determined to get some oil so I grabbed a torch and proceeded to the shed and the vice on the workbench. I put the little press in the vice and I applied the screw harder and harder. The press was in danger of collapsing when suddenly I perceived a few drops of oil drip on to the saucer. Eventually I obtained half a teaspoon. At eleven o’clock at night I drank that oil, every bit of it and then I began the job of cleaning up the mess before turning into bed. The oil was so delectable.

It was late in the afternoon when we pulled into the plane tree shaded square in Beaulieu (Beaulieu-sûr-Dordogne) and the sun was warm. Out the front of our virginia-covered, three storied, old stone hotel, was a footpath, and so there were small tables and chairs on one side and banquettes, yes banquettes and tables on the other. We sank into one of the banquettes and ordered two gin and tonics. I know, yes how I know, what a risky order that can be in France. They arrived, with a bowl of nuts, and…and the glasses were tall, chilled, filled with ice and a slightly blue mixture. They were delicious, two of the best that you could get in any part of the world. We made them last for half an hour and then there was time for a walk along a secluded track which went through a small forest and up a steep hill. I never did find the monument sign-posted along the way, but the view of the winding Dordogne and the sunset was wonderful.

The feature of Beaulieu is, without doubt, its beautiful twelfth century church built by the Cluniac monks — St. Peter’s church, or Eglise St-Pierre. It is quite remarkable. There was a jackdaw perched on the steeple. It jumped off as we approached and then flew slowly round and round, only to be joined a few minutes later by a half dozen of its mates. Jackdaws, steeples and bells and old churches, they take me back to our first visit to France all those years ago: an afternoon cup of coffee on the terrace of the little café at Tremolat, the dulcet tones of two English cyclists at the adjoining table and then the clear calls of the jackdaws hovering around the spire of the village church.

The Beaulieu church is said to be in Limousin Romanesque style and on the east end has the usual “tacked-on” round towers of that era. To me, they are clumsy, but apparently there was a cloister joined to the northern side and that might have made the difference. The south doorway was carved in 1125 and is one of the most famous in the whole area, with its depiction of a forgiving Christ, a second coming flamboyant Christ surrounded by apostles and angels with trumpets. For once, thank God, there is no grave warning, or perhaps an ominous threat, to any backsliders or sinners. Inside there was a kind and indulgent angel, which I photographed. I like those jackdaws and I liked the angel.

Beaulieu is the start of the Dordogne proper if you are going down river. You can now go north, south or east and you’ll be amongst stone villages, churches, gardens, forests, hills…anything that the eye desires. We went south and parked in the village beneath Castelnau-Bretenoux overlooking the Céré River. This château can be seen from afar built as it is on a spur above the two rivers. I say a spur and yet it is a fertile and cultivable spur — a sort of a small plateau. The château is one of the most appealing you will ever see: an almost unique mixture of fortifications, and ramparts on the outside, with an elegant house on the inside. It is surrounded by extensive lawns and forests and even some tilled land.

The French writer Pierre Loti said of Castelnau, “(It’s)…the thing you cannot help looking at all the time wherever you are…a cock’s comb of blood-red stone rising from a tangle of trees…poised like a crown on a pedestal dressed with a beautiful greenery of chestnut and oak trees.”

Now, you may wonder what this naval man and writer of sea tales and sensuous adventures was doing so far inland. You may indeed, and as to that I cannot help you, nor can he, as he died at Rochefort, a maritime town on the west coast of France, in 1923. Rochefort even has a street named after him — Rue Pierre Loti as I need hardly write.