La Maison de Sylvie

Today I was invited to visit the house of Sylvie. 

Sylvie lives in one of the many teeny villages in the hills surrounding Saint Girons. Saint Girons may be the central town, but these hills give the region its character and flavor. On Saturday, Saint Girons is home to one of France's most vibrant markets, in which the thousands of cheeses, produce, sweets, and meats journey from their small houses of production in the mountains down to the banks of the Salat to be sold. Here, market-browsers have the rare opportunity of purchasing some of France's best products-- but also some of the most difficult to attain outside of the Ariege. 

At these markets, a visitor would have a taste not only of the outstanding products, but also of the people who produce them. If I may say so, Ariégeois are an uncommon bunch. Friendly, alternative, and remarkably happy, they are people with such humility and a contagious appreciation for life. In their company one cannot help but lean back, breathe deeply, gaze at the mountains, and feel a joy emanating from within. A visitor to the Ariege will undoubtedly note the predominance of a "free" lifestyle here. Though traditional and conservative dress will still be found, at the market you are more likely to encounter dread-locks, whispy long skirts, breezy linen shirts, hand-rolled cigarettes, and jewelry made of nature. You may hear a guitar being plucked, you may see a bare-foot couple spontaneously start dancing, and you may be even hesitant to accept the beautiful white goat cheese from the soil-stained hands of the older farmer. 

Because these hill villages, frequently with less than one-hundred inhabitants, are often reached only by curving, country roads, they can be impossible to discover for the average tourists. From Saint Girons or Saint Lizier, I would gaze into these picturesque hills and Mountains further in the distance and dream about what life must be like in this most stunning environment.

Today I had the opportunity to find out. 

We followed a narrow road from Hotel Eychenne, exiting the little town, and entering a land of wide planes, circular hay bales on fields perfumed of freshly cut grass. And suddenly the greens of the scenery became more vibrant.  The low hills appeared near in sight, with small fields carved out of the thick forests for grazing animals. In the distance, powerful and noble, stood the peaks of the Pyrenees, some of them still white from this year's heavy snowfall.

After about fifteen minutes of whipping around these little hills, following streams, and peering into small villages with old Roman stone churches, we arrived at the most pleasant village. 

Sylvie smiled at me, and said "Not quite yet, I live up."

She pointed to a narrow stone road, leading into one of these small, voluptuous hills. The car bumped along the gravel, groaning with the ascent. 

And there, after passing through a stand of Birch trees, the ground lined with early-summer ferns, we saw a clearing and a small stone house.

Hens cackled about, a rooster crowed, and a strong wind blew the tall grasses surrounding the house, revealing flashes of color from the wild flowers. The house, with it's triangular metal roof, complemented it's background of the snow-caped Pyrenees. A writing desk and wooden chair sat silently under the shade of a large oak tree, facing a field of wheat and flowers and the mountains. Water from a spring babbled in the distance. Birds sat for a moment to share their songs on the solar panels. And the outhouse had a view of a birch grove where foxes played in the early morning. 

Inside of the house Sylve's husband had build everything: the floors, the ceilings, the cabinets and the bookshelves were hand-built or carved from wood. With few straight lines in sight, the counters around the kitchen curved, making natural stations for a cook to work in an intimate enclave. Art books-- from Ingres to modern photography-- curved around the walls, leading the way from the sunny sitting room, walls entirely composed of glass,  to the shadowy den, preserved from the summer's sun. 

We ate on a table, beside the vegetable garden and admits the clucking hens, which provided our meal. We drank water from the mountain stream that sang for us. We looked onto the fields in the distance on which the goats graze whose milk had been turned into our cheeses.  With satisfaction, I felt the wind blow against my skin after it grazed the daisies and buttercups in the fields, and I felt joyful. 

Merci, Sylvie!

My first impressions of Saint Lizier, one year ago

Saint-Lizier is a small, midevil city in the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains. It is best experienced when wet; when the thick, ancient stones that compose everything, and the rosemary and lavender growing against them, are forced to leave the purely visual realm and enter our noses with each breath.

Driving into the town, you pass many farms mostly with horses and cows, and you begin to follow a rocky river that hugs its way along the base of the hills. To enter the town requires crossing over this river on a small bridge which leads through the city walls. It is a tiered, Roman city, protected by grey walls though which the red, tiled roof tops are able to pop out. Despite these colorful roofs, even in daytime the city still looks grey from the sheer quantity of stone, from which all of the houses, streets and walls are constructed. The city is small, but thick. It is strongly constructed and though aesthetically pleasing, it has no signs of frivolity. I find this grey to be very pleasing.

Agnes’ house is reached by a small door cut into the stone, on a steeply inclining street. From the outside, the homes appear indistinct. All that I can recall of the façade is grey and stone. There is no separable “house”, no elaborate entrance. It is actually remarkably indistinct. It has a way of blending, which leaves no visual imprint. Upon entering this small door, there is a front hall that has the feeling of a cave or a wine cellar. The walls are a thick stone and smell as such. Like all of the house, this hall too is tastefully decorated, and somehow distinct but well integrated with the rest of the house. Here there is a mounted boars head and a stuffed hawk frozen in an aggressive stance. The hallway attains its feeling of elaborateness because of its sparseness, which gives these few pieces of decoration against the bold stone a firm presence. And, oh!, the rest of the house. Everything is as it should be. The dining room is massive and sunny and decorated with beautiful wooden chairs. The sitting room is grand. The kitchen is sunny, clean and inviting. The house has 4 or 5 floors, many hallways and many rooms. Like it’s vague façade, I also have no ability to recall it’s layout, as the house seems to somehow extend indefinitely into stone, while still maintaining a sunny window in each room. Everything is hundreds of years old. The woods of the floors and furniture are noble. And the smell is grand. It smells like a place in which to sip cognac.

My favorite room in the house is my bathroom. It has exposed, rough floors, and a soaking tub. This is perfect for me! There is an attachable showerhead, but one cannot take a shower since there is no way to enclose the tub (with a curtain or doors). This means that one must take a proper tub. Spending so much time in the bathroom has encouraged me to buy many hygienic products. The grocery stores stock high quality bath products at very affordable prices. I bought shampoo that smells like cognac, honey scented conditioner, and this herbaceous soap made from donkey’s milk from the farmer’s market. Now, I don’t usually like scented things, but MAN! do the French know how to use scents. These products smell so nice.

France is the land of beautiful faces. People have such light in their eyes, and such distinct features. I cannot point out a feature, which is distinctly French. But the uniqueness and extreme character in these faces, forms a feature which is distinctly French. It reminds me of the little bronze busts of French politicians and socialites by Honoré Daumier.

Yesterday I went to the farmer’s market and bought 4 kinds of cheeses, peaches, a baguette, bacon bread, a chocolate plum cake, baklava, a dozen oysters, a pie of mussels in tomato sauce, apple juice, a jar of foie gras pate, and orange marmalade. The food here is incredible! With such a bounty of ingredients, how could a tradition of such lofty cuisine not have arisen? The market makes me crave cooking.

Welcome

Hi! I'll be using this blog to assist the website (www.gooseintoulouse.com). Check in here for the latest additions on the Goose tours, and other information about food and life in the Ariège, France.