Notes From the Languedoc [Paperback]

'This book is a literary gem. Notes from the Languedoc is like a tremendous wine cellar. It is a treasure trove of treats. Rupert Wright is a mischievous, bold reporter who has met everyone and tasted everything. This is the best book on the Languedoc. Exquisitely illustrated, this is a book to savour, like a full-throated local Merlot.'

Jonathan Miller, The Sunday Times

It is easy to get to the Languedoc. Follow the Rhone south through France, then once you hit the Mediterranean coast, turn right. The mystery is that for generations, people have been getting to the sea and turning left to Provence. This lack of attention means that the Languedoc is France's last undiscovered Mediterranean secret.

Now Rupert Wright introduces you to the region's winemakers, oyster farmers, canal people and celebrated inhabitants, living and dead, including Montpellier's dynamic Mayor, Georges Freche, and local matador Juan Bautista. You will learn about the Languedoc's troubled and fascinating history, visit bullfights and boar hunts, and hear about the writers and artists that have lived and travelled in this intriguing land.

In the shade of a fig tree – the dog wants a walk – the landscape of the Languedoc – our nights are like your days – a forgotten land, filled with the sound of lutes – northern man flies south – meetnig a Jesuit priest – the local village – a bottle of wine

I am writing this letter in the shade of a fig tree. It is eight o’clock in the evening, but it is still too hot to sit in the sun. Besides, I like this fig tree. Its leaves are like the gloves of a three-fingered, green giant. They shine as if they have just been polished. I recall that in literature, the English use the leaf of a fig tree to cover their modesty; the French make do with a vine leaf. Is this anything to do with size, or just a question of convenience? Either way, there is no need for any covering up here. I could wander round the garden naked as Adam if I chose. The only living creatures that would notice are the birds that fly overhead.

I have now been in the house for a week. Tomorrow the family arrives. There will be suitcases, discarded teddy bears and screams from the swimming pool. This is how it should be. A house like this should be filled with children. I look forward to their arrival. But I confess that I have had a good time on my own.
Not that I have achieved as much as I might have done. For example, at last I now have more shelf space than books. The old lady that lived here had a huge collection. It is said that she read one new book in the morning and another in the afternoon. Her copies of Molière, Camus and Françoise Sagan have been packed up and taken away. Still sitting in their boxes are my books, including dog-eared copies of Shakespeare, Hemingway and Carl Hiaasen. They can wait.

I have spent a lot of time in a rocking chair on the terrace, looking at the countryside. When I came here in May the road side and much of the hills were covered in wild flowers, cistus, lavender, fennel, rosemary and thyme. The smell was so strong that you could almost marinade a leg of lamb by exposing it to the air. Now the colours and the flowers have gone. It is almost as if the sun has sucked the countryside dry, leaving the ground hard and the colours reduced to a monochrome. The effect is almost more beautiful, in the way that a black and white photograph can sometimes be better than a colour image.

What remains are the trees and plants that are designed to withstand this solar assault. This includes the pine trees at the base of the hill opposite. There is a small stream that runs at the foot of the hill. Although it has long dried up, an assortment of bushes grow up on its banks, including what looks like a giant stand of bamboo. I am told it is indigenous to the region. Before I learnt this, I had visions of a Chinese connection, with planting taking place throughout the south to feed a colony of giant pandas given to Louis XIV as a wedding present. Alas, that proved to be idle speculation.

Beyond the river bank is an olive grove. Their trunks are twisted with age, their leaves a two-tone green, dark on top and light underneath. It is surely the loveliest of trees. A better place to sit and stare at the sky cannot be imagined. Past the olives the vines begin. They seem to grow on just rocks. Even at night the ground radiates heat. But the leaves are still thick and green. The roots must reach to the very centre of the world to get their moisture. Hidden in the branches are clusters of grapes, but so many! It is not unusual to see six, seven, eight or more big bunches hanging pendulously from the branches. I amuse myself by counting how many bottles one could get from the view, but the task is daunting, and beyond my grasp of mathematics.

The terrace faces due south. I can be in my rocking chair at seven in the morning, when it is still cool. But once the sun appears over the hill to the east, the heat begins. If I could bear to look at the sun I could follow its path through the burning sky. Once this week a cloud dared to pass in front, momentarily darkening it. On another occasion two kites wheeled in front, as if seeking to surprise their prey like a German fighter ace. But otherwise the sun has been unrelentling and unchallenged.

Now, at last, the shadows are lengthening. Trees on the hill are throwing up giant images. The small outcrop of rock has become a palace. We are perched on the foothills of the mountains that will march up via various plateaus to the Massif Central. As you get further north and higher, there is more garrigue. This is the name they give to the wild country here, that is dominated by a small, dark green holm oak tree. In these depths live wild boars, with tusks that can slice a dog in half.

The dog here – an Alsatian left by the previous owners – seems unaffected by the danger he faces. I think he would like me to be more energetic. Watching me watching the countryside does not seem to be his idea of fun. Most of the day he lies beside me in the fig tree. When he hears me move to get a glass of water, he stretches expectantly, only to sink back in disappointment. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.