Last week I spent some time in a very small house, in a very small village in the Montagne Noire, Southern France. We are talking proper rural life β this area is the home of Cassoulet a slow cooked bean, pork and duck stew , Confit de Canard duck preserved in fat and the delicious wines of the Minervois, Corbiere and Cabardes.
In this village we have no bus, no shop or restaurant. All those things are a 20 minute drive away. What we do have is an uninterrupted view of the snow topped Pyrenees, beautiful countryside and best of all a very strong sense of community. We are the only English people in the village and I am sure our attempts at the French language are the cause of many jokes.
However,we are always given a welcome when we arrive! All too often a basket arrives from Madame Gasc and Madame Inard containing eggs, tomatoes, home made jam, green beans, bread and a bunch of flowers from their garden.
So kind. Only yesterday I had a very humbling experience and one that will stay with me for some time to come. We have a next door neighbour β John Paul who is probably late 50s β he lived with his brother until his death last year. He now lives alone. I have often wondered how John Paul scrapes a living. He restores antiques and then tries to sell them at weekend flea markets In Montpelier, Toulouse and Bezier. He piles his stuff into a clapped out van with the door hanging off and leaves home at around 4am and returns very late.
His house is a sight to behold β for example his mantelpiece yesterday housed a broken toby jug, 2 wall lights in bits , a broken clock, 2 chinese jugs and a mirror. Every available space is filled with old bric a brac and what you or I would describe as junk. I kid you not β his kitchen at the back of the house is below ground level and sits on bare earth in which there is an old microwave, a tiny oven and a sink.
