Our respective lives are always so busy and tomorrow is always another day. We think that life will remain much the same as it always has done and that time is an infinite commodity. Work/ life balance becomes an illusory notion. Sadly, 'Slow living' is for holidays and soon forgotten under the tyranny of the 18.45 from Victoria or the 19.05 from London Bridge. We trade and exchange our free time within the trivial and erstwhile demands of work, whether paid or unpaid. In truth, we allow ourselves to become shackled to the mundane. It is so easy to forget that true joy comes with a life shared lazily with friends and loved ones. A fortnight after a summer holiday has ended, as the last vestiges of the summer tan are washed away, we have forgotten those heartfelt resolutions made in the freedom of an August sunset and a shared bottle or two of Pays d' Oc rose. 'Let's meet up sometime soon' becomes the easy mantra that it always was.
Then, out of the blue, there is a shift in the landscape of everyday life when we are tossed, to quote the late, great Christopher Hitchens, into "the land of malady". A primary cancer diagnosis is a great leveller, a secondary one a bitter realisation of the unfairness of life. What seems so important when one is fighting fit, is of no consequence when one is battling the ravages of "Tumourville". And so it was with this knowledge that we set off up to the Gers to spend precious time with a group of people who have impacted so much on each others lives. One of our number, as brave and stoical as Hitchens, has had to face the the same dumb question, "Why me?" Hitchens provides the answer for her when he writes, "the cosmos barely bothers to return the reply: Why not?"
I write of this because it changed the landscape last weekend so dramatically. The sky really was a cobalt blue, full of fluffy white clouds floating like angels' wings towards the horizon: the landscape was a verdant emerald, despite the 'canicule', reminiscent of a painting by Soutine or Cezanne, the sunflowers en route to our destination worthy of a table in an immortalised Van Gough room. Everything becomes clearer, sharper, more prescient, when faced with the reality of mortality. The small towns of St Clar, Lectoure and La Romieu were more beautiful than ever in the company of my dearest friend. Chateau Dehes, where we stayed, thirty minutes from Agen near the little village of Gazaupouy, provided a little piece of medieval Paradise not far from the ancient pilgrimage route of Santiago de Compostela. The irony of walking with the saints once again was not lost on us.
The sun rises and the sun sets each day but we don't see it because we are rushing for the bus or the tube, or writing that vital report or mopping the kitchen floor. Worst of all, the seasons change and we fail to see the people most important to us from one to the next; a postcard here perhaps, a text message there, an occasional email with a photo attached if time permits; even, God forbid, a Facebook message. We may follow the status of 'Friends' but we seldom allow ourselves the time for a big hug with them. We deprive ourselves of the warmth and embrace of human contact and we are the poorer for it. When days are numbered, we remember only those times when we sat together talking through the night as though our lives depended upon it.....and they do.
I wrote last week of us all sitting up until dawn playing music, like demented teenagers high on the joy of youth. I look back and think what a privilege indeed that night was, especially as J and O were not able to be there because of the ravages of illness. One needs a great deal of energy and stamina for one of our parties, it has to be said. "For me," Hitchens writes," to remember friendship is to recall those conversations that it seemed a sin to break off: the ones that made the sacrifice of the following day a trivial one." We may not have stayed up all night in the Chateau Dehes but we crammed into what time we had there more conversation than we had had in the previous three years; that is one of the great joys of sharing a chateau together.
It is a most beautiful place. It dates from the 13th Century and is believed to have been built by the British during the Hundred Years War to protect their alien borders. The walls are one and a half metres thick and of local, rich and creamy limestone. The tower rises fifty four feet from ground to battlements, dominating the landscape all around, a warning to potential intruders to keep well away. Unlike Bardies, it is a masculine structure, although the present day soft, sensuous furnishings are distinctly feminine. The oak beamed first floor salon, with its extensive triple aspect views over the surrounding countryside, is the perfect place for drinking Floc de Gascogne, the local 'apperro', and after dinner Armagnacs, of which both flowed as freely as the conversation. Dinner was served by candlelight in the stone walled undercroft. The ambiance was as magical as the company. We finished the night off with hot, freshly grated chocolate laced with Armagnac brewed by my delightfully talented god daughter, a marriage made in heaven, I always think.
We needed bread so we all went to see the 14th century cloister and tower at the Collegiate Church of St. Pierre in La Romieu before dinner, a stopping point for the pilgrims en route to Santiago de Compostela and now, since 1998, a UNESCO world heritage site. It is an architectural gem set in a tiny town of just five hundred and thirty- five souls. The all- pervading power of the church of Rome dominates this agricultural landscape and our medieval forebears must have been tithed to the hilt to pay for it. Then, the following morning, we went for 'petit dejeuner' in Lectoure, a small but regal town dominated by the 15th century cathedral of St. Gervais and St. Protais, which sits high above the Gers river. It was once the base of the Comtes d'Armagnac and the capital of the Lomagne region between the Gers and the Garonne. Like La Romieu, it was also a stopping point for Compostela's hungry and thirsty pilgrims.
Such devotion certainly boosted the economy of this part of medieval France and the quality of the buildings is testament to their spending power. As a result, it is a posher part of France, now full of lawyers and financiers who have snapped up and renovated its many architectural gems. The tumbling exchange rate of the previous few years halted this second British invasion somewhat but everywhere there are signs that things may be improving once again. We heard many British voices as we meandered through Lectoure's flea market and little streets, a sure sign of a more realistic exchange rate. Whether Brits are snapping up property in the Gers once again is another matter. Running these old houses on a pension is an impossibility.
Personally, I prefer Ariege. The beauty of France is that each region has its own distinct personality and we choose accordingly. The Gers is an area of outstanding beauty and the food and wine a gourmet's delight. Its rolling hills and vineyards, maize fields, cypress trees and sunflowers shimmering in the hazy summer sunlight are a vision of order, permanence and tranquility; its colours and smells are the stuff of memories to be resurrected as the first chills of winter seep into our bones: garlic and prunes, melons and wine, Armagnac and Floc de Gascoigne.
But my memories this year will be more subdued. They will be of a house full of friends looking at the world anew, savouring each other's warmth and friendship and renewing vows of fidelity.
"I wept when I remembered how of-
ten you and I
Had tired the sun with talking, and
sent him down the sky."
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