Excursions a l’Aveyronnaise
A France unplanned: Part four
These blurbs were originally written in late August 2023, a few days after I left L’Occitanie as part of the France series. It feels strange to publish memories of scorching days in -24°C weather.
The philosophy of unplanned travel
The consequences of travelling with no firm plans are contradictory and two-fold: There are no expectations or much-dreamed-of and long-awaited excursions. Everything has the potential to surprise us in the best and in the worst ways. However, the frantic push to make the most out of fascinating and unique places while searching for available lodgings and spots in popular restaurants eats away at the time that could be spent enjoying the area.
Flexibility and detachment are key. There is a large number of external factors, such as weather, seasonal availabilities, and ease of movement between destinations, that are beyond our control. "It would be nice to _____" is the phrase I use to introduce an itinerary or excursion to my day without developing an attachment to its fulfilment. It would be nice, but it is not imperative. If it works out, that's excellent. If it does not, there is no shortage of things to see or do, so onto the next.
It's building the ship as it sails, in a manner of speaking.
Flat-earthing
A search of places to visit around Saint-Georges-de-Luzençon yielded results such as "one of the top ten heritage-status villages in France" or "an engineering accomplishment unlike any other." I pulled the map to chart out the location of these attractions and was delighted to see these were within a few kilometres from where I stayed. As far as I could tell, these were reachable by foot until I checked the estimate for a twelve-kilometre walk. "TWO AND A HALF HOURS?!" I barked at the phone.
"It's all hills and mountains. There's no direct walking route to get there," said Nathalie, the Mill owner, as she continued chopping vegetables for lunch. She could tell I wasn't entirely convinced. "It's also really hot, supposed to be forty degrees this week," she added, shutting the entire notion down.
Is it Meeyo, Meow, Meelo, or …?
With the A/C turned on and our hiking shoes napping in the shade, we - the newly formed friend group of Mill lodgers - set off to visit Millau, the administrative magnet of the handful of small villages around. Driving to its edge for parking, I got the impression that it was a quiet, vacant sort of place. That notion was dispelled once we made our way through the narrow, cobblestoned alleys. A beehive of a town unfolded before us; families and children were everywhere: by the fountain, in cafes, and sitting on stoops. Everyone was out enjoying the sun; there were no spaces for us to pause and take it all in.
We strolled through the central square, downed a freshly squeezed lemonade - delivered by the sourest person I've met in France - and walked to the outskirts of the central area.
I understood from one of the locals that Millau was popular with campers, hikers, paragliders, and climbers. It wasn’t a large commune but drew in residents and tourists from the adjacent areas for the shopping and government services, which included - to my delight - a drive-through post office.
I couldn't understand why the shops displayed woollen hats and gloves on an uncharacteristically hot summer day. I asked one of the shopkeepers eventually, who proudly informed me that the Millavois are known for their high-quality leather gloves and textiles. I obliged his request to try a pair on, and they fit beautifully. But it was unbearably hot, and I couldn’t justify an impractical €120 purchase. In France, these could be useful; back home, they are only adequate for the two-week transition period between picturesque autumn and oh-my-goodness-why-is-the-wind-burning-my-face autumn.
I returned to Millau two more times, once to pass a rainy morning in shops and another to dine at Au Jeu de Paume. The parsley sauce topped with whipped bacon cream atop the escargots is by far one of the best things I've tasted on this trip.
For the curious: It’s pronounced Mee-yo.
Threads across the sky
Rising above the little villages and the rivers crisscrossing the region is the massively impressive Millau Viaduct. I found myself standing underneath the bridge on a cloudy day, staring at the overwhelming structure with awe, as its foundations were in this world while the rest of it was up in the heavens. It's the tallest bridge in the world at the moment, and from what I understood, it pays homage to the area's textile industry through its pillars' design, which resemble needle eyes with threads running across them. I particularly liked the thoughtful approach to placing this concrete behemoth atop the soft and delicate scenery of the Occitanie, with its small villages and rolling fields. Despite its function and scale, it didn't feel like a concrete, modern imposition but a thoughtful, almost airy solution to a current traffic problem.
It’s like haggis, but not
We set about to take in the sights along the snake-like ascents of the areas around Saint-Georges and Millau. As we passed through and by the villages en route, the scenery felt lifted out of an impressionist painting, with stone houses peppering bright yellow fields, hills carpeted with vivid shrubbery, and rivers flowing every which way.
On an evening outing to Saint-Rome-de-Tarn, the sky broke loose and drenched everything and everyone in sight. We sought shelter at a restaurant known for its traditional Aveyronnaise dishes. Feeling appreciation for the local cheese and meat industry, we sampled various dishes, some that delighted us and one that got lost in translation. We erroneously mistook what tripous was, thinking it a variation on lamb leg (gigot d'agneau). What arrived on the dish resembled gnocchi in size and shape and tasted acceptable to me, but I struggled with the excessively chewy texture that refused to go down with ease. Call me traditional, but I generally prefer my food to do its wriggling before it's served. My companions' initial confusion turned into horror once we were told that tripous was bits of the sheep's stomach stuffed with ham, garlic, parsley, and feet. The misunderstanding was promptly replaced by a chunk of steak with potatoes.
The rubbery stomach pieces were not the only thing that was hard to swallow that evening. My pride took a hit as I tried to move the car from a tight parking spot partially blocked by another vehicle and two motorcycles. I had to inch my way out using over a dozen moves while a young Frenchman leaned against his own improperly parked car, lit a cigarette, and stood watching in amusement.
Wait, people live here?!
We sprinted to the nearby village of Peyre the following day before the sun was out in full force. We parked along the road and returned to where the stone paths signalled an entryway into this historic destination.
Peyre felt as though it belonged to another time or should, at the very least, be designated a museum. It could easily be mistaken for a tourist attraction instead of a residential area, but the laundry hanging off a clothesline and the small Minis parked by the cave-like garages told me otherwise. The stunning houses took on different shapes; I couldn’t tell how large or small they were judging by the exterior, as some sat on the side of the hill and atop flat surfaces, while others were built directly into the cliff's rock.
We walked up, higher and higher into the village, and on the way, saw children playing in what I'll loosely describe as a gathering square, a family lunching in their courtyard, and a self-serve stand selling dried local herbs and homemade jams. Our ascent started to feel uncomfortably laboured as the midday heat settled in. We trekked down towards the Church of St. Christoph, passing by a small restaurant brimming with diners and making way for a woman to park her car and take her shopping bags to her otherworldly house.
On the way back, we passed Saint-Beauzély, down the road from Peyre, though an entire world apart in character, building aesthetic, and vibe. The stone arches, layout, and proximity of the houses reminded me of the opening scene of Disney's Beauty and the Beast (the animation, not the abomination) when Belle walked through the village on her way home. With sheep visibly present and dotting the area's hills, it's entirely possible that Saint-B was the setting for that story.
Random shimming on a Friday night in a French village
On the last night at Saint-Georges, Nathalie invited us to dine with her friends and expats who happened to be in the area, then stroll out to the village to watch its annual brass band procession and enjoy the ensuing festivities.
Incidentally, an unexpected itinerary was charted at that dinner table following a lively conversation with some attendees. Over a hybrid French-English bread pudding, it was decided that the Camargue region is worth a visit to show me a completely different side of France.
After dinner, we went to see the procession only to find the streets empty; evidently, the event had uncharacteristically started on time. With music playing nearby, we followed the sounds into the village square and found two bands battling for applause by playing popular songs on their brass instruments. Some attendees danced, others sang along, and a few did both, falling in and out of sync with the rest of the world. It all looked and felt so incredibly natural to the place, the area, and the feel of this region. I absolutely loved it.
I went back to the Mill to pack and take in the last of what it had to offer. I was leaving in the morning for Aix-en-Provence with the intention of meeting a new travel friend there. Between Millau and Aix lay three hundred kilometres, a world of possibilities and detours.
The France series: