Vanzac, a small French village in Charente-Maritme, does not inspire much awe if you drive through it on your way from the spa town of Jonzac to the prettier village of Chevanceaux, to join the motorway to Bordeaux and the south. You will pass the Mairie, a primary school with a mosaic walled playground, a simple Romanesque church, and a few houses including one that looks deserted, and which once housed a café/restaurant. However, if you take a little time to wander you will discover its hidden merits as I have been doing since I moved here two months ago. The countryside surrounding this small village is stunning, with fields of wheat, sunflowers, corn and even flax nestled against a background of blue sky. Vines grow in profusion here as in the rest of France. Pineau de Charente, a sweet mixture of wine and brandy served chilled as an aperitif, is popular with the brandy coming from the nearby Cognac region. Off the beaten track, the local bakery, Chez Laurette, provides artisanal breads and cakes. If there is no one in the shop customers are free to take what they want, write their name and purchases on the notebook provided and make a note of the amount paid or money due. A money box on the counter holds the days takings. I cannot imagine anyone here abusing such trust. Alongside the locals live, British, Dutch, American, and at least one Irish woman I know of. In this small area I have encountered one person from Brazil and another who originally hails from Bangladesh and that is just in the first two months of my living here. On first moving into my new home, I noticed a camper-van parked beside the local graveyard which is visible from my garden and from which there is the most breath-taking view of the surrounding fields (not that the residents benefit from the view but at least visitors can). Horses graze one of the fields close to my house and I occasionally saw a woman walking past in the evening with one on a lead. One evening I decided to introduce myself and met Marie-Claude, the woman who lived in the camper van and whose horse boarded in the nearby field. Widowed twelve years ago and with grown up children and grandchildren she was part of a countrywide group of horse owners who met up for a trek wherever they happened to be. She joined me in my kitchen for a coffee and it was like a breath of fresh air to listen to stories of her travels and her desire to continue her nomadic way of life for as long as she is able. I look forward to having her to dinner when she next passes this way.
I have spent the past couple of months organizing my new home and preparing myself for travels to Israel where I am to join the excavations at Qedesh in Upper Galilee as a volunteer under the directorship of Uri Davidovitch. This will be my first experience of excavation ever, although I have visited many archaeological sites around the Middle East. I am hoping that the physical work I am doing in my garden will be of help in preparing me for the endeavor along with the yoga class I attend weekly in Chevanceaux. I am not used to getting up at the ungodly hour of 4.30 but I think it will be worth the effort to find out how things work on a (when the dig. With that in mind I am setting my alarm clock earlier and reading as much as I can about the archaeology of Qedesh and of Israel in general. My new home with its space and peacefulness is the ideal environment in which to do so – that is when the neighboring family of four boys are not playing French rap music in the garden. The neighbors have geese, hens and at least one cock who likes to visit me through the hedge and who I believe has eaten my crop of strawberries. One of the young men helped me with the garden when I first move in appears to be the most sensible of the siblings. My garden, which those who lived here before me established, has been a visual delight which started with the purple Crimean irises that grew in a clump in one corner and were visible from my sitting room. Then came the light-yellow pompoms of the Guelder- roses, followed by a profusion of pink peonies. There are a variety of rose bushes and now the roses are beginning to fade having provided myself and others with their beautiful display and subtle scent. There is nothing subtle about the heady fragrance of the honey suckle which grows in large swathes by my front and back gates. The white flowers of the Catalpa or cigar tree greet me each morning from my bedroom window and are worth the annoyance of the myriad brown pods that litter the ground and from which the tree gets its common name. Native Americans are said to have smoked the bean pods which have hallucinogenic properties. Berries are beginning to appear, and I see a gooseberry bush amongst the redcurrants, blackcurrants and raspberries. All this brings back memories of childhood and the fruit and vegetable grown by my father in our back garden which tasted better than any I have tasted since. Apple trees, pears, quince, peaches, and wild cherries should provide for my culinary needs. A large English walnut tree dominates my back garden under which the rose bushes shelter. The previous owners kindly planted half a dozen vine from which I hope to see an abundance of grapes.
Although retired for the past four and a half years I have not been idle and completed an M.Phil. in the Archaeology of Mesopotamia last year. My plan, like that of Marie-Claud is to continue to live as actively as I can for as long as I am able and my home in Vanzac will be a great base from which to explore more of the world. I hope that my trip to Israel will be the first of many such ventures to archaeological sites around the Middle East. A new puppy who I have named (Treasa) Cailin awaits me on my return and I look forward to welcoming her to her new home.
In my next post I will write about my travels in Israel and my first experience in the field.
