Derek Francis visited northern Tarn and was captivated by its ancient vineyards, beautiful Gothic buildings and traditional fare

It was my birthday , my sixty-eighth ‘ year to heaven’ in the poetic language of Dylan Thomas .I always felt the poet’s presence when October came around. Both Welsh, our birthdays are three days apart and his last public appearance- and the first performance of UNDER MILK WOOD- was on my birthday in 1953. So it seemed fitting that my wife and I set off with’ the son of October, summery on the hill’s shoulder’, on our way to celebrate what I hoped would be a memorable birthday.

Our route took us southeast from Montauban in Tarn-et-Garonne, down the valley of the Tescou river, where the landscape began to take on a more gentle , sculptured nature. Well-tented and prosperous vineyards began to appear. We were now in Tarn, in Gaillac country. One of  the oldest wine-producing areas in France, the name is not as familiar in Britain today as it would have been to wine drinkers in the Middle Ages. Research shows that vines have been cultivated here for at least 1500 years . Crossing another fertile valley, a vision ahead of a hilltop town reaching for the sky; on a rocky promontory sat Cordes-sur-Ciel. The duel between the rapidly-rising sun and the evaporating valley mist created a fairytale sight; golden, red-roofed, thirteenth-century houses climbing tier-upon-tier up to the final barbican which houses the town centre. One of the most medieval places in France, little wonder it is called the “ Perle des Bastides “.We parked at the base of the town and walked into a history book. The town was magical; a Walt Disney creation sprung to life. The remarkable thing about Cordes is that people still live here. The temptation to preserve the town as a monument in stone has been resisted, its houses have been left to develop characters of their own. Cordes-sur-Ciel is made up of four concentric enclosures, each one older than the last; so as you climb the hill you are walking back into history through fortified gates. We walked past the Pater Noster Staircase, with as many steps as there are words in the Lord’s Prayer, up to the final gate, the “Portail Peint”( painted gate ), which has been barely altered since the thirteenth century. Now we were in the heart of the “ Bastide”. Here on the cobbled Grand rue you can find the best of the Gothic houses which were once the homes of those who made their fortunes from linen and leather between 1295 and 1340. On the ornate facades, families are immortalised ( Maisons Prunet, Carrie-Boyer…); recreations recorded- the “Maison du grand-fauconnier”, once decorated with falcons- and appetites revealed: the Maison du “Grand Ecuyer” is adorned with a bird of prey devouring a rabbit and a woman with a bare breast eating an apple. The last, appropriately, now houses  The restaurant of award-winning chef Yves Thuries. It was there we had planned to eat. Mr Thuries, however, had other plans. So high on the gourmet hit parade of France is  he that he could afford to be closed.

Further on, the ancient market hall and the church of St.Michel, which has been modified over the centuries and is perhaps less interesting than its neighbours. Having taken so much in, it was good to sit under a shady chestnut tree in Place de la Bride and look out over the miles of surrounding countryside. 

The clock struck twelve. Noon in France signifies the commencement of the sacred ritual of lunch so we went to the tourist office where I asked the pleasant young man at the counter to recommend a restaurant. His answer was considered: “ as a tourism employee, I am not able to promote particular restaurants, “ he paused for effect. “ But my mother has a favourite.” Was he at liberty to divulge this family secret? “ as she is not employee, I can tell you that she would choose the Hostellerie du parc at Les Cabannes”. Phew.

Les Cabannes turned out to be a pleasant suburb of Cordes and the hostellerie

a lovely mellow-brick, nineteenth-century town house, now an elegant hotel. Its wood-panelled dining room overlooked the park and swimming pool. The owner and chef Claude Izard is famous as the founder and current President of the Cuisineries Gourmandes des Provinces Françaises. This organisation promotes regional cooking and the use of fresh, local produce ( a minimum of 70 per cent ). We ordered appropriately, feasting on terrine of partridge with foie gras, followed by a casserole of rabbit with cabbage,  local speciality. For dessert there were chocolate profiteroles and a tarte-tatin, in lieu of a birthday cake. Delicious.

The wine waiter recommended a local white, a Mauzac Sec Prestige’98. It was so good that we asked the waiter for the name and location of the chäteau, which turned out to be Vignoble Le Payssel. So it was, an hour or so later, a couple of mellow, sixty-something-year-olds set out  to retrace their steps to find the noble grape. Vignoble Le Payssel is off the road back to the town of Gaillac.Down a long  lane between recently-harvested vines, a quiet stone farmhouse sat on the slopes of the vineyard.

The caves were empty. Hearing a couple of hearty bonjours, a young woman came out to greet us. She seemed delighted to have a break from her viticultural duties and ushered us into the tasting room next to the wine cellar. The atmosphere was redolent of wine’earth, casks and generations of “Louis Brun et Fils “ who had lovingly sold their produce in this oak-beamed space.

Madame brun emphasised that they were very traditional growers and concentrated on the indigenous grape varieties of Duras, Braucol, Loin de l’Oeil and Mauzac, which has been around since the Romans. We started on the dry whites.Le Payssel Tradition followed by Fraîcheur Perlée and then our favourite, Mauzac Sec Prestige. The unique flavour of the last enhanced by fermentation in oak casks and between five and six months on the sediments. A swift washing of glasses produced the reds. We tasted Le Payssel Braucol and Rouge Duras. After exchanges about spiciness, peppery nose and the presence ( or absence ) of tannin, we moved on, a little more hazily, to the sweet Mauzac Doux (‘bouquet of stewed pears and ripe apples, characteristic of overripe Mauzac, the whole underpinned by a note of vanilla ). At that stage I could have done with a little underpinning myself.

We settled on a couple of cases of the Prestige and Madame presented me with a very nice  sommelier, that useful combination of knife and corkscrew, which is used so expertly by Oz Clarke.

At the top of the drive I got out of the car and looked out again over the lovely vineyard, softened now by the sun dipping behind the gentle hills. The final lines of Dylan Thomas’ Poem in October seemed fitting:

O may my heart’s truth

Still be sung

On this high hill in a year’s turning.

It had been a memorable birthday. Many Happy Returns.