La Rue du Cul-de-sac and Beyond

“Bonjour mes Charolais!”

The white cows process across the ridge of the blonde hillside opposite. I want to rename my view from the 500-year-old Maison de Constance. I want to rename it Treetops because it reminds me of the Highlands of Kenya.

Because, from the end of this mediaeval cul-de-sac, I am looking down beyond the peach tree and the new vines, down through the poplar branches, down to where the promise of a wild and free river churns, hidden for now.

Someone is calling. A child’s voice.

“Allo, allo,”

I call out “Allo” in reply.

In an instant, on my doorstep, is a small boy in Wellington boots. I try out my okay French, but I lose the thread when he tries to tell me something about his puppy dog.

“Je ne comprends pas,” and he has to mime a chien being playful for me.

“Ah oui, je comprends.”

Here comes the father from next door carrying a pile of picture books. It must be the holidays. My neighbour introduces himself as Pierre. He compliments me on my French, offers help and invites me round for a cup of coffee sometime with him and his wife Elisabet.

“Whenever,” says Pierre. He is chilled, and I am cool with that.

Today in La Rue du Cul-de-sac is all Mairie tower bells striking the hour (twice!), hirondelles (swallows) chirping in morse code, red tulips, the rosemary bush flowering in blue clusters, and a bay tree bush. The maison is pretty, with cherry red shutters, an antique bell pull, and blocks of old stone placed neatly to form seats in the sun, or for some other reason.

I turn left, glancing up at my artist neighbour’s walled garden of surreal delights. A solid white globe floats on top of a metal post. On the street, a new delivery of logs waits to be stored away in the underground cellar. Benoit is counting the Charolais from his rooftop terrace, and we wave across the alley in greeting. I set off over the cobblestones. I can hear a melody, faint but strong and full-bodied.

“Don’t it always seem to go, That you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone,” sings Joni Mitchell.

Left again, stopping to contemplate the coppery statue of Anne de Beaujeu, carved from a single piece of yew. She was the royal regent who came here 500 years ago to escape the politicking of the French court. A sensible woman, my French friend, Helene, would say.

On past the Abbaye Saint Vincent with its witches’ hat roofs, down past the abandoned moulin, all crumbling stone and ivy.

Over the metal bridge, I paused to wonder at the photographs on the visitor information boards. I see the old wooden bridge and families dressed in calico smocks dangling their feet over the water.

The gorge is revealed, full of spring rains coming down from the mountains of the Massif Central.

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