Quand on n’a que l’amour
À s’offrir en partage
Au jour du grand voyage
Qu’est notre grand amour
Table of Contents: Part One
1. Braque Bonjour
2. The Wedding Hat
3. Le Camino
4. La Halte du Temps
5. An Evening to Remember
6. Ruisseau Montbrun
7. Rue du Petit Paris
8. Pierres d’Histoire
9. La Serre
10. Noël 2015
11. Sanglier
12. Soulac Dimanche
13. Our New Home at 7 rue du Petit Paris, le Presbytère
14. Thierry May Antiquités: meubles, elements d’architecture
15. Born in the Year of “M”
16. Bringing Marcel Home
17. Nos Biens Arrivent
18. La langue française et la vie de Courances
19. Tayac-les-Eyzies
20. Marcel dans le Fôret
21. le Field Trial
22. l’Éte en France
23. Le Jardin chez nous
24. Les Buveurs d’Air
25. La Chasse
26. Winter Arrives in Courances
Afterword
1. Braque Bonjour
Elizabeth and I were sitting in a cozy café in Fontainebleau. It is a cozy town, especially when light with tourists. She’s been to Versailles more often than I have, but we have both been there enough to know Fontainebleau feels much more authentic, drenched in long history, and just real. One can easily imagine Napoleon—himself late on the scene—waving from the famed horseshoe staircase, soon to be making his way to the Island of Elba. The ‘Court of Adieu.’
My wife runs a French travel, language, culture business for niche clients. We were in Fontainebleau for a reason I don’t now recall. We had taken the TRE commuter train down from Paris. We were just enjoying a lovely lunch at a crowded but quiet café. My memory is of us just winding down from a busy season of our life, happy to be losing track of time in the Department of Seine et Marne, an hour south of Paris.
Blood pressure and life pressure abating, feeling ourselves breathing more calmly, eyes glistening from a white Burgundy from Beaune and contented stomachs, I see a man was making his way out, carving his ways through tables toward the door. Handsome, relaxed, accompanied by a very strong and confident dog on a leash. Dark black muzzle, posture alert, eyes happy, 65 pounds of muscle and attention, a coat of riotous black spots (des taches, in French). My left hand and his strong head gave me no choice but to ask the owner, as he passed by, if I could say hello. “What kind of breed is he?”
I had owned pointing dogs and I knew he was that for sure. The French word is costeau – sturdy. Chest dominant, balanced. Solid nose for spotting game in the brush. Sure of himself, and so content and self-contained.
His master declared in French, “why, he is a Braque d’Auvergne.” “A Blue,” he added. “Feel free to say hello.”
His super soft ears and happy eyes melted the hearts of Elizabeth and me. The Bleu d’Auvergne, I would learn, is so called because the central Massif region of France, known for its dormant volcanos and Blue Cheese, is the Auvergne. To “Braquer” is to point (or, to rob a bank). The Braque Allemand is a German Shorthaired Pointer. Braque Hongrie, Visla. And so on. He is called a Blue because his strong spottled body looks like blue cheese, Bleu d’Auvergne.
I thanked him, he could tell I admired his dog, and the two of them proudly marched forward to the door.
I turned to Elizabeth. She was smiling. Happy. Knew what was on my mind and agreed. “We will get a Braque d’Auvergne when we move here.” And, so, we would.
Finishing our lovely lunch and spilling out onto the streets of Fontainebleau, we made our way to the Hotel l’Aigle Noir to let our lunch settle. A French dog would make our life complete. The 16th century fireplace in the life we would share, next to a 12th century parish church, with its massive ramparts and pleasantly interrupting Angelus bells, would be where Marcel would lie and warm his sturdy frame. “Le Presbytere,” 7 rue du petit Paris, Courances, 20 minutes from that lunch spot, on a road built by Field General Montgomery after the war, would be our home. A Braque d’Auvergne, our faithful companion.
2. The Wedding Hat
Elizabeth worked for a family in Paris as a young girl, a sort of aide de famille. A lovely couple, him an American lawyer in London, with a business residence in Paris, she British. Two young children. They live on rue Saint Dominique in the 7th, just next to the neo-Gothic church St Clothilde (where Caesar Franck had been the organist). A four bedroom (rent-controlled) top floor flat, with a chambre de bonne under the roof. As is typical of these residences in Paris.
Their daughter was now grown up and getting married at the Chateau of Bourron-Marlotte. The couple Elizabeth worked with also had a getaway home in said village, south of Fontainebleau on the commuter train line that loops south and then west, after the stop in Fontainebleau. The girl had been a keen equestrian, and Elizabeth accompanied them to this lovely rural retreat when they headed there to leave London and Paris business work behind.
When we were looking at places to rent in France, visiting the one that would be our home in Courances, we decided to spend a few days at the Chateau in Bourron, which had been redone and was accommodating guests. This was to be where the wedding reception would be celebrated, after a wedding at the Parish church in the charming village. Elizabeth was always on the lookout, as well, for possible venues for her travel clients. She relived her days going down there with the family she adored and whose children she was helping to raise.
When the invitation came for the now grown-up daughter’s nuptials, off Elizabeth went to find an outfit and the requisite hat to accompany her choice. And off we went to Paris by flight from Dallas.
We know the routine very well, the lounges, customs routines, baggage claim and distances when on the ground. Our checked luggage—we would stay for a few weeks—and Elizabeth with hatbox in her lap. Giddy with excitement to be seeing her adult charge now a grown woman, the village of her young years, the couple who had become very close friends (they crossed the Atlantic for our wedding in Dallas), and rejoice at her wedding. The kind of magical return to a life once lived, across the Atlantic, in a small village, as a young girl, reading French books to children, soon to be attending university herself and becoming a PhD graduate in French.
We had arranged for a driver who would take us to the hotel where we were staying in Fontainebleau. It was a beautiful day awaiting us in Paris as we touched down. If a bit hot, it certainly wasn’t Dallas.
Our driver was there with his sign to pick us up. On reflection, the arrival area seemed a bit quiet, unlike the usual busy taxi drivers scampering for fares as passengers spill out with their luggage. There he was, alone, no other hired drivers alongside him with upheld signs in their two hands.
With a note of concern but encouragement as well, he said the country was on a strike due to conflict over the newly appearing Uber competition. There is a longer story here, but the gist was that his was the only car in the carpark. Our flight was early enough in the day that he had been able to get to the airport without hassle. The question was, would we be able to leave.
He put our bags in the car, and we took our seats, Elizabeth worried, precious hatbox in lap.
There was cause for concern, as it turned out. We came up the familiar ramp to get onto ground level, and it was blocked with luggage carts. Not good. I offered to get out and move them, and turning around to look at us both, his face telling a story, he said, No. That will not work. Will incite the taxi drivers ahead. Thronging the airport lanes on foot, burning tires, worked up into strike fury, and so forth.
He got out and offered to one growling taxi man that he was not Uber. A private driver. Here’s my card and papers. Guests from the US, headed to Fontainebleau, his home, not Paris. Wan smile. It was not going to happen.
We sat in perplexity. He said, let me try to reverse and go out another way. We must have moved 1 foot and upon seeing this, 20 men hustled to the rear of the car to block that stratagem. Now they were getting worked up. The windows were lowered due to the heat and just to feel less trapped mentally. Arms reached in to grab water bottles and opening them, dashed water at us like so many harpies gone into frenzy.
Blocked front and back, the driver offered this proposal. Let me go in, and change my clothes from my drivers uniform. Maybe I’ll just look like a private citizen who happened to be in the wrong place. OK.
The plot foiled. He shrugged, I did all I could, shook my hand, and deposited out bags on the curb.
Hatbox under her arm, I went off for a luggage cart. Now what awaited us was an entire Charles de Gaul airport in the same situation as us without any way to get into Paris by taxi transportation. The train ticket area was awash, to the sidewalls, with people, trying to buy tickets. Now including us.
I don’t recall the details. Probably too irritating, but at last we were on board the RER headed to Paris. And of course, we would have to change, and then catch the TRE to Fontainebleau.
I have never seen a train car so crowded. People sitting on the luggage in the aisle, every seat taken. People sitting on top of people sitting in the aisle. I’m not sure how we got a seat, but we did, crunched in on either side. Now it was getting hot, body heat plus outdoor heat, every window open.
Across from us sat a hapless young couple. Obviously not French. When we inquired about them—it was hard not to talk in such a crowded situation—they broke into smiles. “We’re on our honeymoon.” Somehow, when truly in love, it will all turn out OK. They looked each other in the eyes and you knew it was true.
Traversing the complicated system for getting from Gare du Nord to Gare de Lyon, at last we were on the train to Fontainebleau, and a grade up and less crowded than the cattle car from Roissy to Paris. A thought occurred to my ever-resourceful and just-damn-smart wife (a professional traveler). Chris, we’ve got to get from the station in Fontainebleau to the hotel, and as you know, that’s not a walk. There is no taxi service. I’ll call the same transport company.
Positive news. They would have a driver meet us at the station to take us to the hotel. We needed a break from the bizarre morning we had just endured, 4 hours since touch-down.
Fontainebleau station is in the village next door, called Avon. Happy to have our feet on the solid ground of the station platform, I pulled the bags down breathing a sigh of relief. Elizabeth with her hatbox.
Up rushing to greet us was the driver. We smiled.
It was the same man who had come to pick us up at CDG airport. He had gotten home ahead of us. Hatbox in her lap, happy to be “home” ourselves, we headed off to our hotel.