The French Connection: Escape from Cantal

When I left off last time, we were being kindly escorted out of the Cantal chateau, with no hard feelings. As we later learned from our friendly young fellow Work-Awayer, the disappearing bread in question was not just the five slices that the five of us had shared the night before, but apparently there were two other entire “loaves” of wonder bread in the pantry that had mysteriously gone missing. In any case, we were not interested in sticking around and defending ourselves against such heinous accusations. They had given us until Friday (5 days) to vacate the premises, that’s when the Australian man (another Work-Awayer) would be arriving. But when we woke the next morning, we all agreed on the uselessness of staying even long enough for breakfast.

It looked like we’d leave without so much as a goodbye to or from our hosts—dad was away in the city for the day, the two girls were in school till 6 pm, and mom was nowhere to be seen, as was usually the case for most of the day—and for this we felt no deep regret. But then mom stepped outside to bid us farewell. It wasn’t really about the bread, she told us. Nor was it about our kids being overly playful, loud or hungry. It wasn’t really about anything, but she was clearly relieved to see us go.

Indeed, the feeling was mutual. We had already started looking for a new venue, and we’d sent messages to numerous Work-Away hosts and friends-of-friends all across southern France. Dad had always been friendly with us, our accommodations were practically regal, and the surrounding landscape was stunning, but we could sense from day one that something was rotten in the state of Cantal. The disorder was palpable. And so we had already begun plotting our escape.

As it happened, a new and unsolicited host contacted us Monday morning as we were scouring the Legos from our bedroom floor. They had come across our Work-Away profile and needed extra help on short notice. And they were specifically interested in hosting a family. We had not seen their listing before, but when we looked them up, their description struck us as most inviting. A young couple with two young daughters (2 months and 2 years) on an organic farm just three and a half hours away, relatively close when you’re meandering the back country roads of the Massif Central.

From the heart of the Cantal, it was west by southwest to the Lot department. We took the slow pace, stopping at an expansive city park and playground and then to a corner cafe adjacent to the glorious 13th century cathedral in Rodez, where we feasted like overweight Americans on a fantastic dinner including salmon salad, chocolate mousse, and a surprisingly delectable plate of escargot, though not in that order. After an unforgettable sunset we drove another short stretch, until one or two helpful street signs led us to an open lot for campers. In the morning we found a local boulangerie and stocked up on fresh bread and pastries, then headed straight to our new hosts who were eager to meet us and put us right to work.

In the morning, afternoon and evening we picked through and de-stemmed bushels basil, harvested over the previous day and a half from some 4000 plants. We learned a little and then a lot about how they make unbeatable artisanal pesto from the garlic, basil and sunflower oil, all produced and grown organically on their farm. At midday we luxuriated in the bounty of organic French cuisine, probably one of mankind’s highest achievements, and a radical departure from the canned beans and day-old croissants of our previous hosts, who were known to gloat over their special blend of salt and pepper. (I also remember them trying to pass off a green under-ripe pumpkin as a marrow, which is nothing but a euphemism for an over-ripe zucchini, described by the Oxford encyclopedia as “insipid when cooked”; but let’s not dwell on that any longer.)

After dinner I helped the boss shovel two tons of hemp seed off the trailer and into the dryer. It was somewhat difficult to express to him how pleasantly surprised I was to be working on a genuine certified organic hemp farm, in the south of France no less. He was no less surprised to learn that I had owned my own hemp store for several years, and equally delighted to hear about my ten-year career in bamboo. An unusually dry summer had resulted in a very poor hemp yield this year; the seed harvest was low, and the fiber virtually nil. What little fiber he has is being used primarily as building insulation.

From there it keeps getting better. The hours can be long, but the work is meaningful and educational. And the quality of life is high. This place is just a treasure trove of stories—did I mention grandpa who drove here 30 years ago from Holland with a tractor and a circus trailer?—and I’ll have more for you next time. But I do have a couple of updates from our friendly co-worker back at the short-lived chateau.

It turns out the Australian worker they were eagerly awaiting lasted a total of four days; perhaps he discovered that they had not a single decent tool and were unwilling to spend money on proper materials. And the 11-year-old daughter, the one known for helping herself to other people’s belongings, especially those things made of chocolate, she had gone and drunk one of the bottles of elderberry syrup concocted the week before by my wife. The whole bottle. Of syrup. To herself. And when we think about how her parents are no doubt blaming us for this misadventure, it gives us a soft and somber chuckle.