Sleeping Beauty castles and gentian aperitif

The cows did not quite tinkle us awake, they clanged us. Good solid cowbell jangle. They have been quiet during the night, which was lovely, as we slept like logs in the green heights of the Auvergne, but this morning they are on the move, looking for greens to make milk. 

Our first mission, today, is to hunt down another famous cheese and aperitif, at Salers. These cheeses, too, traditionally are made and stored in the burons. Enroute, we climb unbelievable heights, descending right down to sea level, winding our way up again, and down. All day, 

Some years I have a fear of heights on such scary mountain roads. I don’t know why. This year that fear hasn’t surfaced, thank goodness. I would not be happy doing these drives, if that little hobble was in full flow. 

We stop at the top of one of our Cols, peaks, at around 1,300 metres, for a double espresso in a salle panoramique, overlooking miniature villages sticking up out of the deep distant valley like standup fairytale cutout tableaux in a children’s storybook. 

Salers is another lovely village full of medieval magic: turrets that evoke Sleeping Beauty castles, and tight slate tiles set atop these pretty conical domes. 

We try the traditional cheese. It is ghastly. Not to our taste. Sour. Unpasteurised, perhaps. Yet farmers have lived on it, and loved it, for a millennium. But is not for us. 

We try the aperitif. It is made from the root of the gentian flower that grows wild on these hills. It, too, is sour and not to our taste. Ahh -- distraite! We wonder then, if those cows bedecked with soft bells, have been chewing on the bitter gentian roots to flavour their milk, making their cheese bitter. It seems possible. 

We leave the cheese and the aperitif to the locals and wind our way downhill past a Calvary of three crucifixes on the hill in a tiny village with a chapel carved into the soft limestone of a massive monolith rock, then, again, up and down, to Tournemire, a patch of high country over which four feudal lords once fought for control.

The D’Anjony’s won. They built a neat little chateau on a pinnacle of rock in a picture postcard village that their descendants still own and live in to this day. This, after one of their ilk, tried until he was 90 to produce a direct descendant. Unsuccesful poor man. So, with patrimony as it was, his inheritance passed to his second cousin: albeit still an Anjony, by any other name. 

What is special about this lovely chateau, apart from its turrets, large salles containing many ancient authentic pieces, and its spiral stone staircases reaching four tall floors over the valleys, are its murals. 

One room, as a wedding present from one of the Anjony chevaliers to his wife, is painted top to bottom with tales of nine adventuring knights no matter if they be Christian, Jew or pagan: including King Arthur of the Round Table, David of the Goliath battle, and Julius Caesar. Ceiling to floor these knight tales are gorgeous. Albeit that Arthur’s face is a bit ravaged, probably given the Hundred Year War interlude. In another room, behind the fireplace, original peek holes set for enemy viewing whilst sitting supping at the dining table, are still in place. This is a wondrous feature. 

Even the rampart walks are as they were hundreds of years ago: prime viewing spots for enemy incursions: you can see through gaps in the hoarding below your feet and in front of you. Another touch of time travel. 

The roof of the chateau is slate, tile upon tile, each pinned at one centre hole with a thick fat homemade oak peg. And the floors throughout each salon are also pegged : wide oak beams, squeakily pegged, to betray all enemies. 

Tonight we stay in a comfortable municipal campground in Rodiz and dinner takes no time. We start with Insalata Caprese on Tuc. We have a basil plant in the camping car. Until that plant dies, or is used completely, that determines our entrée. Tuc is a crispy, dry, savoury aperitif cracker. We discovered it last year in Germany and hunt, now, until we find it. Tip: Whomsoever imports Tuc into Australia will become a millionaire. And follow with Pah-Aye-Yah. Paella. With fat king prawns, French trimmed chicken legs, strips of tender squid, moules avec saffron coloured riz -- and sweet pois. (We are getting closer to Spain, and it is yumshus.) We finish with apple turnover avec crème (double). Deserts are now appearing at dinner time, too. We will get fat. I do not think we care. 

High in the Auvergne mountains of the Massif Central

Aperitif from gentian flower

Mural of Knights decorate the walls