Holiday memories in Chasseradès

Hotel des Sources The Maurin family from Mas prepared our accommodation, a completely dilapidated shack where an ancestor, a shoemaker, must have fitted generations of little children, so small were the sizes of the pairs left abandoned under the dust of the dimly lit barn. Yes, you were all there to wait for the lively yellow and red micheline that we, the "Parisians with calf heads," were late to arrive in.

Village Year after year, you answered present at our meeting with the same loyalty: Gérard Mangin, Lorette, and Martine, whose father, the hairdresser, inflicted upon us a "military-style" summer haircut; the Gazeilles brothers and the Benoit girls, Lili, Danièle, and other Nîmois from the barracks, the companion Poulou Morel from Bessèges and his revered father with the smoking pipes, Casanova the injured Marseillese, Annie Brochet always smiling, Annie and Nadine Exbalin and their cousins, the Cali brothers from La Grand-Combe and… Jean Oublie... And you, Christiane Vincent, my older sister back then, do you know that I keep a photo capturing our frog safaris? Poor amphibians! We stood there in our boots, shirts, and large checked aprons by the stream, with our slimy prey in hand. Remember, it was this stream that ran through the meadows of La Parro to empty crystal-clear into the two wash basins, where the village gossip was told. After hearing too much from the village gossips, it would eventually get lost, corrupted, under the bridge in the impenetrable nettles. It then took the name of Balat, a fetid stream by the bank of which we had to slow our four-hoofed run when we hurried down from Father Montil's workshop to Father Saint Jean's house.

Do you also remember those evenings after dinner when we dressed up and shaved your grandpa Vincent: drowned in a white froth up to his eyes, he lent his laughing face to the imaginary blades of our cardboard razors. I have kept this collection of unforgettable images and flavors in memory: the picking of arnica that earned us the forest ranger's coin, the bellies full of wild cherries in the meadows of Mirandol by the edge of Chassezac, the flavor of the mushrooms picked in the secret "bolete areas" of the always-present forests: Mercoire, slopes of the Allier, Moure de la Gardille, Chabalerey… the barely tangy sweetness of blueberries and the raspberries whose jelly made our snacks a delight.

Church On the summer program, the hikes organized by the older ones under the high expertise of Mr. Esposito and son had become a classic, a true pilgrimage to Coucoulut by climbing the Goulet mountain where the highlight was to pick wild artichokes and devour the heart on the way back home. Not a day went by without our team improvising a walk in the picturesque geography of our vacation.

Route de Chasserades Just outside the village, the cure woods offered us a vast meeting ground for our memorable football and rugby games. It is in this blessed cure woods that paradoxically we most often sprained wrists and broke arms! A little further, passing the cemetery, the galleries of fir trees in Galtier's woods opened, where chatty moms joined the barrier guard and his two daughters for long afternoons… chatting. Good humor was always on the agenda during our hikes: in Prat Claux, Chabalier, Mas Méjean, at the sources of the Allier, in the gorges of Chassezac. I was almost forgetting the famous tree lying across the river overlooking these gorges: we had named it the "black panther"! It was the pirate ship where our imaginations sailed, the one where we had to cross the trunk without losing our balance to earn our sailor badges!

Another classic of summer was the pilgrimage to Notre-Dame-des-Neiges in Saint-Laurent-les-Bains near La Bastide-Puylaurent, reverently dedicated to the snow flower, a sparkling wine with delicious properties that revealed intoxication and, if affinities, facilitated the tendency towards soulmates, an irresistible inclination of beings under the complacent gaze of a God served in this very place by Trappist monks.

More discreet and productive were our fishing for minnows in the meadows of Mas or our cruel hunting in the pine woods, armed with slingshots whose making occupied a significant part of our leisure time. Did we not go so far as to pilfer used air chambers from tractors to make our elastics solidly tied to the hazel fork, hardened then curved in the oven?

Bell Tower and Village Chasseradès, its inhabitants always in good humor: Mr. Bonnet, the forest ranger with his light gray eyes rolling like two marbles in the center of a kind face, and his two daughters and two sons, Audegade the postman with Toto, Zeze... and the neighboring farm of Reboul with René his cattle dealer, Pierre and Jean Poudevigne the butcher and the hotelier, and Maryse at the café, the tobacconist and Alain, his nephew from Saint Gilles, priest Michel and his maid... Jean and Michel, the Ilpides brothers, Maria and Gaston, their parents, father Saint Jean champion of pétanque, father Boisset from the casino with his light wood-paneled van, who kindly transported our trunk on arrival and return, his wife a teacher, Barrière, the postman, Montil the blacksmith, the Teyssonier brothers and their muscular bulls, Sabatier the strong man carved from rock and closely cropped, and his wife Henriette our charming neighbor, their son and daughter.

Vacation House By mid-July, the alleys came alive with the singing accent of holidaymakers, mainly from the land of the cicadas, and the summer was getting warmer. What an excitement, colors, and preparations leading up to the famous ball on August 15! Under the shade of the lime trees on the square, elegant couples twirled through waltzes and paso dobles, revealing, amongst their graceful figures, the light draperies beneath their swirling dresses. More rustic, the unavoidable Auvergne bourrée arrived unexpectedly with frenetic steps that each time threatened to break the dance floor: "per ben lou dansa vive les Auvergnats!"

The bingo game introduced a note of caution to this lively animation and marked a moment of great concentration until the cry of "quine!" for the winner of the poultry or the grand prize of bottles was heard. Then the bubbly could flow again and generously accompany the golden fougasses, embedded with sweets and enjoyed with delight, before the traditional pétanque competition began. Organized by Francis Challier and his assistants, this sporting event gathered in doubles and triples all that the village could count as holidaymakers, good or bad players, beginners or experts in scoring and shooting. As the animated games progressed, partners moved from one place to another in the village to face new opponents, until the final was played on the main square in the light of lanterns and in a silence worthy of the highest competitions. Among the shooters competing in skill, the names of Exbalin and Saint Jean were inscribed every year in the champions' roster.

Chassezac Valley The event also had its commentators, and among the most eloquent, Fernand Claveroli shone with his wit. This great storyteller, a star of the evenings among friends and a true product of the Canebiére, was recognized by all as a master of wit and a pun master: "hey pecquelet, does your mother buy your shorts at Renault? No sir, but why?" And Fernand, joking, repeated for the umpteenth time: "Oh pardon, because, my little one, Renault at Billancourt!"

From the day after August 15, it was a different tune! We were awakened by the grunting of pigs whose screams drowned out the bleating of lambs, the mooing of cows, and the nervous jingling of their bells in this "bucolico-cacophononic" concerto.

Chasseradès was indeed a non-stop party and the mythical place of our early experiences. The time for our first cigarettes, p4 or blue filter disc that we smoked in secret. To procure them, we had to either save a bit or forget to return the change from grocery shopping, but especially face the inquisitive eye of Madame the tobacconist. After climbing the stairs that led to her shop, we pushed the door and the "gling gling" of the bell rang out, betraying our guilty presence. Madame appeared giving us a suspicious look, dressed in black as always in her wealthy widow's attire, with the thousand scents of light and dark tobaccos enveloping her presence.

For you, friends from the past who recognize yourselves in this mention, was Chasseradès not the high place of your adolescence? Is it not the sanctuary where the confusion of your first emotions revives, where the bouquet of memories blooms again, exhaling the scents of youth whose memory and affection have preserved the indelible fragrance? I am sure they will all remember their Lozère holidays, when each year July renewed the magical moment of their reunions in Chasseradès. D. Ch. Extr. The Summer of Chasseradès.

Former holiday hotel with a garden along the Allier, L'Etoile Guest House is located in La Bastide-Puylaurent between Lozere, Ardeche, and the Cevennes in the mountains of Southern France. At the crossroads of GR®7, GR®70 Stevenson Path, GR®72, GR®700 Regordane Way, GR®470 Allier River springs and gorges, GRP® Cevenol, Ardechoise Mountains, Margeride. Numerous loop trails for hiking and one-day biking excursions. Ideal for a relaxing and hiking getaway.