Off to Gascony to see Richard and Pauline

We had no idea what to expect when we boarded the TGV at Gare Montparnasse early Monday morning and headed south for Bordeaux. The day had begun by me actually setting an alarm -- shocking I know. After caffe, showering and getting dressed we grabbed our small bag, and headed out the door with Navigo in hand. After changing to the no. 6 line at Place d'Italie we got off at Montparnasse and wended our way up the several levels of escalators to the train.

Susie and I found our car and our reserved seats and settled in for the 3-hour or so trip south to the wine country of Bordeaux. But we didn't stay and sip; we no sooner arrived int he station than we switched trains almost at once, this time to a regional line headed for Marseilles. One hour later and we got off at the first stop, Agen, in Gascony, gateway to the Pyrenees. And waiting for us on the train platform were Richard and Pauline, all smiles and warm greetings. We loaded our bag into their car and zipped out of town, heading even further south into the heartland of an incredible world called, simply, "The Gers."

Pronounced something akin to "Jazz but slurring into "Jerzz," our first reaction as the Citroen carried us through the rolling hillsides traversing from one huge vineyard after another, was how much like Tuscany this was: the rolling hills, the vineyards (mostly Armagnac and Floc), the hilltops dotted with villages, some fortified (more of that later). But it wasn't exotic like Tuscany, rather more like Virginia. In any case, we felt right at home and soaked up the views.

(And speaking of driving, I learned on this trip that in France A numbers stand for autoroutes, or superhighways, D numbers are Department roads and N numbers refer to National roads. Cool, eh?)

After a short drive of 40 minutes or so we pulled into the quiet, small, sleepy village of Mouchan and in the driveway of their home. Richard and Pauline have spent more than two-and-a-half of the past three years turning a fairly run down piece of stone and dirt into a gorgeous French cottage, full of coziness and comfort, waiting to pull the unsuspecting traveler into a world of peace and quiet.


After dropping our bags off the four of us walked outside under overcast skies -- I think sun here might be too overwhelming for city folks on such short notice -- and as we strolled our hosts showed us the town. Right next door to their house is a church whose stones have seen some enormous history pass their way. Dating from the 11th or 12th Century or so, the church is smack along the very old and very well traveled pilgrimage trail to Santiago de Campostella in northwestern Spain.

After a brief stroll around and through the village we loaded ourselves into the car and off we went for a cruise around some of the gorgeous countryside. Specifically Richard and Pauline wanted to show us several examples of bastides, or fortified hill villages. More than just simple fortified hill towns, these urban spaces were constructed along very distinct guidelines: wall enclosing the village of course but often laid out in a sort of grid pattern with a distinct center square surrounded by porticos on all sides. Very useful then and now, and certainly very appealing aesthetically. We stopped at three very nice examples of the bastide concept: Montreal, Fources (with a round rather than a square square) and lastly Larressingle.

This last and very tiny fortified village was rather different as it was surrounded by a dry moat and fully enclosed by the walls, rather than homes developing out into the wall system as is typical in the other villages.


Anyway, we learned that around the turn of the 20th century the village was in such a state of ruins that a local nobleman went to Boston to drum up money to rebuild and maintain the village heritage. Today there is a plaque on the side of the one of the larger structures inside bearing the names of the Boston benefactors:

As we cruised through these tiny hamlets in the on again off again drizzle, we generally found ourselves alone. It was early in the season and there was little tourist activity in any of the villages. Which actually made it rather nice since we appeared to be the only visitors out and about. But the day was raw and overcast, and as we left the tiny village of Larressingle the promise of rain became reality.

We were soon back in Mouchan, tucked into their warm home, sipping an aperitif. Pauline made us a wonderful dinner, accompanied by one of the local reds, a Madiran I believe, and Susie had brought dessert: a scrumptious tart. She had made it the night before and carried it all the way from Paris.

Even with cloudy skies and a chilly, light drizzle it had been a wonderful day, and it was so good to be back with friends again.

Wish you had been there,

Steve