Redruth to Montauban 2

June 2024

You can't go to France and not mention food. The most wonderful fresh local produce. Seasonal highlights were asparagus, fennel, strawberries, cherries. And cheeses: 18 month old Conte, Tomme and a delicious cheese made from cow, goat and sheep milk, Trois Lait. Can taste them now. Markets in Caylus and Villefranche brimming over with stalls piled high. Shout out for the farmers who are protesting by turning the village signs upside down...can't be ignored.

We went for dinner the night before I left Chez Juno in Le Projet. It was all superb and beautifully presented but the desserts were beyond imagination. Not to mention the wonderful light Gaillac Perle wine. And there are cafes, so many cafes. As the weather was still quite chilly, we may not have lingered as long as anticipated but still great fun.

As well as being struck by the enormous biodiversity, I've also been quite overwhelmed by the palimpsest of history in this region that I don't know very well. A seemingly beautiful, peaceful and well maintained area, it has been deeply involved in French and European history from Crusades to Deportations. It brings it home to you how terrifying it is to live under the tyranny of occupation and how it is not a new phenomenon that great sweeps of people have had to flee from dire circumstances to seek a better life.

One evening Becca suggested we visit the small town of Septfonds which turned out to be profoundly moving. In 1939 there was a huge influx of 500,000 Spanish republican refugees into France fleeing Franco's Spain. The small town of Septfonds was chosen to house a refugee camp as there were already a few Spanish refugees there. It was known as the Judas Camp and housed about 16,000 men in poor conditions behind a barbed wire fence. When war broke out they were joined by Polish airmen before they were smuggled into Britain. Things got even worse once France was occupied and this area was part of Vichy France. The camp then became a holding camp for Jewish families. From there they were transported to Drancy, north of Paris and from there to Auschwitz. In the town there is a memorial to those families and in particular the children whose names are inscribed on metallic fallen leaves. Also commemorated are brave families who hid the children from the authorities at huge danger to themselves. The field where the Judas Camp was sited is now a corn field but there is an area of commemoration and information. There is now a museum and place of remembrance in the town https://septfonds-la-mouniere.com/. It was so moving and chilling and the echoes were loud to contemporary conflicts in Ukraine and Gaza as well as the plight of refugees.

The families were transported from Caussade station. The following morning I found myself on the station platform, waiting for the train to Cahors. I don't imagine the station is much different; very metallic, concrete and functional. It was overwhelmingly sad both in imagining the brutality and fear but also the legacy left over generations, right across the world . In contrast, how cossetted we are as we step on to a train with our rucksacks and pull along suitcases being gently urged to 'mind the gap...'.

Cahors was the perfect antidote. A beautiful, warm and sunny city. It too was commemorating individual resistance fighters and activists with huge portrait hangings. The local council has created a trail of public gardens, some tiny, around the medieval area which proved a great way to wander semi-purposefully through an unknown city. First stop, however, was the remains of an Roman amphitheatre in an underground car park! Every car park should have one ...

Then a delightful amble through the narrow streets in pursuit of green, floriferous spaces. I missed a few but the ones I saw were great delight.

I was alone in the Cathedral of St Etienne until a man dressed in black with a black bandana arrived, seemingly a bit agitated. That is until he walked towards the exit, where he turned to face the altar and began to sing in a beautiful baritone voice which rang loud around the vast cupola.

I discovered that Cahors is on the Cammino pilgrim route to Santiago de Compostella in Spain. So many couples of my age with rucksacks and fine calf muscles were evidently en route and stopping for a sandwich and a break. That afternoon I walked down to the Pont Valentre which is on the route, following the bronze scallop shells in the pavement. A good friend and I have discussed doing this walk for years, and maybe we will, but for now I know I have walked 300 metres of the path across the bridge at Cahors.

That evening Becca and I were back on Caussade Station awaiting the arrival of Cornish friends; Rose and Oliver who had also arrived by train, from St Austell. Then followed sunny days of enjoying the warmth, walks and pleasure of good company. We visited a tiny chapel on a hill in rolling, bosky countryside which had been built by the Knights Templar. Oliver casually mentioned that an ancestor of his had been a Knight Templar...

When the day came to leave, I was quite surprised as I felt I was there for the summer. Becca drove me to Montauban station with a list of errands to accomplish that morning. Thank you Becca for being such a generous, fun host and good friend. I took the same TGV back to Paris. This one had a buffet car so I sat in there for a coffee and bun. It was much more animated than the carriage. A man who looked like a young, French George Clooney was in animated conversation with an equally good looking young woman, business people were deep in discussion, the coffee machine hissed and spat as the countryside whizzed past. Actually by Bordeaux we were running late, then the delay increased as it was announced that the gendarmes were boarding to take someone off the train. General groan around the carriage. My neighbour (we had not spoken until then but he had perceived that I was British) turned to me and said 'It could be you ...' I burst out laughing and retorted 'It could be you!' As we were now 40 minutes late, the guards were busy trying to work out passenger connections. No-one was concerned about the Eurostar ... there are lots of trains. It was not a problem and I was able to take the 91 bus again to the Gare du Nord and purchase a tasty camembert and walnut sandwich before the next leg to London.

Back in January I had been part of a writing workshop in Plymouth organised by Speaking Volumes and Literature Works for older women (over 40). It was very enjoyable and we were invited to submit a piece of writing to be published in an Anthology of Writing by Older Women. This was to be launched at the Gala event at the Stoke Newington Literary Festival and participants were invited to attend. So slightly mazed, I stepped off the Eurostar and into the Friday evening rush hour outside Kings Cross and straight on to the 73 bus to the Mildmay Club in Newington Green. Apparently the Club featured in the series 'Killing Eve'. So glad I went and met up with some others from the sessions. It was a sold out, lively, thought provoking evening hosted by chef, presenter and writer Andi Oliver with committed workshop leaders from the project and two memoir writers Catherine Taylor and Hannah Lowe. Big thank you to Sharmilla Beezmohun and team who made this all happen. There is some great writing in the book showcasing a rich variety of lived experience both urban and rural and crossing continents.

It was such an urban experience after being in rural France. Feel so privileged to have been able to experience it all. I nestled into a seat on the sleeper train back to Cornwall and astonishingly managed to grab some sleep. And there was Tony on the station at Redruth. Good to be home!