* * *

The largest plane tree in France sits like a beloved grandfather in the square in Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, an ancient village in the Hérault Valley, 27 miles west of Montpellier. Children race around its massive trunk and stop to drink from the multiple spouts of the nearby fountain topped by Liberty. Adults sit in its shade to chat. It’s a beautiful, comfortable spot whose history runs deep, but it was not on our itinerary as we originally skirted this part of the valley on our way from Provence to Toulouse.

A chance encounter with a shop keeper in Pézenas, a wine town among the vineyards between Montpellier and Béziers, however, made us change directions and head north into the Hérault Gorges. The shopkeeper’s excitement about the beauty and history of the village convinced me and my husband that a detour would reward us with a memorable stay. She was right, and at the time we did not realize that we would come face to face with sublime architecture, some of which could be found just a short drive from our home in Pennsylvania.

Approached from the south along the Herault River, Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert is heralded by a striking series of bridges, including the medieval Pont du Diable, arched high above a steep gorge lined with grey-white rocks that look as if they had been drizzled down the cliff.

The village itself is surrounded by chalky limestone mountains stippled with green shrubs. Embedded in the hills are the remains of a Visigoth fortress and a dusty old mule path, portions of which have been traveled for centuries by pilgrims following the sign of the shell that marks routes of the Way of Saint James leading to the cathedral in Santiago de Compostella in Spain where the remains of St. James the Greater are said to be buried. Today this path also affords walkers day hikes that begin at the edge of the village on the rue du Bout-du-Monde, the street of the end of the world.

The graceful, rounded apse of the Abbey of Gellone dominates the pale buildings with tiled roofs that emerged as we drove past a gentle flow of the Verdus, a stream that keeps the area verdant as it runs toward the Herault River. We parked the car and walked a narrow street that led to the main square. Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert can be filled with tourists, but as with any well-known site, arriving off-season allows for less hindered signs of the past and of local life.

Those signs were already clear from the hotel room we found, from which we could hear the bells of the abbey, the greetings of residents on the pavement and watch an old dog make his way from the direction of the square toward the welcome of a water bowl.

As we meandered through the cobbled streets of the village we spotted scallop shells embedded in fountains and near doorways as signs of welcome for pilgrims traveling the Way of Saint James. We wondered if these doors opened as readily today to pilgrims as they had in past centuries.

We were charmed by the personalized doors and windows that reflect the artists who reside in the village; we were also struck by a few handmade signs protesting the possession of the original cloister from the Monastery of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert by the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. One poster advertised a meeting where a speaker would ask the question “Qui a Vendu Le Cloitre aux Americains?” Who sold the cloister to the Americans?

The Cloisters, in northern Manhattan, is the branch of The Metropolitan Museum of Art dedicated to the art and architecture of Medieval Europe. It sits majestically atop a hill in a lush 66-acre park with wonderful views of the Hudson River. The impressive monastery-like building is, according to the museum’s website, “not a copy of any specific medieval structure but is rather an ensemble informed by a selection of historical precedents, with a deliberate combination of ecclesiastical and secular spaces arranged in chronological order.” The Cloisters developed out of an impressive collection of cloister sections and other medieval art accumulated by American sculptor George Grey Barnard early in the 20th century. That collection was later acquired and curated at the Fort Tryon site through the donation of land and funding by John D. Rockefeller. Among the highlights of its ecclesiastical spaces is a cloister, one of five, created with 140 fragments from the cloister of the Monastery of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert that, according to the museum, Barnard had discovered being used as “grape arbor supports and ornaments in the garden of a justice of the peace in nearby Aniane.”

The monastery in Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert dates to the 9th century when it was founded by Guilhem, Count of Toulouse and grandson of the Duke of Aquitaine. Guilhem was a cousin of Charlemagne and noted in his time as one of the emperor’s most valorous knights for his battles against the Saracens of Spain. For centuries that followed Troubadours sang about his bravery. Charlemagne presented him with a piece of the Holy Cross (it was an age of relics) that he brought with him when he came to establish a home and a monastery in 804 in the remote region that would eventually bear his name, Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert. (“Le Désert” refers not the geography but to the absence of people in the area at the time.) The relic helped make the Abbey of Gellone an important stopping point for pilgrims on the road to Compostella, and it remains there to this day. Despite his life as a warrior, Guilhem was deeply religious and spent his final years at the monastery as a monk from 806 until his death in 812.

Thanks to the traffic of pilgrims, the monastery prospered and most of the Abbey of Gellone visited today dates from the 11th century when it was rebuilt in the Romanesque style. Like many monasteries in France it eventually suffered from the vicissitudes of faith and politics. It was pillaged during the Wars of Religion and vandalized during the French Revolution, losing both furnishings and architectural elements. Each historical trauma, whether natural (e.g. floods) or man-made, led to more decay, and by the 19th century parts of the abbey were dispersed throughout the region, including sections of the cloister later purchased by Barnard.

The interior of the abbey conveys an intimacy and warmth due in part to the variegated rustic tones of the stone. The vault of the soaring apse is punctuated by three high windows that represent the Trinity, and an ornate marble and glass altar presents a stunning contrast with the simplicity of architectural line. Near the altar rests what are said to be the remains of Saint Guilhem and the relic of the Holy Cross given to him by Charlemagne. There are lovely spaces within the abbey, one of which houses an 18th-century organ. The abbey has an atmosphere that suggests mystery and evokes contemplation. It is also a perfect venue for intimate musical performances such as the string and flute ensemble we attended during our visit. The cloister that was rebuilt in the second half of the 20th century, which includes a few original columns, also affords a quiet retreat.

The village of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert appears to flow from the monastery. The narrow streets that begin at the portal of the abbey on the square seem a natural path to the beauty of the tight houses and the chalky tops of the mountains that appear beyond their roofline. An approach to the village offers a lovely view of the rounded apse symmetrically flanked by the round exterior walls of two smaller curved vaults and bordered by a low wall encasing a small garden. The exterior of the monastery, however, does not convey the serenity of the interior. Evidence of the tumultuous past is reflected in the monastery’s outer surfaces in color variation, patched walls, and solid sections that seem almost fortress-like. Still, there is a sense of calm and history as you walk between trees and flowers and enjoy time along a quiet path.

* * *

We drove to The Cloisters Museum in the fall on a radiant day much like the one that welcomed us to Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert. The museum rises from the topmost height of lushly wooded Fort Tryon Park on which it occupies four acres. It conveys medieval perfection through its stone tower, unmarred arches, metal steeple atop a spire such as those found on village churches in the south of France, and the graceful curve of an 11th-century apse from a church in Spain. It may be “an ensemble informed by a selection of historical precedents” but the total effect of The Cloisters is that you have arrived at another time and place. Cobbled paths wind up a hill toward the powerful stone structure, and visitors step into remarkable spaces that belie the 21st century. The statuary, paintings, tapestries and other artifacts humanize the medieval world. Coming so close to medieval art within authentic stone chapels and chambers and gazing into the faces of sublimely painted wooden sculptures makes a connection to ancient life that is transformational.

Four of the cloisters at the museum have outdoor settings with skillfully tended gardens. Everything appears natural and free; the eruption of color and texture suggest a rustic landscape, but the reality is far more calculated. The Cuxa Cloister from a Benedictine Monastery near the Pyrenees in Spain is breathtaking; stone pathways, flowers, trees, and dense foliage frame pink marble columns, a central fountain and low tiled roofs. It is a realization of how we imagine a medieval cloister to have looked and felt.

The reconstructed cloister from the Monastery of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert at The Cloisters is an interior space with a high glass ceiling for natural light and lovely arched windows that overlook the Hudson River behind one side of the cloister. A few potted plants and some large vessels from the period dot the hard pebbled courtyard. The columns are stunning, set in pairs to support the arched stone of the installation. They vary in both the shape of the columns and design of the capitals. Some of the columns are rounded, others hexagonal, still others are ornate with waves from top to bottom, and some are wide and fully sculpted. The capitals are carved with exquisite renderings of acanthus leaves, vines, flowers, honeycombed patterns and both animal and human figures. The passageways behind the columns suggest a sense of contemplation with stone benches for reflection. Care has clearly been taken to respect the extraordinary craftsmanship in the stonework and gracefully echo the serenity of a monastic setting.

I wanted to love this cloister, but I could not. I felt the artifice of museum lighting despite the open ceiling, and I begrudged the closed space that made it more of an exhibit than a setting where imagination might take you back in time. Viewing the columns from multiple perspectives, I tried to place them mentally at the peaceful Monastery of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, among the trees and flowers, the passageways to the abbey, the prayers of monks and the footsteps of approaching pilgrims. I wanted to see them not as individual elements of interest but as an essential part of an idea, a purpose, a commitment to the necessity of contemplation and prayer. Instead, despite the splendor of The Cloisters and my appreciation for how it celebrates the beauty and humanity of medieval life, makes it accessible to so many and preserves it for the future,  I found myself wishing I had attended the lecture that answered the question, “Who sold the cloister to the Americans?”

© 2013, Elizabeth Esris

Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, population 265 (2012 figure), is located in the department of Hérault in the region of Languedoc-Roussillon. The village’s official website, which also provides information about the surrounding Hérault Valley, can be found here.  Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert is a member of the association Les Plus Beaux Villages de France.

The Cloisters Museum and Gardens, Fort Tyron Park, New York, New York 10040. The website for The Cloisters contains a wealth of information. In exploring the site you will discover photos that show Barnard’s collection as it was originally displayed in New York City. Worth accessing are wonderful videos that detail the history and construction of the museum in Fort Tryon as well as detailed videos that focus specifically on the reconstructed cloisters, including further information about the cloister from Saint-Guilhem-Le-Désert.

Elizabeth Esris is a teacher and writer. Her poetry has appeared in Wild River Review, Bucks County Writer, and Women Writers. She wrote the libretto for Elegy For A Prince with composer Sergia Cervetti which premiered in excerpts at New York City Opera’s VOX Opera Showcase in 2007. She and Cervetti also collaborated on a one-act chamber opera, YUM!, a celebration of wine, food, and friendship. She teaches English and creative writing at Central Bucks High School South (Pennsylvania).

Other work by Elizabeth Esris on France Revisited include this article and poem about the Luberon and this article and poem about the Abbey of Senanque.

The post Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert: Who’s Minding the Cloister? appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

* * *

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.

By Walter J. Moore

It’s an astonishing sight: a 2.46 kilometer (1.53 miles) long, stay-cable bridge supported by seven pillars that look like tuning forks. At the top, each fork of a pillar has enough room for a tennis court. The bridge tops out at 343 meters (1,125 feet) above the Tarn River.

Until the bridge opened, in December 2007, all that traffic would have passed through the town of Millau. I’d taken a restful coffee break at a café in the center of town, a pre-cycling pause that would likely have been much less peaceful if it involved watching a slow parade of long-haul trucks.

Geography

Earlier the prior day I’d set out on what I expected to be a 70.3 kilometer (43½ mile) ride on Day 1 of an 18-day self-guided cycling tour in the Aveyron, Lozère and Lot departments of southwestern France.

The resulting gorges, often 600 meters (1,970 feet) from the river up to the tops of the cliffs, split a series of plateaus known as causses in central and southern France: Causse Sauveterre (north), Causse Méjean (northeast) and Causse Noir.

These sparsely populated plateaus are the domain of sheep and shepherds. The sustaining and commercial products are wool, meat, and milk used in local cheeses, including the lesser known pélardon and the greater known Roquefort, the latter made in a village of the same name 10 miles southwest of Millau.

The gorges involve about 330 feet of ascent over 22 miles of bicycling. Once up on a causse, the terrain is rolling and also pleasant to bicycle. It was the change from gorge to causse that was my challenge on this trip.

Tarn Gorge and Causse Méjean

This was my sixth cycling trip in France. As on previous trips, I began by hauling my bike out of the rented micro-van and mounted my cycling computer/altimeter.

I was starting out from the Grand Hôtel de la Muse, a few hundred yards northeast of the center of Le Rozier. From my third floor balcony on the first cool morning I saw large, circling birds high above me close to the cliff tops and just below the clouds. After a decent breakfast, I walked out onto the lawn along the Tarn and watched a skilled fly-fisherman casting across the river.

I was wearing three layers of cycling shirts, a high visibility jacket, shorts, leg warmers, socks and shoes. Surely the moist, 52°F air did not cause me to think of waiting for another day. This was cool for May in southwest France and much cooler weather than I would choose to ride in at home in Florida. Aside from the temperature, though, there was nothing else about the weather to give me pause.

Off I rode north on D907 with the Tarn on my right and high cliffs on both sides of the river. Best of all for cycling, the road was paved and automobile traffic was light. My lunch destination was Sainte Enimie, 22 miles (35 kilometers) upriver. I set out hoping that the overcast would burn off during the morning.

The ride to Ste-Enimie revealed the power of a river over time. Steep cliffs rise 1475-1650 feet to the Causse Sauveterre on my left and the Causse Méjean on my right. Humans have attempted to alter small portions along the cliffs and river for over 5,000 years. I had read that the Ferrière tribe established Dolmens on the plateau, and I noticed evidence of several abandoned lignite mines hand tunneled into the cliffs.

There are three villages with restaurants along this stretch to Ste-Enimie: Les Vignes, La Malène and Saint-Chély-du-Tarn. Beyond the paved road there is rock and water. The views along the river often inspired me to stop to take some pictures. I spotted a first-time group of two dozen children learning to pilot canoes down the river. They were clearly novices. Their screams of anxiety and fun while avoiding cold water, rocks and each other could be heard over the next two miles as I pedaled on.

Saint Enimie

Arriving in Sainte Enimie at lunchtime, I easily spotted a good place to eat. There are a number of choices in the center of the village along riverfront. My favorite choice early in a multi-week trip is pizza with a load of carbohydrates. Alone in the pizzeria, a beer and large pizza in front of me, Willie Nelson and Loretta Lynn serenaded the room from the sound system with “God Bless America.” Could the moment get any better than this?

Enimie, after whom the village was named, was a seventh century Merovingian princess, daughter of King Clothar II and sister of King Dagobert I. When the beautiful Enimie reached the age to be married, Clothar brought several eligible nobles to meet her. Wanting to continue her good works nursing lepers, she refused them all.

Legend has it that Enimie implored divine intervention to get out of marriage. She became afflicted with leprosy. This solved the marriage problem but then she wanted to be cured. An angel guided her up the Tarn River to Burlats (now the village of Sainte Enimie) and a curing water source. She bathed once and was miraculously cured. She then traveled out of Burlats but the illness came back. Revisiting the water source, she was again cured. Again she left, and again she relapsed and came back to the curing source. Ultimately she decided to stay and live in a cave. She had many confrontations in the cave with a devil-type named Drac. Surviving these encounters, she established a convent in the village where she lived out her days treating lepers.

After lunch, I sat outside thinking little about the light sprinkles and much more about getting out of the gorge and over the causse. I looked south across the river and up. The temperature was still cool and wet clouds sat below the tops of the cliffs. It was only my first day of cycling—I wasn’t going to spoil it by heading directly back down the Tarn to my warm hotel.

Cycling in the rain

Riding cross the river, I climbed the 1,325 feet to the Causse Méjean and the initial summit of Col de Coperlac, where the sprinkles turned into cold rain. During the climb, I didn’t notice the cold so much as being soaked through and through.

After the Coperlac the route drops 230 feet, I started to feel cold and thought I was in trouble. Trouble was wind-chill and my clothing soaked through to my skin, along with knowing that the way to the hotel would be even colder whether I continued as originally planned or turned back. Continuing forward after that descent, there was a 540-foot climb, which warmed me some without drying me in the least.

Next was the final 1,900-foot descent into La Jonte Gorge. That road is no more than 13 feet wide most of the way with all kinds of switchbacks, shear drop-offs and descents up to 8%. I was shaking with cold during the last 200 yards of descent and had difficulty controlling the bike.

About 4 p.m., I pulled over at the lone restaurant that appeared just as I rode onto the gorge road.

I asked the proprietress of Chez Armand if I could drain some on the porch. “Non,” she said and pulled me into the empty main room, sitting me in front of glowing fireplace. “Café, monsieur?” she asked. “Oui.” I replied. “Petit?” “Non. Grand!” I held the large cup tightly in my hands and sipped for ten minutes until my hands stopped shaking.

Somewhat restored I then cycled the final three miles to the hotel in the rain.

Vultures Sanctuary

Day 2: The sky was crystal clear in the morning. Speaking with the waiter at breakfast I had mentioned that I planned to cycle across the Causse Noir to the village of Meyruies during the day.

Not wanting to discourage a guest, he reluctantly let me know that snow had fallen on the high plateau overnight, but maybe it would melt during the afternoon. Of course, the melt would freeze during the late afternoon. That was serious. Along with lightning and snow, ice is no friend to the cyclist. I had to implement plan B.

I wanted to know more about those big soaring birds as well as return to the restaurant that had provided me shelter the previous afternoon so as to thank the proprietress. An inquiry at the front desk sent me cycling up the Jonte Gorge to both the Belvédère des Vautours (Vultures Viewpoint) and Chez Armand.

First to the viewpoint. There is a parking area a little over 2 miles east of la Rozier along the Jonte on the river side of the road. South across the river is the Cirque de Madasse, a loop carved by nature into the Corniche du Causse Noir. Way up in the gorge near the top of the cliffs sitting on a ledge at least 150 yards above me was a large dark tan bird with a white collar. A local birdwatcher let me use her binoculars and told me I was looking at a Griffon Vulture (Gyps fulvus).

A half-hour later we also spotted a couple of Black Vultures (Aegypius monachus) and the smaller Egyptian Vultures (Neophron percnopterus). The Blacks have a wingspan of 9 feet, the Griffons’ typical wingspan is 8¼ feet, and the Egyptian has a wingspan exceeding 7 feet.

Vultures have the unwarranted reputation for snatching lambs, but vultures really feed on carrion. The French government passed a law, perhaps in the eighteenth century, that all carcasses (not slaughtered for food) must be buried. Later the government encouraged shepherds to poison some carcasses left out for vultures. As a result the vulture population starved or was poisoned, and vultures became extremely rare in France during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. (An unintended consequence of burying carcasses was that ground water became contaminated.)

In 1970, Michel Terrasse and some fellow bird-lovers started reintroducing Black Vultures into the Jonte Gorge just above that viewpoint. But the program was halted for two decades as they learned how to familiarize the birds with the area. Meanwhile, Mr. Terrasse convinced local shepherds, with government permission, to place sheep carcasses on wooden stands. Reintroduction started again in 1992. Within a decade the population of Blacks was 60 and self-sustaining.

Previously, starting in 1981, the same bird-lovers had introduced twelve Griffon Vultures with the first chick from a breeding pair taking flight in 1982. No further additions have been necessary since 1986. By 2003 the Griffon population had grown to 400. The birds travel as far as Switzerland, The Netherlands, Latvia and Senegal, returning to the Jonte Gorge to nest and reproduce. In the mid 1980s, the Egyptian Vulture also returned to the Jonte Gorge, perhaps following the Griffon Vulture.

Vultures from a single colony share the task of searching for food over their territory. Griffon Vultures are able to distinguish a sheep at rest from a dead sheep at more than 300 meters. Within minutes of a Griffon reaching the carcass, ten to fifteen more turn up for the spoils, hastily eating the more tender parts. They leave immediately afterwards, making way for the more imposing Black Vultures that tackle the tougher and stringer bits of the dead animal. Finally, the Egyptian Vultures arrive, making do with leftovers. Within a quarter of an hour, a whole carcass has been converted into a clean skeleton.

My vulture education much improved, I rode on to Chez Armand where Gisèle Costecalde had provided coffee and shelter the previous day. I thanked her for her kindness, and she and her husband allowed me to take a picture of them as a memento.

After another half hour cycling up the gorge, I returned to Le Rozier village where I ended the afternoon slowly cycling around the village. I stopped to relax in the sun in a café. I listened to the river and hoped the weather would be kind during the next sixteen days.

Later in the afternoon I stopped again for an aperitif and found myself contemplating what I would choose for dinner; lamb might be nice.

Then I got back on my bike one last time for the day and a slow ride to the hotel.

© Walter Judson Moore, 2011

Walter Judson Moore is the author of four cycling guidebooks and three companion queue sheets guides for France. His guide “Lot Vineyards to Tarn Gorges: A Bicycle Your France Guidebook” includes the area covered by this article, as does his “Lot Vineyards to Tarn Gorges Queue Sheets.” His work is available Lulu, Amazon and other online booksellers, as well as directly (and personally signed) from the author, who may be reached at bicyclemoore@tampabay.rr.com.

Hotel Doussiere is a 2-star hotel with restaurant in the center of Le Rozier.

The post Cycling in the Southwest: The Gorges of the Tarn and the Jonte appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

The above series of photos was taken by David Kashoff in Congénies, a village between Nimes and Montpellier in the Languedoc region of France, while he and his wife and travel companion were staying at the Quaker House (Maison Quaker). See the accompanying article Quakers in France: Finding Friends in Languedoc by Judy Kashoff.

The post Congénies Quaker House: Peace, Friends and Dogs 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.

The post Quakers in France: Finding Friends in Languedoc appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.