Sophia Brothers Peterman

At the Château de Fayet, we saw the most ornate coat of arms.  So wide as to bridge the top of a well, the classic shield is in the center.  Included also is the date the château
was built (1664), laurel wreaths, and two menacing faces.

Coats of arms, les armoiries in French, started out as a way to distinguish a knight covered in metal armor.  Each knight had his own, then the idea spread far and wide to villages, states, and churches.  Some think that this way of quick recognition was ancestor to the modern logo.

The designs might be based on the family name, allegiances, or symbols of power and strength.  This
one over a posh townhouse in La Couvertoirade was for the family Grailhe, their name similar to the two crows featured on it.

Which brings me to the present.  What design would serve as one’s own coat of arms so that others could recognize you?  Would it be based on family name, occupation, hobby, or a symbol of a treasured value?  And once the design was made, what would you do—put it over your door, on the sidewalk in front, or hide it from view in the closet?

The Viaduct of Millau.  It is simply amazing in size and design.  Just a little more than 1.5 miles long, the highest point is 1125 feet from the ground.  A figure so elegant, it is like sails in the wind or symbols of the hills located nearby.  But numbers and pictures cannot truly convey its sense of delicate strength and its refreshing design.

I remember first seeing it in 2005, driving from Loire Valley chateaus to the pebbly beaches of Nice on a rollicking adventure with my two teenage girls.  There was mountain after mountain, then gasp, what a sight—this incredible work of art spanning the valley of Millau.

Bridges—taking you from one place to the other when otherwise it would have been nearly impossible to cross.  Products of inspiration and twice-checked calculation, they can pop up unexpectedly or be destinations themselves.  Perhaps today may be like any other or perhaps one that crosses to what had been unreachable before. 

Today was a day of touring the Larzac, entering the time of
the Knights of the Templars and the Order of the Hospitallers, too.  Christian pilgrims were Jerusalem-bound, once the First Crusade had it under control.  The
Hospitallers were founded in 1113 to care for them there.  The Templars were formed around 1120 to protect the pilgrims on their way there and back.  Both were simultaneously military and religious orders, manifested by the church with peepholes in the tower for crossbows
and muskets when under attack.

In La Couvertoirade, the Templars built a castle in the 11^th
century around which a village grew up.  Water seeped through the ground surface of limestone, collecting in cisterns below.  Then, as now, those who had water were the ones who had power.  The story varies according to who’s doing the telling, but it sounds like those Templars got rough, exacting great tolls from the passing pilgrims for protection from bandits who might have demanded the same.  The backstory can differ but everyone agrees that the pope disbanded the Templars in 1312.  The Hospitallers got most of their holdings: money, land, buildings, and even some men.  They continued to watch over the pilgrims, again with a mixture of monk-like nurture and military might.  An aside: it’s still a living city with satellite dishes dotting the ancient rooftops.

Sainte-Eulalie de Cernon was the village of the commandery for the Larzac plateau, first for the Templars and then the Hospitallers.  It ruled the religious and agricultural life from the 12^th century until the 18^th.

Saint-Jean D’Alcas is a fortified village of the same time.  Yet when the Templars and Hospitallers were shunning women and their evil effect, the Cistercian abbess of Nonenque was responsible for building and governing Saint-Jean D’Alcas.

En route to all of this historical treasure, we stopped when a herd of ewes headed our way.  We’d seen pictures of shepherds, held the bags that they hold, and even saw a local one stand in a pose.  So imagine our surprise
to see these sheep goaded on with a small pick-up truck and nary a dog.

Seeming contradictions, like soldier religious, sheep herding trucks, and 15^th century houses with satellite TV.  Are they wrong and ridiculous or are my definitions too small for this world so complex?

A beautiful afternoon, an excellent time for a bicycle tour!  I was a little anxious going off by myself.  My sense of direction is not all that great.  I asked for a map which, the way
drawn in red, was the tour guide for my solo bike jaunt.

At each intersection, I would stop and pull out the
map.  The signs meant much more than when
passing them in the backseat of a van.  It was if the geography was inside me instead of a movie screen view.

What fun!  An incredible ride.  I stopped to take pictures of villages tucked into hills.  The descent to Sylvanes, site of yesterday’s visit, was a hoot.  Then, which way should I
go?  There were three choices provided, none of which happened to be on the map.  Setting off on the straight ahead route, there was a clank and a stop.  The chain was wrapped ‘round the crank, a free end hanging down.

Hmmm, what to do now.  It was about 9 km to le Mas de Salel.  Turning around, I retraced the way back.  If I kept up my stride, I would not miss the soup.  The hill climb got warm, though it had been chilly during its descent.  The grade evened out and went downhill for a while. Between coasting and walking, I returned in an hour and a half.

So I started my tour with thoughts about maps, the difficulty in following them, and how they might fail.  Like what happens with life plans and goals for 5 years ahead.  And then, true to life, the totally unexpected occurred.  Maps stopped being the issue, creativity becoming the guide.  Sometimes the map’s good, sometimes the markings aren’t there or don’t match, and sometimes you just have to put the map in your pocket, and ride, coast, or walk. 

On arising each morning, here and at home, I read a bit of Teresa of Avila fiercely urging surrender of all.  Just a bit later, after dressing or brushing my teeth, I pause with O’Donohue’s “A Blessing of Beauty” and its delightful possibilities for  living in this world.  Most days, I can squeeze in twenty minutes of silence, a time for my thoughts to get out of the way.  And there is the  gratitude silently said most every time on first raising my fork.  Yet, I forget all in the course of the day until, on readying for bed, it comes flooding back, the book on Teresa again in my hand.

What is the use?  Why can I not remember during the day these desires and resolutions to live close to my soul?

Today my French was horrible at best.  In the excitement of something to say, it
would come out all crazy and wrong.
Thankfully I had decided to pack my tattered French book; it is totally worth
the weight in my bag.  I pulled it out and looked at the verbs, incredulous at what I had forgot.

What is the use?  Why can I not remember during the day, the conjugations and vocabulary in French?

Again and again.  Will it never stick?  I searched for a
metaphor to capture the state of change made permanent.  An appendectomy was the only one to be found.  Well, also an amputation, but that’s not something to invite in one’s life.  The rest seemed to require repetitious reminding: swimming laps, playing piano, saying “I love you” to the ones nearest your heart.  At the Abbaye Sylvanes, the monks seemed to know about this.  Each entrance is marked with three steps, a reminder oft used of the holy trinity.

What is the use?  Why can we not remember during the day?  Perhaps it is in the reminding that we are blessed.

Today we had a tour of le Mas de Salel.  The grandfather of Françoise bought it in 1885.  Originally, in the 10^th century if my French is correct, it was the farm and farmhouse for the Abbaye Sylvanes.  The monks would hike up their
robes to work in the fields.  I am sleeping where the shepherds and sheep once were kept, that is, the ewes that
produced milk for Roquefort cheese.  She tells us that she was never allowed to eat chevre as a girl.

This is the original house of the farm.  It grew to the right, each section
interdigitated with the next as families expanded or artisans came.  This interdigitation is an important feature of  the growth of the buildings found here.

The large towers on either side of the courtyard, the nearest one covered in red and green leaves, were repaired and rebuilt with stones that had tumbled down close.  The ultimate recycling plan, it is similar to how the Chateau of Montaigut was rebuilt.

No pictures of inside (I felt a bit bashful to ask) but an
incredible task of mixing the modern and old.  The original sink made of stone still in use, now it drains down
a pipe rather than out of the window to the garden below.

Such respect for the old and the ancient, with the stories they hold, like the fireplace in front of which the children were bathed.  And yet there is quite the embrace of the wonderful new, halogen lamps highlighting the stone roughly hewn.  A masterful discernment of what to keep, to rebuild, to reuse, or to interdigitate with the new.  And so it is with a life to be lived, such discernment, it is hoped, leading to a peace like that one feels at le Mas de Salel. 

It is still.  Today there is barely a breeze, although last night’s cloud cover remains.  No planned activities today.  I pull out my book on French grammar; someone searches for a pencil with a crossword puzzle to complete.  Bells from nearby Montagnol chime, neither insistent nor sorrowful, just marking the hour.  There is something comforting in their regular peal, that crisp, warm tone traveling through the air.

After lunch (it was paella from dinner last night—I’ll spare
you the details of the incredible cuisine of Le Mas de Salel so as not to tempt you into the sin of envy), I set off on a solitary hike.

Sitting down here, letting Rilke’s Book of
Hours (translated by Barrows and Macy) open where it pleased, I silently read, “I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.” The poem asked—no, demanded that it be committed to memory.  Ah, to have faith in that which has not yet been heard.  I recited the lines out loud to the hills and
the birds.

I continued my hike.  The clanging of cowbells came from faraway fields, the animals that bore them not visible at all.  The trail led downhill through a very small village and onto a road.  The cowbells seemed closer, and then I didn’t hear them at all.  My curiosity peaked, I looked for those animals and their noisy jewelry.  A
feeding station stood by the road, silent with no living creature in sight.  But right after passing it, the bells sounded very near from behind.  I doubled back—they had to be there—only to find nothing at all.  I finished the hike, hearing those bells without owners, their clanging a multidirectional siren call.

Sounds all around, from marking the day’s progress to leading wild goose
chases by bouncing on hill and on vale.  The real challenge seeming to be: to listen for the sounds which have not yet been made.   

Today the wind was an incredible force.  I awoke to the shutter creaking an irregular
song.  The clouds were low and dark, wrapping us in mist from the Mediterranean Sea.  There are names for these winds, Autan and Marin.  That is just how alive that they feel.  A good bit cooler than the evening before, a skirt became jeans with an added jacket just in case, as we set off for the
country market of Saint Affrique.

The vegetables, fruits, meats, pastries, cheese, oysters, paella, and such!  Just a few pictures to give you a flavor of all the good stuff.

After lunch the sky had evolved into a most brilliant blue.  Sweaters were shed on the way to the Chateau de Montaigut.  (Different
spelling but it sounds like the famed house of Shakespeare’s Romeo.)    Storybook, really, set high on a hill in a landscape made red by rusted iron in the soil.

And the wind at the castle’s lookout!  It definitely was a
hold-on-to-your-glasses-and-nose-and-teeth moment.

The dark clouds returned as evening approached.   Now, after dinner, the shutter creaks wildly about.  Whatever will that unseen spirit blow in tonight?

Today unfolded at a luxurious pace.  Time to do laundry and catch up on e-mail.  All the windows were open, the doorway, too.  The kittens thought about visiting but preferred the woodpile.  You can see them playing on the right.  My door is the wooden one in the center, closed for right now.

After lunch, a small group went for a hike.  The 5 year old got to ride India, a donkey
sized right.  Now that India, she would veer
off to sample some greens.  If it was me,
I’d have gone for the berries instead.  Or
the rose hips—aren’t they just grand?  We’d
wait during her snacking, then tug and then pull.  But it took a slap on the butt to get her started again.  I can’t tell you how many times this occurred.  Walk, brake suddenly, munch, pull, then a firm slap, the dust billowing up as she began ambling along.

Today’s moral?
A question, or plea, probably more like, for the discernment of when it’s right just to wait, pausing for laundry or routine catching up, versus needing a slap on the butt, stirring things up, to get back on the path to the way home.

P.S. A shout out to my daughter, who recently
executed a transcontinental move, on her birthday today—wishing you a most excellent  year coming up!

Today was the day!  The caves of Roquefort!   The origin of the cheese with that marvelous bite.  Seven producers, all in the village of Roquefort, are set above caves that penetrate into the rock.  Our tour was with Société.  Sorry, only a photo of the entrance is here.  I snapped an old cave and then was informed it was forbidden, my French not good enough to understand that at the start.  The caves provide the fungus, Penicillium roqueforti, for those
scientists out there, that is added to the region’s ewes’ milk.  Each cave has a different strain of the fungus with different cheeses the result.  My favorite—the creamy, wilder, and more expensive Baragnaude.   The cheeses are cured in the constant, chilly caves, the Maître Affineur
deciding when each batch is done.   What would it be like to have a job smelling and tasting Roquefort cheese through the day?  Would one ever be hungry when dinner time came?

We returned just in time to have lunch.  It was an incredible spread, but I’ve been eating too much.  I miss being hungry, that edge, that push to search out.  I know, your heart bleeds, but really it’s true.  I had a just a taste and then swam a few laps.

Hunger—I’m not speaking of those starving who can’t get enough.  But that uncomfortable void that has one up and out of the chair, going after stuff.  For food, yes, but also learning to speak French or writing or whatever provides nourishment.  This mama cat could have just lain in the sun.  Instead, her hunger drove her to find a small
rodent for her kittens (no photo for that) and then let them drink milk.

And so I’m off to dinner, keen to sharpen it up, this hunger of mine.