11

JOCK’S SMALL VILLAGE IS typical of hundreds. Those buildings of St Caprais not empty and derelict are occupied mostly by farmers, both active and retired. The church, with its Romanesque apse raised in the fourteenth century, is externally austere yet reveals some faint but fascinating murals on the interior walls. There was gossip for some years that the murals would qualify the church to be classified as an historic monument, but they turned out to be not quite as old as the villagers had hoped. They are greatly treasured, regardless. There are drystone tiles, called lauzes, in the apse, also dating back more than seven hundred years. The bell is still rung twice a day—to call the farm workers in for lunch at 12.15 and again at sundown for dinner, which is well after 9 pm in the summer and as early as 4.45 pm in deepest winter. The ringing of the bell is the self-imposed undertaking of the village’s most prominent farming wife, Madame Dalmas, whose husband Claude is a direct descendant of one of the oldest families in the area. The Dalmas family has been ringing the bell ever since the full-time priest left, more than fifteen years ago.

Looking closely at her face, I estimate that Mme Dalmas is no more than a few years older than I am. She is small, dark-haired and dynamic. I try to compare our lives as women of a similar vintage, but it’s quite impossible. She has barely moved from her home since birth, and while she and I have both reared children while working simultaneously, there the comparison ends abruptly. Her entire life has revolved around the farm and her family. She tends a large vegetable garden which supplies them all year round and is so productive that armfuls of leafy greens, tomatoes and pumpkin are given away to friends and neighbours—Jock is certainly a beneficiary of this largess. Mme Dalmas also keeps a large flock of hens for eggs and meat, and rears ducks and geese each summer for making confit and other poultry-related delicacies. She is responsible for a flock of sheep which she moves from meadow to meadow almost every day. She has a small dog to assist her, and as there are no fences except for the main holding field, she has to watch them for literally hours every day, seated on a cushion, reading a magazine. I often see her keeping an eye on her charges from under a tree in the late afternoon dappled light. The sheep follow her voice quite obediently, though the dog doesn’t appear nearly as well trained.

Mme Dalmas cooks two large, hot meals a day in the French tradition for her family—a son who works the farm with his father and the daughters still living at home. There are soups, terrines, pâtés and stews, and always a dessert. She doesn’t drive and seldom leaves the village to shop; her bread is delivered and a grocery truck comes calling every Wednesday morning with the basic necessities—cleaning products, butter, sugar and flour. A butcher’s van also delivers various cuts of meat that the farm itself does not provide. I never see her at the weekly markets in Prayssac or Cazals—she would be far too busy to take time off for marketing. She works from dawn to dusk, and I never see her without a smile on her face and a warm greeting. There are only about twenty people living in St Caprais, and many of them are quite elderly and live alone. Mme Dalmas takes food from her pantry to many of them. She is a vital link between the different village families.

There are several ruined buildings around the village, with doors and shutters that have fallen away with time, although there is also a large old building that has recently been quite beautifully restored. There are some handsome houses only occupied in the summer by holidaymakers, and a holiday let, known as a gite, that is rented out to Dutch and Germans on a regular basis. The restaurant across the road, the one where I celebrated my birthday, is the only focal point attracting outsiders into the village on a regular basis. The streets are narrow but are used constantly by farming vehicles moving from one field to the next. During the height of summer when the wheat and maize are ready to cut, a combine harvester somehow squeezes around the main corner—Jock is asked to move his car from the front of his house so that it can rumble past. I am constantly amazed at how these massive tractors and earthmoving machines negotiate the narrow streets designed for simple carts.

Just outside the village is a moss-covered washing place that links into the stream, where women once came daily to launder their clothes and linen. In the village itself are two small squares where community meals and celebrations are held at various times of the year. Outside the door of every occupied dwelling are overflowing pots and tubs of geraniums, petunias and begonias that stand out so wonderfully against the warm, buttery stonework. Not far from Jock’s house is a neatly tended old cemetery with high drystone walls and quite elaborate family crypts. In a levelled sandy area near the cemetery boules is sometimes played by those villagers who have the time in their busy farming schedules. Occasionally we newcomers indulge in a game amongst ourselves, playing more noisily and with far less skill than the locals.

As I drive or walk around the countryside that surrounds St Caprais the odd modern building or house not quite in keeping with the old style appears from time to time. Otherwise the scene is consistently one of mediaeval villages or perfectly groomed fields of maize or wheat. The livestock gleam with glossy coats and bulging bellies, unlike the pathetic emaciated and worm-riddled herds I saw on the trip in India. The countryside, when I first start exploring in late spring, is more perfect than a picture postcard could ever depict. After early rains the crops are galloping ahead and after a week of hot and sunny weather, the hay has been quickly harvested and rolled into giant ‘boules’ around the fields for gathering and storing at a later date. The hay can’t be stacked in barns for several months as the heat generated within each boule is dynamite and can easily self combust; they must be left out until they start to break down before being stored for the winter months.

All around the landscape are stone walls, and almost every one has a rose growing against it, mostly deep vermilion or scarlet: it is the perfect colour against the bright light and piercing blue sky. The odd white or pale pink rose seems wishy washy and out of place by comparison.

St Caprais is set at the conjunction of several small hills, giving it views to the surrounding farmland. This was planned initially so that all approaches to the little town would be visible, to give the villagers time to rush inside the fortified church should strangers or enemies approach from any direction. The church has no windows and sombre metre-thick walls just for this purpose. The aspect also means that as I walk or drive towards St Caprais from any perspective I see the church prominently towering above the domestic dwellings. So often the churches are by far the most imposing structures in a small settlement. There is one corner approaching St Caprais that leads from the washing place up past several neatly farmed meadows, and every time I drive or walk it, no matter what time of day, my heart simply soars with pleasure as I round the corner and the village suddenly comes into view.

I have to admit that moments of sheer, unadulterated delight such as this are few and far between in my ‘real’ life. I certainly love driving out through the Australian countryside and have a deep love and appreciation of both the bush and the cleared farmland. But I seldom feel such a lurch of happiness at a view or vista as I am experiencing here in France. Perhaps it’s just an unaccustomed sense of exhilaration, having cast off my responsibilities and allowed my emotions finally to run free.