Holiday memories in Chasseradès

The Maurin family from Le Mas prepared our accommodation—a completely dilapidated shack where an ancestor, a shoemaker, must have fitted generations of small children, given the tiny sizes of the shoes left abandoned under the dust of the dimly lit barn. Yes, you were all there, waiting for the lively yellow and red railcar (the famous "Micheline") on which we, the "Parisians with calf heads", were arriving late.

Year after year, you showed up to our gathering with the same unwavering 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 kids from Nîmes from the barracks; our companion Poulou Morel from Bessèges and his revered father with his smoking pipes; Casanova, the injured Marseillais; 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 I still keep a photo capturing our frog safaris? Poor amphibians! We stood there in our boots, shirts, and large checked aprons by the stream, slimy prey in hand. Remember, it was this stream that ran through the meadows of La Parro, flowing crystal-clear into the two washhouses where village gossip was shared. After hearing too much from the village gossips, it eventually got lost and corrupted beneath the bridge in the impenetrable nettles. From there, it took the name of Balat—a fetid stream whose banks forced us to slow our wild four-hooved sprint 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? Drowning in white lather 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 alive in my memory: picking arnica that earned us the forest ranger's coin; bellies full of wild cherries in the Mirandol meadows by the edge of the Chassezac; the flavor of mushrooms picked in the secret "bolete patches" of the ever-present forests—Mercoire, the slopes of the Allier, Moure de la Gardille, Chabalerey… the slightly tangy sweetness of blueberries and the raspberries whose jelly made our afternoon snacks a true delight.

On the summer agenda, the hikes organized by the older kids—under the expert guidance of Mr. Esposito and his son—had become a classic. It was a true pilgrimage to Coucoulut, climbing the Goulet mountain, where the highlight was picking wild artichokes and devouring their hearts on the way back home. Not a day went by without our group improvising a walk through the picturesque geography of our vacation.

Just outside the village, the Curé's woods offered us a vast meeting ground for our memorable football and rugby games. Paradoxically, it was in these blessed woods that we most frequently sprained wrists and broke arms! A little further on, past the cemetery, the fir tree galleries of Galtier's woods opened up. There, chatty mothers joined the crossing guard and her two daughters for long afternoons of… chatting. Good humor was always on the agenda during our hikes: in Prat Claux, Chabalier, Mas Méjean, at the sources of the Allier, or in the Chassezac gorges. I almost forgot 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 set sail, and we had to cross its trunk without losing our balance to earn our sailor badges!

Another summer classic was the pilgrimage to Notre-Dame-des-Neiges in Saint-Laurent-les-Bains near La Bastide-Puylaurent. We reverently dedicated this trip to the "snow flower"—a sparkling wine with delicious properties that brought about a gentle intoxication and, if affinities aligned, facilitated the finding of soulmates. It was 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 minnow fishing trips in the meadows of Le Mas, or our cruel hunts in the pine woods, armed with slingshots whose crafting occupied a significant part of our leisure time. Didn't we go so far as to pilfer used inner tubes from tractors to make our elastics, solidly tying them to a hazelnut fork that had been hardened and curved in the oven?

Then there was Chasseradès itself, with its ever-cheerful inhabitants: Mr. Bonnet, the forest ranger with light gray eyes rolling like marbles in the center of a kind face, along with his two daughters and two sons; Audegade the postman with Toto and Zeze... the neighboring Reboul farm with René the cattle dealer; Pierre and Jean Poudevigne, the butcher and the hotelier; Maryse at the café; the tobacconist and Alain, her nephew from Saint-Gilles; Father Michel and his maid... Jean and Michel, the Ilpides brothers, and Maria and Gaston, their parents; Father Saint Jean, the pétanque champion; Father Boisset from the casino with his light wood-paneled van, who kindly transported our trunks upon arrival and departure, and his wife, a teacher; Barrière the postman; Montil the blacksmith; the Teyssonier brothers with their muscular bulls; Sabatier, the strongman carved from rock with a close-cropped haircut, and his wife Henriette, our charming neighbor, along with their son and daughter.

By mid-July, the alleys came alive with the singing accents of holidaymakers—mainly from the land of the cicadas—and the summer grew warmer. What excitement, colors, and preparations led up to the famous ball on August 15th! Under the shade of the lime trees on the square, elegant couples twirled through waltzes and paso dobles, revealing the light draperies beneath their swirling dresses. More rustic, the unavoidable Auvergne bourrée arrived unexpectedly with frenetic steps that constantly 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, marking a moment of intense concentration until the cry of "Quine!" was heard for the winner of the poultry or the grand prize of bottles. Then, the bubbly could flow again, generously accompanying 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 the holidaymakers the village could muster: good or bad players, beginners or pointing and shooting experts. 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 on the champions' roster.

The event also had its commentators, and among the most eloquent, Fernand Claveroli shone with his wit. This great storyteller, the star of evenings among friends and a true product of the Canebière, was recognized by all as a master of humor and puns: "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 15th, it was a different tune! We were awakened by the grunting of pigs, whose squeals drowned out the bleating of lambs, the mooing of cows, and the nervous jingling of their bells in a truly "bucolic-cacophonous" concerto.

Chasseradès was indeed a non-stop party and the mythical site of our early experiences. It was the time for our first cigarettes—P4 or blue filter Disque Bleu—which we smoked in secret. To procure them, we had to either save up a bit or conveniently forget to return the change from grocery shopping, but most importantly, face the inquisitive eye of Madame the tobacconist. After climbing the stairs 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.

For you, friends from the past who recognize yourselves in this text, 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 a youth whose memory and affection have preserved an 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. Excerpt from The Summer of Chasseradès.