From St.-Nazaire-de-Ladarez to St. Etienne Hermitage: A Hike Back In Time

"Apresato Eglise. La meson a été réparée par Vogonien de Riols - 1700." This inscription, carved on a stained marble stone, hangs above the door of the chapel of the St. Etienne Hermitage in Saint-Nazaire-de-Ladarez. It means that the chapel was repaired in 1700 by a man from Riols named Vogonien. The site is perched atop the mountain and the culminating point (literally) of a hike that starts in St. Nazaire-de-Ladarez.

St. Nazaire is a village in the Languedoc-Roussillon, between Cessenon-sur-Orb and Cabrerolles, in the south of France.

Minutes from the Orb river valley, beaches and white-water rafting, Saint-Nazaire-de-Ladarez was once a 12th century fiefdom with a fortified castle and powerful walls. Roman coins are still found on the mountains trails around. The area oozes buried ancient history but clearly, the economy is dormant at best. St. Nazaire's golden days vanished in the 1950s when the marble quarries - that once supplied the Chateau de Versailles - closed.

Today, 331 inhabitants live of tourism during the summer months. In late December, we drove there to hike from Saint-Nazaire-de-Ladarez to the St. Etienne hermitage 2 miles up the mountain. We followed curvy roads bordered by vineyards on a background of tall quartz cliffs (Falaises du Landeyran) before arriving on the stone and slate cemetery that marks the border of the village.

As in old villages, the center of town is the church plaza where most businesses are concentrated. The baker, the cafe, you name it. We parked there and headed up a side street. Within a few feet, the road gave way to a dirt and stone path climbing steeply through an oak forest. Following the blue markers of the hiking trail was easy and the moderate climb made us cross a fire road several times on our way to the ridge. As the trail was shaded until the very end, this would make for a great summer hike, sheltering hikers from the scorching local sun.

On the ground, we noticed several spots with empty bogs of chestnuts on the ground. Wild hogs, avid chestnut eaters, are active around there judging by the number of hunters we saw stationed in folding chairs by the road. Every now and then, chestnut trees were mixed with strawberry trees (arbousiers) whose spiky red berries covered the underbrush too.

Strawberry trees are so common around here that people (especially old timers and hippies - of which there are a few communities) harvest the fruit to make sweet jams and preserves of a lovely color and despeately bland. There are lots of strawberry trees on San Francisco streets and here is a recipe for arbous jam.

Another specificity of the the ground around St. Nazaire-de-Ladarez is the presence of slate shards all along the trail. We noticed their shiny black scaly cuts more and more as we got closer to the top.

After a Y fork we took a left and finished the final ascent to the top. The view was outstanding. At the bottom of the valley lay the village with its beige and ochre hues. Across from us, another mountain showed a straight white line.

"See that line?" my father said, "It's the wall of a Gallo-Roman villa." I was blown away. This was not a small wall by any means. At 1,350 feet below the Puech de la Suque, the dry stone wall is 300 feet long and 6 meters high and wide. It must have been quite a settlement. However closer to us, we turned to the St. Etienne Hermitage.

What a lovely lonely refuge from the world. A mixture of local stones and whitewashed mortar, the building is L-shaped and includes a small chapel as well as two square rooms. The chapel iron door wasn't locked and we pushed it open.

There used to be an hermit living here. He travelled from village to village, worshipping St. Etienne and receiving food in exchange for his prayers. What a weird life the guy must have had, trekking back up to his stone bare-bones chapel each night. Let's hope he had a donkey.

Some say that the first religious building here was Roman as Roman tiles were found in the adjacent quarry. However, the current structure is more recent and a 17th-century altar salvaged from excavations gives a hint as to the age of the hermitage. Historians even found an altar dating back to Carolus Magnus but it must be in a museum somewhere.

The two back rooms were closed and it's only by peeking through a side window that I was able to see them. Bare and empty with vaulted ceilings - slightly creepy too - there may have been a floor between the two openings. To store hay or wood in the winter? I wonder where the hermit got his water. A gust of wind blew on us, making us zip up or button up our tops. Soon the sun would come down.

We started our descent and were back at the car in less than an hour. Half way down, well-rounded "clonk-clonk" sounds came to our ears, followed by loud barks. The village's cows were being herded by the dogs. It complimented the picture nicely.

All we needed now was a shepherd playing the flute at the edge of a well - so we would feel we were back in the 1900s. No shepherd in sight. The cafe was closed, we forgot our hope for a hot chocolate. We got in the car and bade farewell to St. Nazaire-de-Ladarez.

If you ever go there, there is a town pilgrimage to the hermitage every May (Pentecost holiday). It's probably your only chance to see the chapel alive.

The Gorges d'Heric, Caroux Mountains

In the South of France briefly last week, I took a hike at one of my favorites natural parks west of Beziers, my father's hometown: the Gorges d'Heric. In French, gorges designate a deep narrow passage with steep rocky sides.

The trail along the Gorges d'Heric follows the Heric river over 4 steadily climbing miles, dramatic towering limestone and gneiss crags and buttresses above. This is great climbing terrain, but not for beginners as the space between bolts is somewhat daring. As the trail leaves the river, it veers off into the mountain through chestnut groves to reach the hamlet of Heric where you can sit on the fig tree-covered piazza and get a well-deserved drink at the seasonal cafe.

Since the Gorges d'Heric is protected wilderness as part of the Parc Regional Naturel du Haut-Languedoc, hikers and climbers are the only population you'll meet there apart from wild boars and mouflons mountain sheep. I've spent countless summer days refreshing in the crystal clear and frigid swimming holes along the Heric river, but have more rarely had the occasion to enjoy the off season.

October was just the perfect occasion. The weather's still not too cold and chestnuts are falling off the trees, covering the ground with their pretty green and yellow prickly burrs. After driving through Mons-La-Trivalle, my dad and I and parked the car at the designated lot. We got the girls out of the car, twig baskets for chestnut picking, and hit the trail.

Luckily for us, we met our first chestnuts very close to the entrance. It totally galvanized my girls. Each burr contained three nuts, the middle one being pretty sizable (as in "please roast me"), the two side ones less so. As it was already past 4pm, the sun was taking a bow and shade was quickly gaining ground. The wind felt completely at home, so much so that we had to hold hands with the little ones lest they be thrown off their feet, which made them giggle like crazies. Talk about a perfect wind corridor...

Along the trail, we only met three other groups of hikers, most going down and yes, some were holding bags loaded with chestnuts. Chestnuts are a big element of that region's flora. I would even say they are part of the Languedoc's history and culture, as communities were built around chestnut groves and festivals celebrate this typically local harvest such as Saint-Pons-de-Thomieres' traditional Fete de la Chataigne (Chestnut festival) due to take place Saturday 24 and Sunday 25 October, 2009. At this festival, chestnuts are combined with revivals of medieval Cathar life in period costumes, the Cathars being the early Christians persecuted and eradicated by the French crusaders on behalf of the Pope and the King of France.

As I looked up the sides of the trail, I noticed man-made stone terraces, labor of necessity for generations who survived on this staple food. Some were still up, others in rumbles. If the regional park system wants to preserve the history of the site, they better prevent erosion and torrential rains from completely washing away these terraces.

We kept going on and as we reached the turn that separates the trail from the river bed, more and more chestnut trees appeared. Their tender green foliage creates harmonious overarching canopies over the trail and as the late afternoon light pierced through it, we got rather quiet. After this hard mineral world, it was a soothing sight. More terraces showed up further up. There is a saying in the region that says that no inhabitant of Heric ever died in their bed, implying that these were hardy mountain stock always on steep trails working for their living. I looked for time markers, indicators of past centuries other than piles of rough-edged rocks. It was soon to come under the shape of the hamlet of Heric.

I don't know how many people live there but I'm guessing a few dozen people at most, if even that. The hamlet is typical of nearby mountain villages. Stone and dirt streets. Stone houses. Slate or stone roofs. Somehow, it says something of the way people lived. We are not talking cozy multi-level wood cottages here. Life was hard and the sturdiness of the local architecture reflects the harshness of the elements.

It was well past 5 pm by the time we reached the hamlet's piazza. I had promised my girls a soda at the cafe but a "Closed" sign crushed my hopes. We were 20 minutes past cafe hours. Thirsty, my girls were disappointed. As we were turning around to go get my mother at the train station, a woman walked out of the house with the cafe sign. "You here to drink?" she asked from afar. "Sure thing," I replied, "We'll get seated." And so my valiant junior hikers feistily drank their soda on the piazza.

Then, the woman noticed our baskets. "You been picking chestnuts?" she prodded with a disapproving look. "Well, a few," I said. As I said that, I knew this was no good. She lectured us on how forbidden it is to pick chestnuts because it is a regional park and that by doing so, we deprive boars and mouflons of their main diet before wintertime because you see this year acorns have been really skinny with low rain fall and what not. We politely nodded. Most of our chestnuts were in our backpack. The baskets just had a few.

What can I say? Had I seen a sign banning chestnut picking, I would happily have complied - but I did not see a single one. I did not see any restrictions on the park's website either. If there are restrictions, the park's officials are being discrete about them. "As if the boars need to go on the paved road to pick their chestnuts," said my father shrugging. True, chestnut trees are everywhere. I'll have to investigate with the local rangers. As we walked down the road, we crossed paths with two other hikers. I am not telling what they were doing.

Gruissan: Skyline to the Sea

Gruissan is one of many coastal towns invaded by sun-seeking bathers during summertime. Expect scantily-clad topless females of all sizes and freesbee tornaments on the beach.

However if you manage to go south just a few miles, you get to the marshes on the saltwater lagoons of Ayrolle and its snow-white mountains of salt.

At the very end of a dirt road we parked our cars and set out on foot to discover the trail called Les Goules. The Aude Region has dramatically increased its hiking trails and this one has spanking new signs which make it very easy to follow.

Winds were blowing hard that day and we took shelter below pine trees to have our picnic before the hike.

In the child department, we had a three-month old, a three-year old and a five-year old in tow. For them, Les Goules was perfect because of its relative flatness. The trail is divided roughly in three parts: beach, coastal hill, valley vineyards. Each of those had its reward for us hikers.

On the beach, my girls collected shiny seashells and rocks. Climbing up the hill, I gathered wild thyme, wild lavender and wild rosemary in my hat (always carry gardening scissors when hiking if you know your local flora).

The views up on the ridge were splendid and we showed the train zooming by at lagoon level in the distance to the girls.

Walking between acres of vineyards, we finally enjoyed the sun, being sheltered from the wind.

The end of the trail borders the Domaine Bel Eveque, a winery belonging to famous French comic actor Pierre Richard, one of many actor-transplants turned winemakers in the south of France.

As we were close to Gruissan-plage, we couldn't resist a short drive by the Plage des Chalets (cabana beach), a house-on-stilts beach resort that hit the French Hall of Fame as setting for the award-winning cult movie 37 degres 2 Le Matin (Betty Blue in English).

Alas, today's developments lack the wacky romance of the movie and from the Café du Soleil where we sipped a Perrier on ice, the Plage des Chalets wasn't more appealling than an upscale trailer park.

The place is probably nice at sundown if you're lucky to hit a beach-view cabana, but if your only views are restricted to your neighbors' dinner leftovers on their terrace, no thanks.

That said, Gruissan is a great daytrip for families because of the shallow waters by the white sandy beach and the calm seas beyond, making it a safe spot to wade with children.

Béziers' Farmers Market

Beziers is a medieval town in crisis. Its heydays unfolded hundreds of years ago when men in arms enrolled for crusades and thousands of heretic cathars were burned alive in churches after the Abbot of Citeaux said the famous sentence "Kill them all, let God sort them out."

The city is much more peaceful now but its narrow streets, eagle-sitting Saint-Nazaire cathedral and fortress-like Madeleine church are daily remainders of its warrior past.

Fortunately, none of that at the farmers market called Les Halles where every food lover's dream comes true. Just take a look at the olive store.

It's been there for as long as I can remember and the guy with a beard always likes you to taste his cured olives, capers, cornichons, pickled peppers, sundried tomatoes, tapenade and more.

He also sells anchovies, salted cod, dried fruits, candied fruits (including the delicious hand-of-Buddha fruit called cédrat in French and kumquats), and olive oil.

Now, the olive oil is troublesome. The guy sells two varieties, none of which come from the region where's an olive mill in Puisserguier ten miles away and another one in Bize-Minervois 25 miles away. His come all the way from Aniane close to Montpellier and Italy. Honestly, whatever happened to local products?

I had a similar experience shopping for prosciutto (which we call raw ham or jambon cru in French). There are two butchers/deli at Les Halles. One sold Parma ham coming from Italy, the other jambon cru from Lacaune, a small mountain village in the Black Mountains one hour north-west of Beziers.

Needless to say, I headed straight to the guy who sold ham from Lacaune and it was one of the best prosciuttos I've ever tasted.

When buying cheese, I again concentrated on local cheeses which are mostly sheep and goat, like the pungy farmer's Pyrénées cheese, the Saint-Agur creamy blue cheese or hard and sweet sheep milk cheese. The cheese lady also sells brousse de brebis, a sheep milk cottage cheese delicacy much lighter than cottage cheese and very smooth.

After we stocked up on tomatoes, melons, red leaf lettuces and more produce, Marine pointed to a sign I hadn't seen. It said "Escargots vivants prêts à cuisiner" or "Live snails ready to cook".

Now, that's France. You may not be aware of this crucial culinary fact, but you can't just pick up snails and eat them right away. You got to make them "sweat out" all their insides during a month before eating them. No judgments please, it's just a fact. So these snails had done their share of sweating all right.

When I told my father there were snails at Les Halles, he smiled and told me of fond memories of cargolade, a local snail-based barbecue. As my 3-year-old would say: Yummy yummy in my soupy tummy! Or not?

Building a Tree House: The Mulberry Tree House

What child hasn't dreamed of a tree house to watch the stars and gaze at the world up high?

At our house in Beziers there was a tree on my mind, a tree that would be just perfect for the job: neither too high nor too low, wide space in the center and virtually overlooking our house so that the children could watch and be watched at the same time.

As soon as I shared my ambitions with my father, he blurted out "No way! It's too complicated." That's the only encouragement I needed.

Fortunately my sister-in-law Marine is more a Bob-the-Builder type and with a Yes-we-can attitude, both of us got in the starting blocks.

I went up the ladder with a small saw to remove unwanted branches, Marine grabbed a pencil and measuring tape.

Seeing we were undeterred and his tree was losing feathers, my father reluctantly joined in. The tree house was on the go.

In our shed, old wooden boards and posts were sitting idly waiting for a new life. Soon, my father was sweating over a bigger saw, Marine was tying sailing knots around the posts and I was in the tree adjusting the elements.

The idea was basically to build a platform, anchor it to the tree with nails and ropes, level everything, then cut boards to the right size, hammer them in, nail some more, then build surrounding guards.

I insisted on installing a pulley to lift up a basket and that happened to become the main attraction for my girls.

Next, preventing a fall was essential but tricky as the platform was roughly 10 feet above ground. Initially we planned to nail small sticks to make a terrace but the post guards were way thick and we ran short of nails.

Marine's sailing experience then inspired me. How about a good security net, the kind used at playgrounds that can hold up to ten screaming children? The next day I drove to Sete with my father-in-law Patrick and we found an old fisherman's shed by the port.

The guy had been fishing sardines and mackerels all his life. Now he repaired and traded nets of all shapes and sizes. The piece I ended up buying was part of a 300-feet piece ordered to wrap a fisherman's house as a memorial to his father and brother lost at sea. The distraught fisherman never showed up and I got a share of his net.

In the meantime my brother Lionel had arrived from Paris and together we went up on the platform and busied ourselves tying the net as tight as we could, careful not to leave gaps for adventurous little feet throughout.

The last item on the agenda was getting the girls up there. We could have bought a wooden ladder just the right height but I didn't want my 3-year-old to climb and be stuck in the middle.

To make things too challenging for her until she'd have the skills, I just hung a rope ladder. My almost 5-year-old can barely manage it but with a little practice, she now uses it like a monkey.

That day at noon while we were sipping aperitifs under the trees came the reward. As both girls were safely sitting in their tree house, we used the basket to make salami slices and fresh goat cheese travel up the tree.

The tree house is now officially open and all it needs is a wooden sign with a name. La Maison du Murier sounds just right. Mulberry tree means murier in French.

Bize-Minervois and Combebelles Goat Farm

For the innocent hiker, the village of Bize-Minervois has a nice surprise in store. Like many back country villages of the Languedoc-Roussillon region, its green hills are peppered with historic remnants of the High Middle Ages and earlier.

Bize-Minervois happens to host the tower of Boussecos, a late Roman watchtower invaded by the Wisigoths, destroyed by the Arabs and used until the end of the Crusades to guard the valley. In other words, it hasn't been used for more than four hundred years. Surprinsingly, a few walls still stand and from the trail we were on, the tower could clearly be identified.

After a rich lunch and a late start, we got to Bize-Minervois under a pouring rain around 4pm. Roughly 1,5 mile out of the village, as we drove on the gravel road, we couldn't help cursing the bad July weather. We could have called it a day but preferred to stick it out.

Fortunately, the clouds cleared and we all went for it: my sister-in-law Marine and her 4-month old, my father Marc, my cousin Xavier and my two girls. The initial climb through pine trees and green oaks was treacherously steep but as we quickly reached a wide limestone wall, the trail levened out and the hike turned from kick-ass to easy.

As usual when hiking, my little girls got a reward as Nestle sweetened condensed milk. It's a staple food of French children and mine are crazy for it. It's squeezable sin in tubes. It's on the way down that we discovered the tower of Boussecos and marvelled at its sturdy foundations.

As we neared the end of our hike, we glanced at our watches. 5.30pm already. Quick we got into the car and drove towards St Chinian, to catch the tail end of the goat milking at the Chevrerie de Combebelles, twenty minutes away.

The Chevrerie de Combebelles is a traditional farm that raises goats both for cheese and meat, but cheese is king without a doubt. One of their cheeses even won a national gold medal at the Salon de l'Agriculture (a hugely popular national farmers show held yearly in southern Paris).

Left and right we watched twenty goats (or doelings, nannies and dams as the right terms are) being vacuum milked by black rubber pumps as the goat herdess moaned about the weather and other moaning topics. My girls were even more fascinated when the three-feet high canisters were emptied out in seal-proof jugs, showing gallons of fresh goat milk.

Next door in the barn we got to see a young kid but as the herdess pointed out, "this one is for meat." Us city people gulped but the woman went about her business as usual.

Inside the farm is a temperature-controlled room for the cheese-making part. Anne-Francoise, the "chevriere" or goat farmer, welcomed us with a big smile and explained how her folks farmed goats too thirty years before.

Then we got to the tasting part and I couldn't believe how mild and melting the fresh cheeses were. Made with milk pumped four days earlier, they were creamy white and called for seconds. Next we proceeded to the "cindered" cheese, the aged cheese, the triangular cheese, the cork-shaped snacking cheeses and the camembert-style cheese.

As we were loving every bite, we even took home some strained curdled goat milk and milk fresh out of the goats an hour prior.

Now I thank the cheese lady from Beziers' farmers market from the bottom of my heart. Had it not been for her, I would never have known this goat farm existed and could be visited. The Beziers farmers market is a whole other story but I'll get into that later.

We took a last look at the breezy pastures around the farm and got back into the car, taking a bag full of goat milk products with us.