Sunflowers
Welcome to the steaming Quercy in high summer. And steaming it certainly has been, the weather still can’t make up its mind and switches from scorching sunshine to refreshing showers with little warning. Good for the vines, say the old-timers, good for the peaches and plums too, not so good for the cereal crops. We can see winking lights from the vast harvesters, crawling like locusts across the landscape, as we sit on the terrace in the evenings with a jug of red and a bowl of shiny violet olives from the market. The weather is so capricious this year that they’ll work all night to ensure a perfect harvest. The sunflowers have been delayed too, usually they’re in full, dazzling bloom by early July, this year they’re three weeks late, but what a sight they are. A field full of these golden beauties, faces raised to the sun, absorbing its warmth and reflecting its glory, is a sight to brighten the dullest day.
I was thinking these thoughts on Sunday as we bowled along towards the old pilgrim town of St Nicolas de la Grave. It wasn’t dull that day, the thermometer measured 37 degrees and the sky was as blue as a postcard. We drove through endless fields of sunflowers, groves of perfumed peaches and nectarines and little plots of tangled melon vines, before finally arriving at our destination. Just outside the town, at the confluence of the beautiful Tarn River and the mighty Garonne, lies a huge natural lake, which the local authorities have skilfully enhanced so that it’s now the largest plan d’eau in the area. A restaurant and marina, a swimming pool and snack bar, canoes, surf boards and of course fishing, with plenty of delightfully shady places to picnic. As far as the French are concerned, this is what summer Sunday afternoons are all about. The energetic members of my family unloaded the windsurfing equipment and prepared to give their all. I lay back on the grass – bleached to a true Southern blond, despite the rain – sipped my iced Orangina and watched the antics of an elderly gentleman who was setting up what looked like a home-made yacht. His stringy brown legs resembled old copper pipes and his bald pate was the colour of a hazelnut.
St Nicholas de la Grave
‘Madame?’ He beckoned to me, after about an hour of determined untangling, heaving and flag-flying work. I leapt up and went to his assistance; perhaps he needed help to launch it? No, he didn’t need any help, but perhaps I’d like to join him for a sail? I stared at him and made a frantic motion towards my nearest and dearest, who never seems to be around in this sort of crisis, and true to form could only be roughly discerned as a triangular dot on the shimmering horizon. My gallant yachtsman was quite undeterred by this revelation. He could take me out there? Or perhaps I’d like to borrow his windsurfer? I flapped around like a wounded hen and sought for the politest way I could think of to say no, thank you. After five minutes of pure pantomime he murmured, ‘Comme vous voulez.’ His shoulders sagged slightly and I felt an absolute heel. He was still making preparations to launch his craft when the man in question tacked back in for lunch. They exchanged laughing pleasantries about life and sun and windsurfing. My would-be cavalier pushed his handiwork into the rippling waters and disappeared round the corner. I felt a little better and turned my attention to the serious issue of the moment.
We sat in the shade of a twisted Mediterranean pine and gazed out over the gentle lake. Warm baguettes had been provided by the little boulangerie below the medieval bastide village of Lauzerte. We ate them stuffed with mature goats cheese, Bayonne ham and slices of the luscious tomatoes that I buy from a certain stall in Cahors market. Our dejeuner sur l’herbe concluded with huge, juicy, white-fleshed peaches, streaked scarlet and rose. Delectable.
A summer Sunday afternoon French-style. Yachtsmen aside, I can thoroughly recommend it.
© Amanda Lawrence 2007
Quercy Living in High Summer from French Vie
Tags: Lunch, The Quercy
