Today I have a guest post from Leyla Giray from Backpacking Women on the Road.
Now I know what you must be thinking. . . “MJ, you’re not a backpacker.” Well, that might be true enough, but there’s all sorts of things backpackers can teach the rest of us about travel, and one of those things is how to enjoy things off the beaten path — like spending a day is the French countryside.
Not south enough to be Provence, nor north enough to be Alsace or the Vosges, this tiny corner of France hides between two massive mountain ranges - the Alps and the Jura - and is so off the beaten path you often only get here by accident.
Except if you live here, as I do, a big-city transplant to this most rural and proud region of France.
How can such a tiny beautiful pocket be only 45 minutes from Geneva, 1hr 15 each from Lyon, Grenoble and Chamonix, and an hour from the vineyards of Burgundy?
Welcome to the Bugey, where the grand Rhone River winds powerfully south.
It’s a calm day today. The snow has settled, turning the seasons upside down. Last week we were planting lavender and cleaning the kayaks. This week we’re shoveling snow.
I shouldn’t have worried. My neighbor, Patrick the wine-maker, beat me to it, unasked. He ran his tractor around the front of my house, piling the snow off to the side to allow me to drive out of the barn - my own personal snowplow.
Last week, before the snow fell, a horse appeared in my field. These things happen. The young farmer down the hill tells me it belongs to the mayor’s nephew and that my field is green and good for food. Seems to make sense.
The next day some plastic electrified fencing cropped up. Keeps the horse from running away. Makes sense too. Two days later, the horse, the fence and the greenery were gone.
In the afternoon I returned home to the sound of chainsaws. My neighbor thought (rightly) that my brambles had grown out of control, so he decided to cut them. Makes sense.
Continuing reading for more about life in Bugey. . . .
Today is market day, so time to shop. We have a supermarket, of course, what French town doesn’t? But many of us prefer the markets. The supermarket is good for cleaning products, hardware or cat food. For people food, two local markets feed us, rain or shine - or snow. As farmers clear the snow from their tables, we lift, squeeze, smell and yes, even taste, what’s on offer.
Today it’s fresh Brillat-Savarin, a local soft cheese that tastes like a mixture of butter and cream (and has at least twice the calories). And vollaille de Bresse - Bresse chicken, so tender you cut it with a fork and so tasty smothering it with a sauce would be a crime. A few berries have started appearing, and it’s a good time for squashes and pumpkin. No exotics here, thank you Monsieur le Maire.
It’s Saturday, and in this land nothing opens on Sundays. For those of us who work away in the city, Saturday is the only day for administrative chores: la poste to pay bills, la banque to get money, and la mairie - the town hall - to pick up electoral papers and find out what happened to the mayor’s nephew’s horse. Of course most chores can be done on the Internet - we do have fast connections here too. But few people do.
A quick trip to the bank - horror, my favorite bank teller has been moved to another town because she’s been too nice with customers. As one of the customers guilty of exchanged gossip and warm smiles, I cringe. But she’s happy with the change: her new boss doesn’t mind her being nice - he thinks it might be good for business.
When I first moved here I paid a courtesy visit to the winemaker’s restaurant down the hill. Madame Fagot immediately gave me her home number.
“We have strong men here, you know,” she said. “If you ever need anything, anything at all, you just give us a call. We’ll come up the hill.”
Madame also told me I had chosen a ‘good color’ for my shutters, a very local color, and that my roof was coming along nicely. My brambles, on the other hand, were another story.
You can’t live here if you have secrets. This isn’t a place, it’s a way of life, a slower life, away from the week’s noise and messiness and a step back into the past, into a life that hasn’t changed much since everyone’s parents’ parents’ time. And a life every other villager will know about.
译文:
在法国东南部一天的田园生活
现在，我知道你一定在想：“MJ，你不是个背包旅行者。”是啊，确实是这样。但背包旅行者能够教给其他人许多东西，比如在法国乡间的一天，就能教会我们怎样欣赏平坦小路旁的风景。
这个法国的小村庄不是坐落在南部的普洛旺斯，也不是在北部的阿尔萨斯和孚日山脉，而是隐藏在阿尔卑斯和汝拉两个大山脉间。由于它离公路太远，你或许只会碰巧经过那儿。
除非你像我一样住在那里，从一个大城市转移到这个最具田园风情，又最令法国自豪的地方。
这座漂亮的微型村庄竟然离日内瓦只有45分钟的路程，离李昂，格勒诺布尔, 夏蒙尼,分别都有一小时十五分钟的路程，离勃艮第的葡萄园有一小时的路程。
欢迎来到比热，在这里，壮丽的罗纳河弯弯曲曲地流向南方。
今天又是个平静的一天。天空居然开始下雪了，整个季节似乎都颠倒了。上星期我们种了熏衣草，清理了小划艇。这星期我们要铲雪。
我根本不该担心那些雪的。我的邻居，帕奇克，他是个酿酒师。他没有询问我，就把他的扫雪车开到了我的屋前，帮我 把雪堆到了一边，以便我能开车出入车库，就像是我的个人雪犁一样.
上星期，在下雪前，一匹马突然出现在了我的牧场。仅会发生这样的事。山下的年轻农民告诉我，它属于市长的侄子，可能是我的牧场太绿了，那些马认为能找到吃的。这很有趣。
第二天，那匹马碰到了通电的栅栏，它又逃走了。这很有趣。两天后，马啊，栅栏啊，绿叶啊，都已过去了。
在下午，我回到家，听到了用链锯割的声音。我邻居的想法是对的，是我没打理好灌木丛，他决定帮我剪掉点。这也很有趣。
请继续欣赏我在比热的生活。。。
今天是集市日，所以我们都去买东西了。当然，这儿有个超级市场，那个法国的城市会没有呢？看我们大多都更喜欢集市。要买清洁用具，金属工具，或者猫食，超级市场是个好去处。但如果买食物，无论下雨或晴天或下雪，两个集市就足够了。农民们会清理掉桌子上的雪，我们挤来剂去地挑选减价商品，我们会闻一闻，甚至会尝一口。
今天有新鲜的萨伐仑松饼，这是用当地的之士，味道像是黄油和奶油的混合，而且还有至少两倍多的卡路里。还有的鸡肉，它们太嫩了，用叉子就能割，它们也太鲜美了，以致于加任何调味浆都是种罪恶。有些果子已经长熟了，这正是种南瓜，和扎果汁的最佳时期。谢谢你’集市先生’，我在这儿住的很习惯。
这是个星期六，在星期天这里的商店都不开张。所以星期六是唯一能处理琐事的一天，去邮局付帐单，去银行拿钱，去市政厅买份关于竞选的报纸，看看市长侄子的那匹马又怎么了。当然许多事都能通过网络来完成，我们这儿网络也是很便捷的，但很少有人这样做。
那天我到了银行突然发现，我最喜欢的出纳员被调到另一个镇上去了，因为她对客户太热情了。我以前也和她相互交谈，热情微笑，我感到有点内疚和遗憾。但她到对这些改变很满意，她的新老板不在意她的热情，他认为这对生意是有好处的。
当我第一次来到这里时，我出于礼貌，去拜访了，酿酒师开在山下的餐馆。法格特女士马上给了我她家的电话号码。
“你知道，我们在这儿很有人缘。”她说：“如果你需要什么，任何东西，你只要给我们打个电话，我们就上山来。”
告诉我，我选对了百页窗的颜色，这是个当地的颜色，还有我的屋顶也很漂亮。但是，我的灌木丛却是一团糟。
如果你有任何秘密的话你就不适合住在这里。这里不仅仅是个地方，这是一种生活方式，一种缓慢的生活方式。这里让我远离一周的喧闹，让我回顾过去，让我回到上上辈的生活。这种生活正是每个普通村民的生活。