Our house: a renovated stone barn in Lozere, South East France, but nowhere near beaches or tourists. The Artistic One had spent two summers here, in his early teens. Apparently, the French version of Apres-Guerre sleep-away camp was to find farmers who would share the work of herding livestock and harvesting, in exchange for fresh air, hearty food and a bed to sleep on. TAO loved it so much that he begged to be allowed to stay on through the winter months and not return to school until the following spring.
This is not where he was born, nor where he spent the majority of his life, but it is his Heart-Home and they still know him there.
The small building on the right is the communal bread baking oven. Once a month, wood-fires were set in the oven and maintained by all until the temperature was right for the baking to begin. Huge rustic loaves with thick brown crusts had to last until the next time.
When we first purchased our barn, in 1999, the roof sagged and the rain was pouring in in several places. There were a dozen resident bovines in the lower level stable and the little boy from across the way came to ask what we were doing with his Dad's cows.
The old bread-oven had also been allowed to founder and so we proposed to restore it, as part of our project. We were later told that someone stood up at the community meeting and expressed concern that "The Americans" would be taking over. The Mayor's office was shamed into taking care of the needed restorations. The picture below shows the local roofing material, called Lozes, on the oven roof.
Below is a picture of where the cows used to live.We pulled out the foot-thick granite slabs that were the stable floor and raised the ceiling into the space above, to give ourselves some head-room. It's a great kitchen, if you don't mind having your stove and sink 50 ft away from one another.
The articulated pot-filler, over the stove top, was unheard of by local plumbers. We went online from California and had one shipped to us, from Italy, then we packed it in a suitcase bound for France.
The upper level didn't have any head-room problems. This living space and Art Studio has the original beams from the days when it was storage for hay and straw. We put in skylights rather than change the character of the building by opening big windows in the sides. The whole place is heated by decorative cast iron radiators that we bought from a demo sale of an old Parisian hotel.
This high plateau is made up of volcanic hills, rocky promontories and rivers. It's the least populated region of France.Cows greatly outnumber humans hereabouts. Chestnuts, hazelnuts, blueberries and wild mushrooms are collected when in season. Goose, duck, wild boar and venison are on most restaurant menus. I had a creme-brule perfumed with pine liqueur. I loved the flavor, but it is green and does smell like a household cleaning product. Mind over matter, I enjoyed it.
Sturdy, burnished copper horses with ombre charcoal legs and milky mane and tail, punctuate the emerald landscape.
Conte
draft horses; locally bred to work the fields and forests; low center
of gravity; soup-plate hooves; stocky build; kind and willing
disposition. The epitome of a work-horse.
The warm weather was an unexpected bonus in early October. The clouds were beginning to edge out the blue skies, darkening to imitate the fir forests in the distance. I went for a walk down the grass track that arabesques toward the low lying lake, the unsettled air moistly slapping my cheeks in futile protest, as
thunderclouds moved in. Splashes of crickets surged ahead of every step I took, chirping final au-revoirs to Indian Summer days. Curious caramel cows reposing in the field, by the track, lowing and chewing. By the time I came back up the path they were up and watching for me. I said "Moo" and "Hello Cows". (I haven't yet stooped to speaking French to cows, for all the difference it might make). They didn't respond so I walked on, turning several times to catch them playing Cow Statues, feigning disinterest. Despite their innocent eyes, the large bells clanging from wide leather collars on their velvet necks gave them away each time.
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