Our Discovery of Authentic France
The descent down the valley to Pied-de-Borne spans twenty-two breathtaking kilometers. On that beautiful day, the three of us eagerly embraced the warm sun, the gentle breeze, and the exhilarating sensation of swooping down from the high country, winding our way through the long, steeply sloping valley of the River Borne. Philippe led the way, pedaling out of La Bastide-Puylaurent, his tall, lanky frame seemingly dwarfing his bicycle. Kathy and I mounted our bikes and followed close behind, calling out to our French friend that this was not a race; rather, we fully intended to enjoy a leisurely, picturesque ride through the stunning Cévennes countryside. This was meant to be pure fun!
Somehow, Philippe managed to resist his natural impulse to race pell-mell down the mountain and wait for us hours later at the bottom. Instead, the three of us lingered peacefully beside small, babbling streams and chatted with local countrymen tending their sheep in stone enclosures by the roadside. We romped beneath intricate patterns of dappled light streaming through the overarching chestnut groves. It is the kind of perfect day that replays vividly in your mind years later, much like a beloved movie reel.
How wonderfully unlikely it was that we would find ourselves in southern France on such a day, sharing it with such a good friend. An improbable chain of events had brought us to this precise place and time. If we were to retrace that sequence, it would look something like this: Philippe, who runs a welcoming guesthouse (offering half-board accommodations) in a historic former hotel in the south of France, has several months each year to travel. He speaks excellent English—a fortunate byproduct of other adventures in his life. Above all, he loves exploring and meeting new people.
A year earlier, he had hatched a brilliant plan to use the internet to find interesting guest accommodations around the globe. He sent emails proposing a simple trade: he would visit them for a week in exchange for a week's stay at his guesthouse. When his proposal arrived in our inbox, we eagerly accepted. We knew almost nothing about him and were pleasantly surprised when he showed up at our door alone, carrying only a single small bag. Thus began a deeply treasured friendship. The wheels were set in motion for the long, sun-drenched ride down this very valley.
A quiet stop by the wayside… a little food, some good wine, and easy, flowing conversation. We hadn't been cycling for more than an hour when a tiny café appeared around a sharp bend in the road. Sitting around a small wooden table, the conversation naturally turned to Philippe’s adventurous past.
Gliding down a long, sweeping stretch of road with an idyllic panorama unfolding before me, I am vividly reminded that it was in this very countryside that Robert Louis Stevenson led a stubborn donkey on a prolonged journey in 1878. His classic book, Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes, immortalizes his time here.
Near the road, small vineyards cling precariously to the steep slopes above us. Tiny stone hamlets, sheltered beneath terra cotta roofs, lie isolated on the mountainsides. The ancient abbey of Notre-Dame des Neiges leans dramatically from a precipice, while another historic structure crowns a nearby hill.
In the summer months, hikers from France, Belgium, Germany, the Netherlands, and the UK flock to this area. They trek along rugged trails through the challenging terrain, navigating a network of gîtes (guesthouses) conveniently spaced a day’s hike apart. They arrive each evening just in time for a hearty five-course meal, an evening of warm companionship, and a comfortable bed. After a generous breakfast the next morning, they might purchase a fresh loaf of bread baked by Philippe himself, before setting off for another glorious day in the mountains, heading toward their next welcoming gîte.
The most wonderful part of the ride down the Borne Valley is that it is entirely downhill. There is absolutely no need to pedal; you only brake occasionally to manage your speed. I have always considered pedaling a bicycle uphill to be a highly overrated activity. So, on this day, I am entirely free to derive pure, unadulterated pleasure from the road's downward twists and turns.
It was only a passing thought at the time—mostly a fleeting wave of deep appreciation for the splendid day at hand. The thought was simply this: my life thus far has quietly conspired to give me this perfect day, on this specific road, with the woman I married and this wonderful friend. There have been countless junctions on my life's path, as well as on the paths of my two companions, and today, they have all perfectly intersected on this single road to Pied-de-Borne.
Small clusters of ancient stone houses blur past on our downhill glide. Here, simple, hardworking folks find sustenance, raise their families, and learn to pose very few questions about the complexities of their existence. I suspect that only a rare few have ever made the trip to Paris. They marry when the time is right, and proceed straightaway with an orderly, predictable existence within the sturdy walls built by their ancestors.
Yes, life ultimately decides the great and small issues over the span of their years. But for them, it seems simpler; there are fewer complicated junctions in their road. For them, the list of choices is simply shorter.
It is late afternoon when we finally wind our way down into the lakeside town, marking the end of our cycling adventure. Once again, we stretch out comfortably around a café table, ordering food, wine, and coffee. We can feel the mutual pulse of appreciation for the journey we have just completed. We find deep contentment and easy camaraderie. Soon, we and our bikes will return to Philippe’s gîte, "L’Etoile Guesthouse" (The Star), in the quiet village of La Bastide-Puylaurent. But for now, there is plenty of time for relaxed, easy conversation.
I asked Philippe once more about his time in America as a young man. He was just eighteen when he and his brother, speaking almost no English, flew to New York and hitchhiked all the way to California. They had heard there was still gold in California. They scraped together the money for tickets and eagerly jumped aboard the airplane.
"That was a gritty, bold decision for someone so young," I remarked.
"But you forget, Tom. I do not decide. Life decides," he responded simply.
"And what has life planned for you next?" I asked.
"I don’t know. The gîte is too... sedentary. I must do something where I move." Philippe stared pensively out over the lake. "We are all good for something, but knowing exactly what... that is the difficult part."
A few more years have quietly ticked by since that memorable day. The winding road down from La Bastide-Puylaurent remains exactly as it was. But other roads now stretch out ahead of us, winding up and over distant, unknown horizons.
We have shared many more wonderful days with Philippe, particularly when he returned to visit us in the Ozarks two years later. During every visit, he insists on preparing a delicious, authentic French meal for us and our guests. We spend hours engaged in long, easy conversations about philosophy, the delicate art of living, and the shared human condition. We canoe down the river, chop firewood, and excitedly plan our future endeavors. And often, he reveals his wonderfully mischievous side.
By Tom Corey
From "A High Sunny Place". The book may be obtained at the following web address: https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/rockeddy 
Visit our two websites:
Philippe's in France: https://www.etoile.fr
Tom & Kathy's in Missouri (USA): https://www.rockeddy.com (Map)
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