* * *

The horizon shot upwards as my horse and I sank into the ground.  Suddenly, I was seeing the trees and sky of southern France from a different perspective. Like an elevator that had suddenly broken free of its cable, I had taken a quick trip down. Although still mounted, my feet were resting on the earth–and under the earth–muddy, swampy earth. My horse, Iadj, a plucky, pure white Arabian horse, in one easy, carefree step, had sunk up to his lovely shoulder into a bog.

“Get off, get off!” I heard my husband shout.

Stunned, I had remained frozen in place. I leaped off, pulling the reins over the horse’s head.

Now on solid ground, I could see my mount was half buried. I tried to clear the way in front of him with my hands, but I was only swirling around a thick, slimy stew. Not liquid enough to swim in, and too deep for the horse to touch bottom.

Iadj, the white Arabian, heaved forward, rising up a little.

“Yes,” I thought, he’ll grab solid ground!” But his effort just took him forward–farther from shore and even deeper. Fear gripped me–now his hind quarters were solidly entrenched. This reservoir was not a pond to quench my horse’s thirst; it appeared, rather, that it was to be his grave.

Dave and I were riding alone in a remote area in the huge stretch of parkland in the Languedoc-Rousillon region of France. Earlier in the day and yesterday we had exchanged greetings with people hiking the same trails we followed, often an older couple, usually French but sometimes English or German. They carried walking sticks and wore zip-off khakis. But today we hadn’t seen another person for hours. Up until the moment Iadj lifted his hoof off a solid bank to place it into a daylit nightmare, this solitude had been part of the pleasure of our explorations in the region.

Charly and Nicole from the Ferme Equestre, where we’d rented our horses for the week, had provided us with two well-mannered and willing mounts, a series of maps, and reservations at an assortment of inns, farms, and lodges. This was our third day of leaning forward over our horses’ withers as they carried us to mountain-top vistas and down again on steep rocky tracks. We hiked alongside our steeds when the trail was too difficult. Dark narrow paths through woodland opened up into sunny fields of cerulean flowers where we dismounted to open and then close behind us pasture gates. Footpaths along clear quiet streams led us to 17th-century mountainside villages where church bells rang over the steady beat of our horse’s hooves. On this day we had looked forward to tying our horses in the courtyard of the ruins of the 10th-century Castle of Puylaurens, where they would rest while we walked under still-standing stone archways to view the valley below through ancient windows built into a wall fused to a cliff.

Our biggest problem to date had been getting lost for almost two hours on our first day out. Being lost was something we’d done quite a bit the year before, when we took this trip for the first time. And although the trail was to deviate a bit this year, it hadn’t yet, and we had no real excuse for losing our way. Instead of concentrating on the trail, our attention was on the countryside, where cows grazed contentedly in clover covered pastures and dogs looked after recalcitrant sheep on steep hillsides. The forest pathways were green and cool, but also a bit confusing: getting lost then finding our way took time. We neglected to anticipate the concern yesterday evening’s host and hostess would have for us as sunset approached. Worried, they had called Charly, who then became worried himself because of course, we should not be lost—he knew we’d been here before and must know our way.

We should have known our way today also, but a small stream, not much more than a trickle, crossed the path ahead and Dave and I differed in our recollections. He did not remember crossing water here, so we pulled off the trail to discuss it. There was a sign that was perfect for tying the horse’s reins while we examined our map. The sign was next to a small pond. My horse, unbeknownst me, was expecting a drink, because he knew very well where the path went: it did cross the stream and that brook was one of the places the horses quenched their thirst while carrying tourists like ourselves over the mountain trail. So while Dave was tying his horse to the wooden sign, my horse was eyeing the pond. I dropped the reins on his neck and allowed him to mosey over for a drink. He lowered his head and took a few steps forward. One step too many took us right off the solid edge of land and into the mire. “Baignade Interdite” is what the sign said: NO SWIMMING”.

Now Charly would really have something to worry about. Calling his wife was the only sensible call we could make. Nicole spoke English fairly well, and she could call some kind of emergency crew. Would we have cell phone signal on this mountain top, will Nicole be home, and would she understand the English word for “bog”? I tried to remember the French word for “mud.” My mind raced as the horse thrashed in the muck. What should I do? What if Nicole doesn’t answer. Should I call someone else? Who? Years ago I’d seen on television a horse stuck in a bog. They pulled it out with an enormous crane. Would someone have a crane? Neither one of us knew the French equivalent of 911*.

I doubted if there was a road or village nearby, but if I reached someone, what would we say? “Vin rouge, s’il vous plaît?” My French is basic. How could I express this situation? “Uh, excuse me, but my horse is at this very moment drowning in a bog—can you send a winch or something?—Well, actually, no, I don’t have any idea where I am….lots trees, and oh, yeah—muddy water.” How does one say “drowning” in French? I wished desperately for someone to come by. Where were the trekkers? It seemed clear that this lovely Arabian horse, mine for a week, was in great danger.

My hand reached for the cell phone as Iadj surged forward again. I could see the horse gather his strength. He rose above the mire, moving forward several feet, but when he landed he was on his side, almost his back—his legs kicking in the air. He twisted and then he was back in the original vertical position. His hindquarters didn’t look right—it appeared as if his legs were twisted beneath the muck. All that struggling made me fear a broken leg. One hip looked bad, pushed up. I could only hope this leg was safe, but resting on higher ground, while the rest of him was deeper into the muck.

He now stayed still for what seemed a very long time, his head and neck stretched along the top of the surface. I’d never seen a horse in such an awkward position. His body was so deep in the ground that his chin was cradled by the earth. Was he resting again, or had he given up? Each advance had taken a great deal of energy. He was closer to the far shore now. Perhaps he could make it. Only six years old, he was very fit from traveling five or six hours a day on steep, challenging terrain. But this was taking a great deal out of him; he appeared spent.

His next effort took him closer to the far edge of the pool. And the leg that had seemed strangely poised must have been well positioned, not broken, giving him something to push off with. Now when he lurched forward again he almost reached the shore.

He rested again. If he could raise himself enough, he could touch the edge. But the side here was steep. I had the reins; I had to do something. I could guide him to the best spot. He was very close to the steep, rocky side. I had never seen a horse scramble up something so vertical. If I guided him to the left a bit, it seemed to be a more gradual climb. But was the ground firm or more swamp?

I guided him hesitantly towards the more gradual climb and he followed, but he, too, was uncertain. One forefoot reached forward, only to drop down into the morass. It would have to be the steep side.

Neither Dave nor I could imagine how much longer he could struggle before exhaustion took over, or his heart gave out. I moved the reins to the right, and I don’t know whether he took my cue or just saw for himself he wasn’t going to make it the other way, but he changed his course in mid-leap.

Suddenly, his front feet were touching the solid ground of the bank. Scrambling, a hind leg gained purchase. He was almost vertical now, his legs moving furiously; climbing, sliding—a leg would land, only to slip after dislodging a rock. For a few moments he seemed to be scrambling in the air and it didn’t seem possible he’d reach the top. I thought he would slide back into the quagmire, maybe this time forever. But providence was with me and this horse because suddenly he seemed to gain a strong foothold.

“He’s OK!” my husband shouted.

I wasn’t so certain. This horse had been thrashing about—he seemed twisted beneath the surface. I feared the vision of him rising from the soup of the bog with a dangling leg, broken, the end for this lovely horse who tried so hard, bursting out of one deadly dilemma only to meet another.

He stood. He took a step. He shook himself and mud flew everywhere, but he seemed to be alright.

Happy to be slapped with showering sludge, relief washed over me like a river. And it was going to take a fairly deep river to clean this horse. This pretty white horse was now completely brown. The small patch of white on the side of his head and neck that hadn’t been enveloped in the bog were now splashed with muck from when he had shaken his body.

I threw off his saddle and saddlebags—everything was coated with a thick layer of gritty loam. He shook again and the white patch where his saddle had been became less white. My clothing was splattered, my shoes squishy.

Now that Iadj was safe, I had a new goal—get him cleaned up before anyone saw him. This was cowardly and dishonest of me, and I must admit my husband did not agree with my duplicity, but the moment relief washed away fear a new emotion sprang forth in my breast: embarrassment.

I didn’t want to have to explain how I almost killed this horse to the people who were already puzzled about why we had gotten lost on a route we’d traveled before. They had provided us with maps and detailed instructions written in both French and English and numbers we could call on our cell phone. In addition, hopefully unbeknownst to them, we had a handheld GPS which we couldn’t figure out how to use. And now we had nearly drowned their horse right next to a “No Swimming” sign. I was mortified by my ineptitude, my adrenaline was still high. I now had a new mission: deceit.

I fashioned a halter from a lead rope and washed the bridle in the creek, the same creek that we were meant to cross and that Iadj was meant to drink from. I took off my grimy tell-tale shirt and replaced it with one in my saddle bag that had remained reasonably protected. I used the soiled shirt to carry water between the creek and the horse who rested quietly while my husband held him.

It took an hour and a half to get him close to clean. As brown rivulets flowed off, several bloody spots appeared on his legs. All minor cuts and scrapes—probably caused by his own flailing hooves during his struggle.

While I cleaned, other people finally appeared: it was an older couple wearing zip-off trousers. They raised their walking sticks in our direction. “Bonjour!” they called out in a German accent. “Bonjour!” I replied with bravado.

Clean and rested, we set off, and Iadj seemed happy to be traveling on solid ground again. I experienced my final bit of relief as we moved off into a steady trot, with none of the head bobbing that would indicate a limp and therefore an injury. We rode through thickly wooded trails until we reached a clearing from where we looked down upon the red roof tops of a town in the valley and then rode through an old stone village, grey except for the brilliant blue shutters framing each window.

In our desire to arrive on schedule to our evening’s abode and keep our adventure a secret, we made up lost time by skipping our last route direction; the climb to the castle. We took the road below, and the silhouette of Puylaurens, high on the hill above us, shadowed our path for a long while. We watched the sun descend behind its maze of old stone walls. The magic of an early evening in a beautiful place pulled us back to the pleasures of our vacation. My horse walked with a spring in his step and his white coat shone against the dark of the mountains beyond.

© 2012, Judy Kashoff.

Judy and Dave Kashoff have been traveling extensively around the world since 2008. Rather than wait for the proverbial golden years, they rented out their house in a suburb of Philadelphia, dropped their cats off with Dave’s mother, kissed their two grown children good-bye, and set off for what they thought would be a year of travels by boat, by bike, by horse, by foot, by kayak and by golly let’s just do it! Four years on they are still at it.

*Editor’s note: 911 actually does work from mobile phones in France. It’s immediately transferred to the European emergency number 112. The more common numbers in France, however, are 17 for the police and 18 for the fire department and for other accidents and emergencies such as the one told here.

The post Languedoc Trails: When a Dream of a Horseback Ride Turns into a Nightmare appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

***

When I stop wandering, I want to settle down in a village in Southern Europe.

I want to spend summer evenings in the village square, where lovers kiss on benches and older couples walk hand in hand, where villagers drink wine and pontificate about politics in sidewalk cafes while their dogs lie quietly beneath their chairs before rising to greet canine friends—like the children who slip away from family dinners to careen around the fountain, splashing in it on hot days.

Perhaps I’ll settle in Spain, where families eat tapas while young people on motorbikes putt-putt around and around the plaza.

But then there is France, which is quieter yet still alive and faultless meals are prepared from fresh local ingredients.

Or Italy, perhaps, in a village with a piazza where impeccably dressed people linger over pizza they eat with a knife and fork, finishing their meal with a minuscule cup of espresso.

No matter where I settle down, most days I’ll cook a meal for my husband and myself. We’ll walk to the town center (yes, maybe it will be more than a village, an actual small town), where fresh produce is displayed on sidewalks before small family-owned shops. I will select meat carefully at the butchers and send Dave to the bakery for fresh bread.

It will be like the time I followed our Italian host and hostess as they prepared Sunday lunch: first to the fish store to choose clams, mussels and calamari, later to be served over al dente pasta, then to the cheese shop, then to the bakery. In each shop we were greeted warmly and offered tastes of flavorful cheese, sausage or sweets. Then to pick up wine from a local winemaker. Like our hosts then, I’ll bring a jug with me and, after tasting several wines, choose one and fill my jug with it from a large wooden keg.

I wonder if I have to choose my wine first in order to better choose my village? There is a village in Southern France where I purchased the most wonderful wine at the local cave for only a euro a liter.

On market days, rather than be a stranger to sellers I’ll be a regular customer, bantering with them about their red, yellow, orange and green peppers, inquiring about this week’s sausages, this season’s cheeses, discussing the day’s catch with a fishmonger, her fish fanned out on ice like a hand of playing cards, glistening with freshness. I’ll know how to pick the sweet local melons and the purple and green figs. A young woman selling cheese and wearing a low cut blouse will tempt my cheese-averse husband into a purchase as she leans into her refrigerated case to grab a goat cheese.

We could purchase a white house with brilliant blue shutters in Greece, where market stalls are filled with nuts, raisins and other dried fruits, where carcasses of sheep and goat hang neatly in a row, alongside rabbits skinned except for their fuzzy tails. We could choose between a half-dozen different kinds of olives; mounds of black and green—I would know them each by name, or at least Dave would since he loves eating olives almost as much as he enjoys shopping for cheese.

Perhaps we’ll live in Rovinj, Croatia, where every day is market day, and from morning ‘til dark, rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables provide color beside ancient stone buildings by the sea.

Would we miss France too much if we settled in Croatia? Would we find ourselves dreaming of the creamy cheeses, berries, truffles, herbs, and lavender in southern France? Or would we feel nostalgic for Spain, where market tables are covered with sacks of powdered herbs and spices of rich and exotic hues? Or for the tomatoes of Italy so sweet they could be candy?

How would I choose? If not by the wine or by the tomatoes then perhaps by the sound. In Italy people are effusive; they talk loudly and shout at each other then kiss on the cheeks. Would we become like that? In France, the language is lyrical and romantic, and people are patient with me when I haltingly and inadvertently destroy it. In Eastern Europe, folks are more reserved, but always respond cheerfully to a friendly greeting.

People who live in the villages I loved as we traveled through their land were warm and inviting. How would it be different if we lived there?

In the Italian countryside, an Egyptian immigrant opened his door to offer a warm bed to two strange travelers on a cold night. In Greece, we were offered food.

On the Greek Easter holiday, in the mountains of Crete, a man blocked our way… out of kindness, motioning us into his door, pantomiming an offer of beverage. We met the family. His mother, Maria, smiling, stood about three feet tall, dressed all in black with traditional headscarf and apron. As we took a seat, his brother brought in half a goat (“that can’t be for us,” we thought), and while he quartered it we were offered the Greek aperitif ouzo. Then food started to appear on the table while the meat roasted in the fireplace (“perhaps it is for us…”). Tomatoes, home grown olives, bread, Easter cakes, and beer. A delicious stew of lamb, artichokes and lemon, and finally, the grilled meat landed on our plates. All without a common language.

Later we watched the local holiday celebrations. At midnight there were bonfires and fireworks in the village square. But first the village priest walked through the village, stopping at each house. Every stop lengthened the procession. What a joy to live here and join the other villagers, ducking under a flower-covered canopy carried on the shoulders of four burly men. Their tradition would become our own.

Holidays seem more special in villages and small towns than in cities, just one more reason to aim small. And it need not be a holiday to be a festival. In France they celebrate truffles, garlic and bread. There are peach (pêche in French) festivals and fishing (pêche in French) festivals, and I would hopefully know which one someone is talking about if I were to settle in Provence. And of course, wine festivals. But there is no need for a festival to celebrate the wines of France; every evening meal is a “fête du vin”.

Beauty is celebrated in the Umbrian village of Spello, Italy. Might flowers grace my doorway here, where each year a prize is given to the house with the most attractive floral decoration? Would they give a prize to a foreigner? Or would I no longer be a foreigner? Every street is alive with color as each old stone house is dressed with pots and hanging planters overflowing with the glory of spring. On a feast day we’ll dance to traditional music and eat ours way down the cobbled yellow streets. We’ll start with an aperitif at the church at the very top of this hill-town, then, descending lovely square by lovely square, stop for antipasto, pasta, veal, desert and finally espresso.

During the First of May in Conversano in southern Italy, young and old stroll to the square where thousands of colored lights hide the facades of ancient buildings. The entire piazza lights up bright as day, including the gazebo in the center where a brass band plays. If we lived there, perhaps Dave would take up the saxophone again.

But most rural life is quiet, people provide their own entertainment, whether through sport or music or food or conversation. And that would suit me well, when I stop wandering.

But it is so hard to choose.

Passing through the varied landscapes and varied architecture of southern Europe is entertainment in itself. Medieval villages made of stone or plaster cling to mountainsides, huddle in valleys or stand high on mountains where church steeples crown the hillside, their silhouettes standing out against a sunset of red, pink or purple.

In France, we are thrilled by winding, narrow streets made of dark stone. The brilliant white plaster houses and orange roofs of Southern Spain take our breath away when lit by the sun. Flowers stand in pots before doorways and fill boxes below windows framed with wooden shutters that really work. In Slovenian Alpine villages flowers are everywhere, they even pour from barn windows. Woodpiles in Croatia are stacked in orderly perfection; we saw one stacked into the shape of a house.

When I settle down, I want my window to look out onto a village street. I want to walk through picturesque alleys to the bakery for a breakfast of bread still warm, or for a fresh local pastry to accompany an espresso. I want to hear music resonate against stone buildings. I want to open my shutters and smell the flowers. In a language that will become increasingly familiar to my tongue I will greet people and celebrate each holiday with them. My entertainment will be to sit by a cafe table in the square sharing a bottle of wine with my husband, perhaps friends and neighbors, a dog at my feet, someone else’s children splashing in the fountain, mine long grown.

And where might this café, this village square be? What country’s waters will flow from its fountain, with what language will I struggle? In what country will I find both mountains and seas, flowers lining quiet streets? Where will I find the creamiest cheeses, the finest wines, the most colorful markets? Where will I listen to a lyrical language offered with courteous finesse?

When I finally arrive, when my wandering is limited to a stroll to an evening’s repast, I suspect that I will say, “Bonsoir, Monsieur, une table pour deux, s’il vous plaît.”

Or perhaps I’ll say nothing—he’ll simply know who we are and why we’ve come.

Text © 2011, Judy Kashoff
Photos © Dave Kashoff

First published on France Revisited and Europe Revisited.

Other articles by Judy Kashoff include “Quakers in France: Finding Friends in Languedoc” and “The Natural Pleasures of WWOOFing in Europe.”

The post Village Life: When I Stop Wandering appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

Bright orange passion fruits hang from vines that cover most of a stucco-over stone wall and creep over the edges of an old wooden shutter. The shutter’s blue paint is peeling away with characteristic charm. A plum tree is so laden with fruit that the stone walkway has to be swept daily so as not to track a purple mess into the building. The scent of lavender fills the air as we stroll along the garden path with Jacqueline, who volunteers to do the gardening here.

“It’s planned that way,” says Jacqueline. “Your legs are meant to disturb the lavender, releasing its scent so you may enjoy it when walking by.”

In the same way, white flowers are planted so that they stand out in the evening, almost glowing, for people to admire while having their evening meal at Maison Quaker, or Quaker Center, in the village of Congénies, France.

We arrived here at dusk, when the blooms seem their brightest, and immediately knew this was a place to call home for a while.

We’d arrived after several days of travel from Tunisia; flights had been late and long, luggage lost, trains delayed or canceled. A long, hot train ride finally brought us to Nimes, where we retrieved the most important of our lost luggage: our bicycles. We then rode through the noise and traffic of the commercial belt surrounding the city until we broke away into the countryside via the Voie Verte.

The Voie Verte is a greenway built on an old railway line, where trains used to travel between villages, filling tank cars with grape juice at each stop. The tracks have since been paved over and the resulting greenway now attracts cyclists, rollerbladers and walkers. The instant we left the road to ride its smooth and quiet surface we were transported to another world.

We’d come to France to settle down for several months (in the end, five) in Congénies after two months of cycling in Africa, in countries that were dry, dusty, hot, and sometimes uncomfortable. Suddenly, now, we were surrounded by the beauty, climate, landscape, and well-being that is the south of France: pastoral rolling hills, endless rows of grapevines and olive trees, fields bright with sunflowers, ancient stone villages tucked into the folds of gentle hills, the Mediterranean sensed a few hills away.

The road leading to Congénies is lined with plane trees whose pale green and grey mottled trunks stand out in the dusky light against the dark stone walls that line the street. Their leaves, at the height of their summer greenness, provide a canopy of welcome leading to the gate of Maison Quaker.

We were greeted with warmth by contemporary members of the Quaker community here, and over a garden table filled with food and wine we heard stories of ancient Friends.

Friends or Quakers are the names given to members of the Religious Society of Friends. Friends have simple beliefs: there is no creed. They believe there is “that of God in everyone” and there are no rules or demands placed on its followers to hold a particular vision of who that God is. Quakers worship in silence; anyone who feels moved to speak may do so.

Yet Quakers do have strong principles; values that lead members of this faith to action: Quakers work for social justice, equality and peace. Quakers refuse to participate in war, believing violence is never justified.

Quakerism started in England in the 1600s, but unbeknownst to those 17th-century Friends, there was a group of people in the south of France that held virtually the same beliefs. They were known as les Couflaïres—the Inspires or the Inspired Ones—and had lived in the region around Congénies even before George Fox founded Quakerism in England. These two groups, each of whose basic tenants of faith revolved around honesty and non-violence, found each other in the most remarkable way: through piracy.

For the most part, Quakers, holding firm to their beliefs, stayed out of the turmoil of the American-British war for American independence. But France saw this as an ideal opportunity to chip away at their old rival by supporting the revolutionaries. This in turn prompted the British monarch to encourage ships to attack and rob French vessels as they traveled across the Atlantic. Privateering could be quite lucrative, and many English shipping outfits took advantage of the crown’s invitation.

Three of the boats whose owners profited by this situation were co-owned by an English Quaker, Joseph Fox (no relationship to George Fox), who, not being a hands-on partner, had no idea that he was a partner in crime. On discovery, his Quaker principals led him to react in a way that was markedly different from what might be considered normal business practice under the circumstances: he decided to make restitution.

In 1785 he dispatched his son Edward to Paris to place a full page advertisement in the Gazette de France. In it, he explained that Quakers do not support war or theft and expressed his regret over the buccaneering of his family-owned ships. Furthermore, and most unusual, he offered compensation to the victims. Claims were made and paid, one of them to a boat owner in the town of Sète, a port town located on the Mediterranean, not far from the village of Congénies.

When this news reached the local population, members of the Couflaïres were impressed to learn there were others with a philosophy so close to their own. They wrote to Edward to claim not compensation, but friendship. The two groups joined, and the first Quaker Meeting in France was formed in 1788.

The meeting house in Congénies, the only building in France designed specifically as a Friends meeting house, was built in 1822. It flourished as a house of worship for 60 years, always with friendship between the British and the French. Conscription, particularly during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, took its toll on the community, resulting in the emigration of young men since they were pacifist. The departure of the young men led more women to marry out of the faith. With too few Quakers left the building was sold in 1907. It served as a hospital during the First World War and was occupied by German troops during the Second.

The journey to retrieve the building’s heritage began when it was purchased by English Quakers as a holiday home after WWII. The 21st century now brings Maison Quaker full circle and back into the hands of the Religious Society of Friends. The building has been renovated, but the strong stone walls look the same as they did nearly 200 years ago. Ancient, heavy wooden doors open to let light into a building where people from far and wide can come to visit. French is the language spoken here, although most congregants also speak English, and will do so readily if you wish.

In its rebirth, Maison Quaker has become more than a house of worship: it is now a center where Quakers and non-Quakers meet for friendship, study, and relaxation, for joyful meals and quiet meditation.

Whether an individual, a family, or a couple, Quaker or not, anyone can book a room at Centre Quaker Congénies for a few days or a few weeks and enjoy the countryside, just as we did. You can smell the lavender as you walk to the table in the garden, where you can enjoy a breakfast of home-made plum jam on bread fresh and warm from the bakery a few steps away. And while you linger over coffee, you can look into the old graveyard, the only Quaker graveyard in France, its simple, worn stones shaded with cypress trees. It’s a peaceful place built by people whose love of peace transcended violence, piracy, and their nations’ differences.

Practical information
Centre Quaker, Congénies is located in the Languedoc region of southern France, 22 km/14mi southwest of Nimes and 37km/23mi northeast of Montpellier, the grey zone between southeast and southwest France. Congénies is an old village with a bakery, a quality grocery shop, and a population of about 1500. There are several excellent restaurants nearby.

Within a few kilometers are two market towns, one of them, Sommieres, is a lovely medieval town on an emerald green river. Day trips can be made to places such as the Pont du Gard, the Natural Reserve of the Camargue, and Provencal towns such Avignon, St. Remy and Arles, or in the other direction Montpellier and its nearby beaches. Travelers in search of nature and sports can cycle on the voie verte and go horseback riding and bird watching in the Camargue. There are also many good hiking trails around.

Contact: centre.quaker.congenies@gmail.com, or call 33 – (0) 4 66 71 25 93, or 33 (0) 4 66 80 26 42 to book a room in either French or English.

© 2010, Judy Kashoff

See David Kashoff’s photos of Congénies by clicking here.

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Ristonchia, Italy–We woke to a great deal of noise coming from the coop where Walter’s chickens and guinea hens were kept. Walter was our host while WWOOFing in Tuscany. We were staying with him as guests willing to work in exchange for room and board. It may or may not have been in our job description, but Walter’s favorite rooster had lost a battle with a fox the day before, so my husband dragged himself out of bed and crossed the street to the pen to see what was going on.

It wasn’t what my neighbors in the suburbs of Philadelphia would think of as an actual street. The grassy path in front of our little cottage was a thoroughfare through the medieval hamlet of Ristonchia, perched high on a hill above the Tuscan countryside.

It was the middle of the night. Wearing only sandals, Dave expected the rest of the village to be sleeping. Instead he found another person shuffling away, our host, more formally dressed in a t-shirt to go with his sandals. Walter had also heard the commotion, and Dave arrived in time to see him heading back to bed.

Dave found nothing wrong, and neither did Walter, we learned when we spoke to him the next morning over a breakfast of homemade German black bread and honey. Walter had a bit of a laissez-faire attitude about the chickens anyway. Of the ten chicks originally following mother hen around the yard, he told us, they were down to four by the time we arrived. Another was soon lost when it fell into the goat’s water trough and drowned.

“I don’t expect to keep them all,” he said. “They get lose, they have accidents, they’re not very smart.” And of course, over time, he kills quite a few of them himself in the process of preparing his gourmet meals. But he also cares about them. Not just to keep healthy for egg laying or tasty dinners; he also has favorites. We could tell he was moved by the loss of the rooster he’d had for ten years.

We first met Walter as we were pushing our bikes up a hill. He passed us in his car when we were on his way to his farm. We had arranged to work for him through WWOOF, World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, an organization that matches organic farmers with volunteers willing to work a few hours a day in exchange for room and board… and possibly a good night’s sleep. As we followed our emailed directions, I thought we’d be working in the heat of the flat valley on the many olive trees we passed. But soon we started up a gentle incline, and I believed we’d be working on the quilt of brown and green, plowed and planted, patches that cover the Umbrian rolling hills.

We then climbed higher. It took us almost two hours to go five kilometers, pushing our heavily-loaded bikes upwards into Tuscany in the process.

Ristonchia consists of just a few ancient stone houses located at the top of a mountain overlooking a valley and with a view of farmland, villages and other mountains. A castle can be seen in the distance on a smaller peak. About 18 people live there, more on weeks that Walter accepts paying guests as an “Agroturismo,” a farm that offers accommodation and meals. Every door has a keyhole and every keyhole has the key in it. That first evening, at dusk, we heard a cuckoo bird.

Walter’s land spreads away from the village, both down the hillside and up to the vineyard overlooking the valley. From there, you can see the castles of two typical Tuscan walled towns, Cortona and Castiglione Fiorentino. The farm has olive groves, a chestnut wood, pasture, woodland, farm animals, and a garden.

The farm has been organic since the 1980’s, when Walter and his wife, Irma, bought it. Walter moved here permanently from Germany 30 years ago when he got fed up with his job, leaving his wife behind with a recalcitrant 17-year-old daughter, grown now. Irma still lives most of the year in the Black Forest, leaving her job as a physician to join her husband for weekends once a month and for a few weeks each summer.

We were lucky to be there when we could enjoy Irma’s straightforward warm hospitality. Walter had been a senior analyst before exchanging computers for the farm; now he has an old laptop hooked to a slow dial-up connection, which conks out every 30 minutes or so. But he has quiet, a menagerie of animals, an interesting assortment of guests, and the satisfaction of the harvest.

Walter is a wonderful cook. He sometimes he makes true Tuscan dishes and other times his native German dishes, but usually they’re just Walter dishes. Walter and Irma have a lovely set of plates that was handcrafted in Cortona. When we first arrived, I was surprised to see how many had been broken, repaired, but still in use. A few days passed, and I broke a beautiful crystal wine glass. Irma overrode my apologies by telling me it was not one of the “good” glasses – she pointed to another type of wine glass and said, “THESE are the good ones, lucky you did not break this one.” A week or so later, during one of their impromptu dinner parties, another guest broke a glass—this time a vin santo glass—and I saw Walter pick up a different glass and say “good it was not one of these that broke.” A neighbor turned to me and whispered, “This is what they always say when a guest breaks a glass.” I felt like an accomplice to an inside joke as well as an accomplice to good living as Walter filled his chipped plates with the bounty of his farm.

Almost fully free range, his chickens and guinea hens live in a large pen for protection from foxes, but they often get loose. Walter has a dog named Wanda who will help herd or catch the birds when they do. He obtained Wanda when she was about a year old. A neighbor saw a strange car drive up, open the door, push the dog out and drive away. Wanda was not left with any aversion to cars, and in fact she often hitchhikes. She likes to accompany Walter’s guests on hikes down the mountain to Castiglione Fiorentino but will skip the climb of the return by smartly trotting to an intersection by the town’s edge to wait for a local to give her lift. Wanda went for walks with us, and one day we worked along side her; three guinea hens had gotten loose. It seemed under control by time we arrived; we could see Wanda had caught one, but Walter shouted, “Run, hurry,” and Dave grabbed each hen from Wanda, because it seems Wanda will hold onto a hen for only a short time before she considers it fair game for a meal.

There was other excitement on the farm, sometimes excitement that we witnessed, such as bringing home an escaped goat, and often excitement that we heard about as Walter told stories through our leisurely meals and glasses of wine. Like the time the two donkeys got loose and found a pile of fermenting grape mash. Walter had us roaring with laughter as he described the progress of these intoxicated donkeys, rolling in the meadow and staggering about. [The photo above is of Dave riding one of those donkeys when sober, at least the donkey.]

He also talked about local characters, some of whom we got to meet, such as the Italian folk musicians who came to lunch and three-year-old Julian who spoke three languages fluently. We also met friends and neighbors who came to dinner, for example the vicar who spoke no English but brought us a ladder when he saw us picking fat black mulberries from the fruit laden tree in the churchyard. I left them in the kitchen in the afternoon and after dinner they were returned to us in a creamy compote.

Dave and I spent a good deal of time in Walter’s kitchen. Although not expected of us, we couldn’t help but turn up in time to assist with dinner preparations. We tried to be good sous chefs, cutting and chopping fresh ingredients that Walter turned into gourmet delights. But our primary jobs were to feed and water the animals, collect chicken eggs, stake vines in the vineyard, and repair fencing by the goat and chicken pens. Dave and I worked on the goat fence together, patching the wire fencing, but I fixed the fence by the chickens on my own. I was very proud of myself—I inspected the fence carefully and made a cute little door for the chicks that could remain open in the daytime and closed at night. But I felt like a dolt when the one chicken in that pen hopped easily through a large opening I had missed.

Walter was always patient with us. He considers WWOOFing to be more than of a global exchange than a labor exchange, meaning that we couldn’t help but have fun while we were there. We rode the horse and donkeys in the mountains, met interesting people over delicious dinners, and even took a few days off to visit Lake Trasimeno, with its turquoise waters and gelato-eating holiday makers. We saw the Palio at Castiglione Fiorentino. We followed a parade of medieval-dressed trumpeters and drummers from the church to the square, where nine horses and their bareback riders raced around to complete for a silk banner. We learned a great deal about all sorts of things over dinner: Italian history and politics, organic farming, and how natural food is so valued in Italy that there are towns with the title of “Citta Lenta,” or “Slow City.” Born out of the “slow food” movement, a “slow city” must have a visible and distinct culture and heavily depend on resources from within.

At Walters we enjoyed the pleasures of slow food production. We cared for animals, we sang while we weeded, and after tending the grapes we lay on our backs looking at clouds that hung above the vineyard. We pulled and plucked our dinner from the garden and the farm and filled each evening’s wine bottles from a tank in the basement. Dave held a chicken in his hands for the first time, and I learned a little about Italian cooking. I made gnocchi (3 parts potato to 1 part whole wheat flour – no egg or water, just kneed together with a little seasoning if you like), and while I rolled the dough into little balls, I learned how they make spaetzle in the Black Forest. We learned how to tie grapevines and how they make Vino Santo wine by harvesting the grapes late, hanging them in the attic until after Christmas. We dipped Walter’s homemade almond cookies into the sweet wine, savoring both the taste and the knowledge of how cookies and wine were made.

On moonlit nights, when no one was running naked through the night, we would watch stars undimmed by city lights and listen to the cuckoo bird.

(c) Judy Kashoff

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For information on WWOOFing

The international WWOOF website: www.wwoof.org

For WWOOFing in Italy: www.wwoof.it

For WWOOFing in France: www.wwoof.fr

Walter Rossteuscher’s website, English version: www.toskanawalter.it/english.html. Walter not only offers WWOOFing but also agrotourism stays whereby, for a reasonable price, you can enjoy the pleasures of time on the farm without doing any of the direct work.

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