in Clermont Ferrand in 1623 (Louis X111) and regrettably died a year before his fortieth birthday. Although he was a mathematician and scientist extraordinaire, at the early age of thirty-one he turned to philosophy and theology — a sort of Faustian about-turn. Pascal was a man who reflected deeply and has left us his Pensées or thoughts; and just diverging a little, I remember being in a market in St. Julien when I realised for the first time that the French called pansies “thoughts” or pensées. So I bought a few pots in full bloom and gave them to our hosts of that evening. But back to Pascal the thinker. Here are a couple of his thoughts:
“Not to care for philosophy is to be a true philosopher”, and “If you want people to think well of you, do not speak well of yourself.”
Pascal was once beloved by the “systems” men of the gambling fraternity but perhaps is more familiar today for the honour of having the S1 units of pressure named after him. It is said that the famous twentieth century Existentialists drew on some of his thoughts on religion.
A contemporary of Pascal’s who lived for a time at Naddes and Espinarre in chateaux in the north of the Auvergne owned by her husband the Comte, was Madame de la Fayette, born Marie-Madelaine Pioche de la Verne. It is claimed that her novel La Princesse de Clèves published in 1678 when she was aged forty-four, was “the first true French novel”.
Although she was born in Paris in 1634, after her marriage to the Comte she divided her time between his estates in the Auvergne and Bourbonnais before settling permanently in Paris in 1659.
And then there was the birth in 1885 in St. Julien Chapteuil (on the east of the Massif Centrale) of Jules Romain. Romain was drawn to Paris (of course) and did brilliantly in philosophy. Subsequently he turned to writing and in his books expounds his theory of “unanism” loosely translated as “the collective spirit”; for example, the spirit of a city.
My encyclopaedia sums up the word unanism as “the transcendent power of collective emotion…as a whole rather than the individuals composing it”. Rather like terroir, in some ways. I wonder if we should try and revive unanism. The cult of the individual: the me, me, what about me? has its merits, but perhaps a stimulating dose of unanism say every ten years or so.
Jules Romain also wrote Les Copains, which was set partly in the circular town hall of Ambert. As a result, an excellent local restaurant or auberge is known by that name. I always think of Ambert on the Dore River (another Dore), as being on the wrong side of the Massif Centrale, too close to the infernally busy St. Etienne. And besides, the waters of that Dore River flow to the north into the Allier, and then into the Loire. But that river redeems itself by flowing eventually through the oak forests known as the Allier and also the oak forests of the Tronçais (near St. Bonnet Tronçais, bien sûr) and those forests are very dear to the hearts of all winemakers, be they French or Australian, for there isn’t a winemaker in either country who wouldn’t fall to his knees for a whiff of a skilfully toasted barrique (225 litre wine barrel) from this blessed region. And perhaps I should say in passing that it is the subtlety of the toast that matters — toast that blends with and complements fruit, not oak that dominates it.
Auvergnats are those people whose hearts will never leave their somehow remote and wild countryside, even though they have streamed and continue to stream into Paris in their thousands. If I were a young man who lived within sight of the Puy-de-Dome, I too would go to Paris, but I would come back, or I would resolve to come back. I would not forget the Auvergne.
There are many reminders of the Auvergne in Paris: in its restaurants and its restaurateurs, its wine from St. Pourçain, its show business, its music, its literature and its politicians. Wasn’t Georges Pompidou born in Montboudie and weren’t the d’Estaings, both Charles-Hector and Giscard also sons of the Auvergne? Charles-Hector (18th century) and Giscard (20th century) were very successful in France but it must be said that Charles-Hector stumbled a few times as commander of the first French Fleet at the time of the American War of Independence and unluckily was guillotined during the Terror, as a reward for his efficiency as Commander of the National Guard during the Revolution. Giscard can and, no doubt, has claimed that he was a distant relative of the great Charlemagne.
And there was, or rather is, Jacques Chirac, one of the most enigmatic of them all, and long lasting. Chirac was born in Paris but spent some of his early life in nearby Corréze where his family had useful connections. Chirac and then Nicolas Sarkozy, quite a contrast for the conservative French. Sarkozy certainly was not born in the Auvergne. It is said that Auvergnants like to describe France as “The Auvergne with a bit of land around it”.
And finally we must give the Bourbons a mention. The Chateau of the Bourbon Dukes stands on the top of the hill in the town of Montluçon and the remains of the old feudal castle still exists on the rocky promontory of Bourbon l’Archambault, both in the north of the Allier Department. This general area was once known as the province of Bourbonnais. Henry 1V (“Paris is worth a Mass”) was the first Bourbon (son of Antoine de Bourbon, Duke of Vendôme and King of Navarre) and Charles X, who was deposed in 1830, was rightly, or wrongly, the last, or in any event, the last to reign. The old Louis-Phillipe imposed himself on the French for a while but then he made the mistake of preferring the Fleur-de-Lis to the Tricolor, and that was certainly that.
Auvergne, land of mists and snow, of mountain peaks and inverted cones, of icy rivers, waterfalls and gentle lakes, of grass and cereals of the deepest green, of shining clouds and skies of clear blue, of wonderfully long-horned red cattle and short but powerful horses, of sheep and goats and cheese and wine, of the headwaters, indeed the origin, of the Dordogne River, we love you. But we must move on, we must become more specific. You are still around us, but we must go back to Puy de Sancy and then journey south-west down the river to Bourg and Bordeaux. In short, we should become a friend of the river and maintain that friendship throughout its life: its turbulent youth in the Auvergne, its middle age in the Perigord and its old age from the Entre deux Mers to its death in the Atlantic.
CHAPTER FOUR
Picking up the rental car at Clermont Ferrand had not been without a little trauma and amusement, mainly with regard to our rejection of a somewhat battered Citroën, but finally we were on our way. We had determined on a direct route down to Puy de Sancy where we had booked a room, and that direct route was thus: on to the Autoroute the A75, exit 6 on to the D 978, follow the D 996 and straight on to Le Mont Dore (the town) and on to Puy de Sancy. We estimated that we would arrive at our hotel in the early afternoon. We hadn’t allowed for the loveliness of the country and the fascination of the villages along the way.
Even as you drive along the autoroute you are struck by the views on both sides of the road: hills close by, volcanic mountains in the distance and everywhere the gold and the green of the trees; the hills, the peaks, the dramatic valleys…It was hard not to stop and to take a D road to the East towards the forest of Livradois or to plunge in amongst the very volcans of the Auvergne on the West.
We kept to our plan, however and took our exit along the D 978. At 11.45 we arrived at the quiet village of Champeix. There were two reasons for us to be concerned. Firstly it was a Monday (not a good day for shopping in the French countryside), and secondly it was only a quarter of an hour until the whole village would close for lunch. The boulangerie was open and we got our demi-baguette and made enquires about the épicerie. It was closed, of course, but there was the Ecomarché at the top of the hill on the way out of the village, the less than attractive supermarchés that the French have allowed in thousands of towns and villages.
Never mind, it would have all we would need and indeed it did: walnut oil (essential
