A week in Languedoc

THE dream of spending a year à la Française in Provence might have been truncated to a week in Languedoc, but what a week it was, writes Colin Fraser.

Dream holiday ... Carcasonne is a picture-perfect town famous for its Disney-like castle. Picture: Colin Fraser

IT was time. Mayle's A Year in Provence had reinspired the idea of Le Tour Francais – an odyssey first born in high-school when travelling the country by thumb, sleeping in haystacks and living on camembert seemed both attainable and sustainable as a lifestyle choice. Although the accommodation and diet had been upgraded during the intervening twenty years, the idea had come of age.

Unfortunately Human Resources were less enthused about my telecommuting from Southern France while rebuilding a rustic farmhouse. Promising an eternal river of wine didn't gain much support either, and my year in Provence was soon truncated to a week in Languedoc.

Which is not to diminish the experience. With a little planning and favourable weather on which to hang it, a week can stretch into something altogether longer. And it is no less amiable for its brevity.

So this is how my partner and I found ourselves in an 18th century farm house that boasted its own cherry orchard, swimming pool and, most significantly, was within walking distance of a bakery.

On arrival we were warmly met by our hostess, Madame Elisabeth, her two dogs, three cats and a litre of red wine. Clearly we had chosen the right place. Our wide grins confirmed it.

Caunes-Minervois is a picture-perfect medieval village nestled in the soft, sunlit, rolling hills behind Carcasonne, itself a picture-perfect town famous for a Disney-like castle, the only inhabited fortification in Europe.

The region was once a hotbed of revolution, home to outrageous religious ideology that believed a divine light existed in us all. Not to be outshone, the Pope quickly saw off these heretics with a swift inquisition. Today, the region is a hotbed of revelry producing nearly half the wine found on French tables. And that is a lot of wine.

Another abundant feature of Languedoc is histoire. Every village, and Caunes is proudly unexceptional in this regard, is positively stuffed with ancient monuments, sites and religious history.

We were within walking distance of a tenth century Abbey famed for its Romanesque foundations; ten minutes drive from the celebrated medieval village of Minerve; twenty minutes from Carcasonne, or Lastours' striking series of crumbling towers, or windblown Chateau Quéribus where many a Cathar sought protection. Although the mountain-fortress didn't exactly save them, stunning views toward the Pyrenees must have taken their minds off things.

Even if winter has its snowy charm (unless you're a persecuted, chateau-bound Cathar), we opted for the seasonal pleasure of spring. Among many benefits, Madame's cherry orchard was in full fruit, bolstered by weather keen to exercise its summer rights. Regional winds were largely at bay, the sun was in full song and several thousand swallows filled the sky. Could it get any better?

Well, yes. No matter how good the weather or enchanting the sites, so much sightseeing becomes too much. A measure of peace from the pervasive persecution was sought along the verdant banks of the Canal du Midi. Not that we took in the entire length – it traverses Languedoc on a march from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean – for café coincidence reared its pretty head.

So often, just as things grew too hot or troublesome, an enchanting establishment would present itself with impeccable timing. And what better way to ponder the horror chambers of a nearby chateau than with a perfectly chilled bottle of rosé? Or petit créme for that matter? Or both?

Now you might think that all this wonder would bring tourist hoards running. Not so. France has a remarkable ability to absorb thousands of people and still look like it's closed for business. No matter the time of day, villages are boarded up, shops appear shut and stray dogs are fast asleep in the sun.

It took a week to determine that the door of Caune's Tourist Office was actually open. Inside we found a surprised, slightly dusty woman seemingly alarmed by the intruders. It was a not infrequent experience with small towns and large World Heritage sites appearing, in equal measure, to be deliciously empty. Mostly because they were.

In less time than it took to unpack a bag and savour Elisabeth's produce, we felt we had become locals. At least, in our own minds and as there was no one around to argue the point.

We visited the bakery for breakfast, shopped at the weekly market, replenished our wine stocks from the nearby cave, fell asleep by the pool, climbed the adjacent hillsides, baked clafouti with Madame's freshly picked cherries and had a healthy relationship with her dogs (especially at dinner time). We even visited the real-estate agent for future reference (take note Human Resources). It was only a week, but it felt so much longer.