Window shutters remain closed during the quiet summer morning.
The homes of Roquebrun line the river Orb.
The River Orb offers a lazy paddle for holidaymakers.
Cats are so lazy they can’t open their eyes to daylight.
The Pont du Diable is a primitive and completely freestanding 12th century bridge over the
small river Mare.
Rich pauses for a picnic on the Orb River near Tarassac.
Rolling pastures hide amongst the hills of Parc Haut Languedoc
A Canadian from Welland leaves his mark in Haut Languedoc. |
EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNAL August
25, 1999
Creissen, Languedoc
Parc Regional du Haut Languedoc
This is France. This is why one can come to France and drive from village to village,
stopping at every chance, taking a month in every department, tasting, sipping, looking,
feeling, and always breathless at the next corner. Every miniscule road carries us through
the villages, one after the other – you can’t avoid them – they thrive with
a handful of residents, going about business like why would you want or need to live
anywhere else? Around here it’s especially sleepy – they’re waiting for the
autumn harvest of grapes. Until then you can hear the taxidermied groundhog decomposing in
the municipal museum. Every village is a spectacle, with a Roman pont or a crumbling
medieval fortress, or a cave or two, with authentic French people degusting the local
wines in dim light at 11 o’clock in the morning. There’s always some kind of
circus, an artery-bursting plat du jour of the freshest ingredients (the chevre is
still warm from the goat), a boulangerie artisnal (Rich rescues the only surviving pain
au chocolat). There’s always a series of golden, rotting houses clamped to the
side of a gorge or twisting into a maze of narrow alleyways, a trio of apple-shaped,
ageless women with stiff purses kissing in quadruples on a sidewalk too small for the
rendezvous. Cats are so lazy they can’t open their eyes to daylight. France is so
chic the postwoman rides a sparkling yellow bicycle, and France is so authentic it
doesn’t bother to paint the carriage doors – layers peel in shades of the Paris
fashion runway.
Upper Languedoc is a bouquet of these places, pristine on the high limestone plateau
and wooded hills designated as the second largest of the French National Parks. From the
Montagne Noire to Beziers and Castres and up into the Cevennes, Parc Regional du Haut
Languedoc is an undulating landscape of sheep farms, meadows, river gorges, wildlife
reserves, natural spas and grottoes. The horses aren’t afraid, the butterflies so big
they get tangled in themselves, and rushing water plentiful, drinkable, and winding its
way in a serpentine route decided upon by the Romans. Amidst all of this, the
centuries-old villages are the crossroads – a centre in the palm of your hand, so
easy to understand, so restful to the eye, where you needn’t want for anything except
to stay. |
The village's handful of residents go about business like why would you want or need to
live anywhere else?
Residents wait to harvest France's most cherished commodity.
A series of golden, rotting houses clamp to the side twisting river.
The Pont du Diable supports its own ecosystem.
Looking back on the D14 as it winds its way through les Monts de Lespinouse in Parc de
Haut Languedoc.
Tree bark peels in an enchanting pattern.
There is always time to stop and greet the locals.
Richard Ernst Cummins - this was his view. |
