By: Margaret Hedderman
As the sun lowered over the distant hills, a cool air would set in for dinner. During the day, throughout the various chores, the question “why the hell am I doing this?” would arise. The answer arose with the savory steam of the Poulet Sauté aux Herbes de Provence, or in the Crème Brûlée. It wasn’t just that the Les Combelles food was some of the best I’ve ever tasted, but rather the way in which we ate it made all of the hardwork worthwhile. To sit around good food with good friends (though they are new), sipping wine and talking for two hours in the warm summer evening adds a quality of life that can never be discovered in a plastic, microwaveable dish.
On June 29th I wrote:
I walked up the road a little ways this evening after dinner and watched the sunset over the little house on the hillside. Les Combelles is like another world. Heather and Jean-Pierre have built a wonderful life here. They get so much joy out of everything they do. Heather recognizes the work is hard, but she gets enjoyment from that. From literally building and growing life. I think when you grow your own food you are taking more control over who you are. We are what we eat, as cliché as that statement is.
Not exactly the most eloquent piece I’ve ever written, but we’ll blame my sore and aching body for that. Anyway, it brings us into Act Three: Departure. I imagined the hero’s journey or quest. Along the way She stumbles upon a hidden treasure, a little piece of paradise, a small farm in the south of France. It would be tempting, easy to stay, but the road calls on. There are still yet new places to discover, more farms to work, more stories to write. Well, there’s my imagination for you. Nevertheless, it was sad to say goodbye, but the experiences here I do believe laid the groundwork for much of my future work as well as how I eat.
When Jean-Pierre dropped us off at the train station in Lavaur, he said, “Peut-être une autre fois.” Perhaps another time. Peut-être.
