Free Au Revoir by Mary Moody Page B

Prayssac to reach an amazing circuit of ancient structures known as dolmens, which resemble small versions of Stonehenge with massive platform rocks suspended on hefty uprights. In the same area is a circle of menhirs—huge rocks that have been thrust into the ground as upright pillars, also known to have had strong religious significance for the ancient people who lived here. There’s a rock-carved niche, known as ‘Caesar’s Armchair’, and a most unusual gariotte, or stone shepherd’s hut, with two chambers instead of the usual single shelter. We are astounded to think of these treasures just sitting here in the woodlands, unprotected and largely ignored. The fact that so few people seem to know about the dolmens and menhirs probably helps to preserve them, but I wonder if the people living in the rather plain modern houses just down the hillside are aware that their tract of land has such a rich and mysterious history.
    As my interests lie so much in the survival skills and daily lifestyle of ordinary people, I am attracted to a guided tour of farms that is advertised at one of the tourism offices. Again I drag Jock along for the ride, which involves driving our own car and following a bilingual guide through the winding country lanes around Belvès, a hillside township about half an hour from St Caprais. The tour includes lunch at a ferme auberge, or farm restaurant, which serves food that is actually produced right there on the farm. Our tour begins with a detailed look at a tobacco farm; the tobacco industry was once the mainstay of the region but is now falling from favour because of the changing tastes of smokers. The dark-leafed heavy tobacco variety grown successfully for decades is now no longer desired becausesmokers prefer the lighter and paler leaf varieties that simply don’t do as well in the local soils and climates. As the farmer points out, growing tobacco is a tremendously labour intensive task, and one which also uses a lot of chemicals because the crops require frequent spraying against pests and diseases during the main growing season. Driving around the southwest, I often see empty tobacco-drying sheds—they are always taller than the local barns with timber-slatted sides that are opened, like louvres, to allow gentle breezes through while the crops are hanging to dry. Fields that were once used to grow tobacco have now been turned over to maize or wheat as farmers try to keep up with the changing pace of agriculture. In the morning we also briefly visit a goat cheese farm, where the friendly goats crowd around us and try eating our loose clothing and camera bag straps. The smell of goat urine is quite distinctive, and I always think it carries over into the cheese, which is why I prefer the more subtle flavour of sheep cheese.
    Our lunch at the local ferme auberge is an eye-opener. All eight of us are invited into the family dining room after being given a brief tour of the farm and its buildings. I am totally besotted with the old but reliable bread oven in the barn, built of stone with a rounded back and chimney; it once baked crusty loaves for the entire hamlet, and now bakes fresh bread for the restaurant at least three times a week. Just about everything that passes our lips has been made on the farm. There’s a strongly alcoholic aperitif made from plums, chicken soup with noodles and, of course, great chunks of fresh cooked bread. There are crudités from the garden and large portions of roasted duck—from the same family we have just seen shuffling around the poultry pen. The red wine is also made on the spot,and is quite light and aromatic compared with some of the heavier Cahors-style wines. After the required five courses we are back on track to visit a goose and duck farm where the most famous delicacy is produced: foie gras. I am not actually looking forward to this part of the tour, having heard so many grim stories about the suffering of the