In
The South Of France
Wine Country ~ by Will
Sullivan
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By
its very nature, living abroad demands sacrifice, a release into the unknown
where the quixotic notions of discovery are based on the intangible mysteries
of distance and time. These enigmatic facets of undiscovered space exist
in a fantastical realm to me, but for others they are a way of life, and
far from adventurous, they dictate strict adherence to old ways; traditions
that define culture within tight geographical confines. France is no exception.
The soft bronze
countryside along the A-7 motorway racing south from Paris to Montpeyroux
unfolds like softening clay. Save the occasional toll booth, the calmness
of this road runs un-assailed until it splits outside Avignon sending the
highway in two stark oppositions: towards the silent Pyrenees range separating
France from Spain to the west, and the high spirited uber-vacation destinations
of Monaco and Cannes to the east. Fortuitously this crossroads sits atop
a fertile spate of land near the village of Chateau Neuf du Pape. Nearly
700 years ago, the popes of Avignon rebuilt a crumbling ill-used castle
to abate the vicious summer heat of the papal city. While the “new castle
of the pope” now lay in ruins, completely destroyed by the retreating German
army in 1944, the wine grapes growing in and around its bones are testaments
to the longevity of its vivacious history. It’s a relief to be headed towards
the narcotic slowness of the southwest above this graveyard, away from
the smell of luxury automobiles and sports cars speeding towards the Riviera;
the smell of petrol was never intended to mix kindly with old bones and
the terroir-scented mustiness of ripening fruit.
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Recently,
two of my friends, Phillip and Christine, moved to the Southern French
town of Montpeyroux. By chance, it coincided with a road trip I was
planning through Europe and on the third day of my trip, I pulled off the
motorway and turned into the fading crepuscular light of the foothills,
with little idea of what to expect. Sensing my trepidation with idea
of getting lost in the foothills of the Pyrenees at night, Phillip agreed
to meet me in Gignac, a larger village closer to the motorway and easier
to find in the darkness should I become lost. Montpeyroux is
small, and nearly invisible save a small abbreviated notation on the map
that looks like the smudged erasing of misplaced pencil marks. According
to Phillip the size of the town is insignificant because “it has all the
basics, a wine cooperative and a church” All the basics of life, wrapped
into religion and wine may sound antediluvian, perhaps even over simplistic
but in the South of France where the church is more representative of a
penitent respect for cultural tradition, and wine is the life blood of
the earth, simple is crucial..
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An
old Roman fort near the town of Montpeyroux.
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Phillip
and Christine both work for Jean-Jean, Frances second largest winery, and
therefore they are anchored both domestically and professionally to France’s
deep cultural roots. While the company is large, the precision and pace
of Jean-Jean remains undeniably French, and further explains the country’s
position as one of the world’s most prominent producers of wine, but certainly
not the most prolific. This has been of little importance to them for some
time, because they’ve always felt that the mass production of any precious
commodity decreases value, both real and perceived. Honorable as this sentiment
may be, globalization has allowed producers from up and coming wine hot
spots such as Australia, New Zealand, and South American to challenge France
in the consumer market. By not effectively focusing on the trends of an
increasingly wired world to educate people about their products and culture,
access, cost and an information gap have hurt them dearly. It’s foreign
to few, even inside France, that communication has never been their strong
point. People don’t like to order what they can’t pronounce and don’t like
to buy what they don’t understand; the French have done little to abate
this phenomena. Their refusal to make their product accessible, such as
exporting their bottles with English translations, has hurt them dearly.
Phillip claims, as do many Frenchman, that these problems are deeply rooted
in the complicated and anachronistic practices of the AOC, the French wine
governing body. Add to it the recent problems with America and the French
wine industry is in its most perilous state in memory. But we both agree
that while this may put some producers out of business, it will never eclipse
the French market, because they possess a magic ingredient that few others
are able to claim: their product is their country and their country is
their culture. Phillip attempted to explain this sentiment to me
when talking about the South of France, “you can never just visit” he said
“You must live here for a year and see how it changes from season to season.
The south is the wine harvest in autumn, the south is the mistral, and
the south is the way you make love to a woman in the summertime”.
Where else, I wondered aloud, should one be in love or imagine how love
should be, than a place of such indulgence. These are the reasons that
people continue to seek out France, because the perception of passion is
deeply ingrained in penitence to culture, to the slowness, precision and
tradition of a grand notion of life. |
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I worry though
that the French may not see the future in the same golden light with which
they view the past. Narcissism is deadly when practiced perpetually. To
be assured of an ideal without recognizing the importance of protecting
against its demise is foolish, and claiming that it is the burden of the
consumer to learn where the grape comes from, is pompous and arrogant.
This is where much of the world’s opinion of the French is derived: the
frustration that while what they have is beautiful they don’t quite feel
the need to explain it.
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Montpeyroux, this sentiment is literally hanging on the front doors of
homes, in the form of a large Moroccan hand, its skeletal fingers stretched
outward to ward off evil spirits. The inhabitants claim it helps to ward
off evil spirits; ghosts of the past; ghosts that are standing right outside
their front doors. But are they also prohibiting access to the living,
breathing people of the world? Phillip and Christine’s door is absent a
knocker, and I ask them if they don’t share in their neighbor’s superstition,
“We just moved in, I might get one soon, but maybe not.” He says with a
common shrug of indifference. It’s never final with the French, always
a constant state of indecision.
Their home
however, is immaculately precise, architecturally relaxed and cool, a result
of its near 300 year age. They paid just 88 thousand pounds for three bedrooms,
two baths, a large porch, a backyard a garage and a wine cellar; it is
as I feared, an incredible steal for the price. Christine greets me along
the curved tile stairway with three kisses instead of the customary two
I’d grown used to in Paris and Phillip disappears immediately into his
cellar for wine to quench our thirst from the drive up the dusty road into
town. When they’re fully moved in Christine winks, I’ll have to come back
and dive into Phillips collection, which she says is over 1000 bottles
strong. Dinner, I’m warned, will be a long affair and I’m encouraged to
enjoy a lengthy aperitif on the veranda with Phillip as she finishes her
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This may seem
like a lavish vacation, but their not overly wealthy, and this isn’t their
retirement. They haven’t turned their backs on the future, they’re fully
aware of its advance and that’s why they’ve been able to embrace the past
in Montpeyroux, a town as ideologically different from my home as it is
from Paris. It’s hard not to covet what they have, to avoid dreaming of
the adventure one would find in the provincial lifestyle of Mayle and Mayes.
But I have to remind myself that while this is my adventure it is their
life, and it is as sacred to them as my journey is to me. As we sit on
the veranda and the cool dry autumn air sings across the hollow top of
an open wine bottle it’s easy to fall in love with this culture, and equally
impetuous to openly loathe the prospect of its demise. But just as the
penitence to cultural tradition is a premier facet of French wine, the
magic of the country, most notably here in the south, is similarly able
to weave beauty seamlessly into everyday life so that it ceases to seem
indulgent. Phillip and Christine believe that the importance of culture
and a respect of its place are naturally resistant to change. As a foreigner,
I admit, this sounds pompous and arrogant. But, it’s merely simple French
charm thinly dusted over with the mountain sand covering the street below.
Christine raises her hand slightly, palms facing up, her lips pursed in
a typical French expression. “What use is it worrying about things that
haven’t happened yet?” And because little ever happens in the hills of
southwestern France, I’m able to relax and not worry so much about the
future. I’m lost in une belle époque, and suspended in cultural
disbelief. Can this place exist? It can and it does. Montpeyroux exists
to remind us what life can be if we dream it, and it’s comforting to know
that this fantasy is attainable. Christine and Phillip are living the dream,
and I am here for a few short days, sharing in with them. Perhaps I’ll
stay lost for a while. Perhaps the smudged pencil marks of Montpeyroux
will rub off and vanish, and I will go happily into the fading purple light
of the Pyrenees in autumn, where the smell of petrol was never intended
to mix kindly with the muskiness of ripening fruit.
To contact
Will Click Here
To read Will's
previous article in Escape From America Click
Here.
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