The Threads of Friendship: A Long-Anticipated Reunion in the Loire

Delivery of Artwork to Dear Friend Prompts Weeklong Romp Through French Countryside

St. Gemme, France; Alain and his backyard barbecue, Moulin de Borchot on the River Claise | Credit: Macduff Everton

During the pandemic quarantine, playing on the origin of the word, I had a “Quaranta” sale: 40 percent off my artwork. Via a posting, my longtime friend Pauline selected a collage on the proviso that I deliver it to her in person — in France.

Five years later, I did.

“You’re going where?” a French friend asked incredulously. “Why not go someplace that’s happening, not the boring boonies?!”

An hour after arriving at Charles de Gaulle Airport, our train was pulling away from the lively bustle of Paris and heading toward a marshland dotted with lakes. Perhaps my friend had a point. However, we found that taking it easy and letting things unfold during a reunion with a dear friend made for a treasured gem of a week.

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For my junior year at UCSB, I had been accepted into the College of Creative Studies and hoped beforehand to spend a summer in Europe. At 19, I was book-smart, but hardly street-smart, having never traveled abroad. (Confession: When I filled out the debarkation form, I wrote Italian, my grandmother’s heritage. I didn’t think U.S.A. was a nationality)

My dad had given me his friend’s telephone number in London, and after a few jetlagged days in a crowded youth hostel, I rang and made my way to his office. Bobby Mellin, lyricist, composer, and music publisher, co-wrote “My One and Only Love,” a classic that was covered by John Coltrane, Ella Fitzgerald, and others. Bobby called in his secretary and simply said, “Please take care of her.” And that’s how I met Pauline.

This bright, spirited 17-year-old was far more worldly than I. She whisked me and my battered aluminum-frame Kelty pack into a nicer hotel and took me under her wing. We visited her hometown, the shops, markets, and pubs, where its unfamiliarity left me agog and delighted — completely unaware that the local chaps were equally agog seeing a blonde, tanned, California coed visiting their village.

Two years later, Pauline and her friend Sheila, eager to travel the world, got summer jobs as au pairs in Hope Ranch. She then returned to London and married Alain, her French lover, a newspaperman. Together they would spend vivid careers at the International Herald Tribune, traveling the world, across Europe and Asia.

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Limoges, France; Pauline LeCour and Mary Heebner | Credit: Macduff Everton

A radiant Pauline greets us with open arms. It’s been years, but our connection doesn’t skip a beat as we saunter arm and arm from the station platform to her car, the trunk of which is bulging with groceries. We arrive at their place they call The Mill before sunset. Moulin de Brochot is a large, two-story, centuries-old stone house in the countryside by the river Claise. On this warm, summery evening, we’re travel-weary and famished. Anticipating this, Pauline had prepared a simple dinner of quiche, salad, and strawberries that she lays on the patio table, as Alain serves the wine. By dark, my husband, Macduff, and I cozy into bed. We feel at home.

Alain is a practical man. For a grill, he stacked a rectangle of bricks on the grass, high enough to support a small grate. Its charm over many years is that it is ramshackle, unpolished, and efficient. For lunch, he places local oak logs that crackle to coals. Friends urge him to get a modern BBQ, and he shrugs and asks, “Pourquoi?” On the grate, he places a boned entrecôte rib steak he grills perfectly bleu. While Pauline suggests some possible outings, Alain pours a particular Bordeaux he discovered at one of his regular bistros while living in Paris; he bought cases of it. After lunch, under a shady oak, I read two pages of my book, then slip asleep.

At 5 p.m., Alain takes Macduff and me on a walk along the bank of the river, by the millrace that provides the water to drive the mill wheel, and past the dam whose resultant cascade hums a constant, staticky sound. The bank is bursting with wildflowers, lined with purple, white, and yellow irises; blossoms on an elder tree shimmy from the breeze; clover and an occasional wild orchid peek out from the unmowed grasses—it’s the quintessential riparian scent of greenness and oxygen.

St. Gemme, France; mill race, Moulin de Borchot on the River Claise | Credit: Macduff Everton
St. Gemme, France; Moulin de Borchot on the River Claise | Credit: Macduff Everton
St. Gemme, France | Credit: Macduff Everton
St. Gemme, France; lunch in the backyard, Moulin de Borchot on the River Claise | Credit: Macduff Everton
St. Gemme, France; Alain and his backyard barbecue, Moulin de Borchot on the River Claise | Credit: Macduff Everton
St. Gemme, France; Mary Heebner | Credit: Macduff Everton
St. Gemme, France; Mary Heebner enjoying lunch in the backyard at Moulin de Borchot on the River Claise | Credit: Macduff Everton

We look for tortoises that live in the ponds and listen for the rustle of deer in this bucolic place saturated in childhood memories for Alain. Having traveled the world, tirelessly setting up publishing hubs for the International Herald Tribune, they chose to return to the area where Alain’s family lived, and when the opportunity arose, they bought their home and eventually several adjoining farms where their grown daughters, Lauren and Jessica, each have homes, and horses. We head toward the cottages they rent as an Airbnb, arriving just as Pauline finishes prepping for the next guests. Arms loaded with laundry to do, she is ready to drive home, but first we must greet and water the small drove of donkeys she loves. She calls for Kiki, Vespa, and Rose, and they amble over for a nuzzle.

Sunday morning, Pauline declares, “You’re in for a treat!” The three of us drive 90 minutes to Noirlac Cistercian Abbey near Saint-Amand-Montrond. The abbey is built of blocks of warm-toned limestone, with fan-vaulted ceilings, plays of light and shadow among symmetric arches, flying buttresses, and an austerity that speaks plain as a Dickinson poem.

Abbaye de Noirlac, Bruère-Allichamps, France: Cistercian monastery first constructed in 1150 | Credit: Macduff Everton
Abbaye de Noirlac, Bruère-Allichamps, France: cloister, Cistercian monastery first constructed in 1150 | Credit: Macduff Everton
Abbaye de Noirlac, Bruère-Allichamps, France: allée des tilleuls (lindens) planted after the revolution at Cistercian monastery first constructed in 1150 | Credit: Macduff Everton

Volunteer lay brothers maintaining the monastery were given room, board, and constant work to sustain the contemplative monks and their gardens. It became Nordian Abbey when monks from Clairvaux Abbey began construction on buildings in 1150 and remained until the French Revolution drove them out and the Abbey transformed into a porcelain factory. During the Spanish Republic War, it sheltered many Republicans, eventually becoming a hospital. Following World War II restoration commenced, and in 1950, the silent halls awoke again — the acoustics lend themselves beautifully for live music, theater, and performance.

In 1975 Artist Jean-Pierre Raynaud designed Mondrian-minimal stained-glass windows with only the slightest whisper of color that even on this cloudy day offer a sweet light inside. A well-maintained network of gardens is abloom today with luscious purple and white iris, anemone, and a variety of herbs that radiate from a central circular well, crowned by a trellis of wild red roses. Beyond more gardens face an allée of thick-trunked, stately linden trees planted after the French Revolution that stand witness to the centuries of ever-changing histories in this place of refuge, of prayer, silence, industry, and song.

On Monday, Alain nabs lunch reservations at Au Fil de l’Indre. Locals fill every table. Clotilde and Remy Bonneau offer a locally sourced daily menu, and to balance business with family life, they open just three to four days a week. Remy is the chef, and Clotilde works the front of the house, as inspired plates of deliciousness flow constantly from kitchen to table. We begin with a local Reuilly vin gris, a light-colored rosé; starters include carrot purée, fresh cod with apple, cheese, and cashews, and asparagus spears with dried fig and black sesame seed. The entrée is succulent, savory pork and root vegetable ratatouille paired with a flinty pinot noir from Joseph de Maistre Menetou-Salon.

Issoudun, France; depiction of 17th-18th centuries apothecary with cannon jars and Nevers earthenware bottles, Musée de l’Hospice Saint-Roch | Credit: Macduff Everton
Issoudun, France; bronze mortar from 1497 in depiction of 17th-18th centuries apothecary with cannon jars and Nevers earthenware bottles, Musée de l’Hospice Saint-Roch | Credit: Macduff Everton

Sated, we’re now quite accustomed to an afternoon nap, but Alain has other plans. We drop Pauline off for her weekly Italian lesson and we pass time at Musée de L’Hospice Saint Roch in Issoudun. This former hospital with a modern architectural addition displays prehistoric torsos, a rather creepy gallery of medieval medical apothecary and instruments, and a contemporary wing donated by and exhibiting collections of master printers and artists Cécile Reims and Fred Deux. Well worth skipping naps.

The evening is cloudy and chilly. Alain sets a roaring fire in a fireplace as large as a single bed. Pauline serves an exquisite dish of lightly creamed scrambled eggs, courtesy of their three laying hens, and steamed spring asparagus with fennel and frisée salad, accompanied by a 2004 Burgundy. We’re in the mood to reminisce; we browse photos and recall friends and incidences of travel, where our lives have taken us, and what we foresee for the future. I especially love the photo of Pauline and Alain in their younger years in Hong Kong, as it’s how I remembered her when we first met in London, and another of Pauline in a sparkling slinky black chemise, kicking her heels up at Alain’s 40th birthday.

Tuesday is devoted to wine. Our destination is Joseph de Maistre winery, where they make the Menetou-Salon red wine we enjoyed at yesterday’s lunch. A two-hour drive (Pauline is a saint) through farmland, heady with the caramel aromas of new-harvested silage, then tunnels of green forest, passing tiny village after village all earthen gray with white shutters, so as not to stand out. It seems quintessentially French to me, subtle. “Hates California, it’s cold and it’s damp / That’s why the lady is a tramp,” we croon to a CD of Jazz Divas as we drive. The chanteuses ― Sarah, Ella, Nina, and Peggy ― fill the hours on the road with music.

Prieuré de St. Céols, France; winemaker Marie de Maistre with clay amphora in winery, Joseph de Maistre Vins, AOC Menetou-Saloon | Credit: Macduff Everton

Six years ago, owners Joseph and Marie left high-paying jobs in Paris, she at Danone’s water plant and Josef at YS Laurent, to follow their dream and start a winery, and a family. Marie walks us through the upper parts of a terrain of mineral-rich soils of clay, limestone, Kimmeridgian marl, where vines were just in bud, quipping, “As Mary and Joseph, we now change water into wine!” Kermit Lynch lauds their wines and holds the Menetou-Salon appellation in central Loire, adjacent to Sancerre, in high regard.

Evidence of winemaking dates to the seventh century in this region that now hosts more than 40 wineries. After visiting the workings of the winery, Marie sets out some bottles to try, including two bottlings named for their daughters, Valentine, and Louise, complimented with local crottins de Chavignol, an herbaceous, creamy goat cheese. Next, we travel 20 miles north to a tasting room in Sancerre with our designated driver Pauline, who will be rewarded once we return home with a few well-chosen bottles.

We fill the remaining days with more cooking, laughter, conversations, fresh sardines on the grill, more dusty gems from the wine cellar, walks down winding lanes, and a visit to the farmers’ market with Alain and their 8-year-old grandson Gabin, returning home with baskets of luscious tomatoes, radish, white and green asparagus, and strawberries.

Prieuré de St. Céols, France; Marie de Maistre, winemaker at Joseph de Maistre Vins, looking at buds of pinot noir in Humbligny vineyard, AOC Menetou-Saloon | Credit: Macduff Everton
Morogues, France; Marie de Maistre, winemaker, looking at pinot noir vines in Taste Vin vineyard with village of Morogues behind, Joseph de Maistre Vins, AOC Menetou-Saloon | Credit: Macduff Everton
Prieuré de St. Céols, France; winemaker Marie de Maistre in winery, Joseph de Maistre Vins, AOC Menetou-Salon | Credit: Macduff Everton
Prieuré de St. Céols, France; winemaker Marie de Maistre in winery leading tasting, Joseph de Maistre Vins, AOC Menetou-Salon | Credit: Macduff Everton
Prieuré de St. Céols, France; winemaker Marie de Maistre in winery leading tasting, Joseph de Maistre Vins, AOC Menetou-Salon | Credit: Macduff Everton

In town, after marketing, Alain stops on a sidewalk by a huge rosebush resplendent with lush apricot-colored roses and wants to pick one for Pauline, but he decides not to. “Let others enjoy her fragrances,” he says. We drive past the “Red Sea,” a large lake in this land of a thousand lakes, stocked with fish ever since the monks lived here, and along the road home, we pass a sign warning, “Tortoise crossing.”

Parc natural regional de la Brenne, France; turtle crossing | Credit: Macduff Everton
Gargilesse, France; member of Les Plus Beaux Villages de France (The Most Beautiful Villages of France) Association and is situated near the confluence of the Gargilesse stream and the river Creuse. The 19th century writer George Sand lived in the village. | Credit: Macduff Everton
Gargilesse, France; notable frescoes dating from the 13th and 15th c. in the crypt of the church of Notre Dame de Gargilesse | Credit: Macduff Everton
Sancerre, France | Credit: Macduff Everton
Gargilesse, France; notable frescoes dating from the 13th and 15th c. in the crypt of the church of Notre Dame de Gargilesse | Credit: Macduff Everton

Our last adventure is Notre Dame de Gargilesse, a grand Romanesque church built upon a vaulted crypt. Researchers in the 1960s discovered in the vault, beneath layers of 16th-century plaster, rooms full of beautifully painted 12th-century frescoes. Vivid fragments remain in the water-stained vaulted crypt beneath the church — ochres and indigo fill delicate line drawings of Adam and Eve, saints and sinners on Judgement Day, donkeys, a hand mysteriously reaching through a tower. Its beauty is not only what is seen, but also what has faded away, like some memories of a beloved.

Alain grills rare roast lamb, and offers a Burgundy and a Sancerre to sample, for our last, fabulous lunch al fresco at the Mill. Out hosts have utterly spoiled us, and we love every moment. While Macduff and Alain take a walk to look for mushrooms and tortoises, Pauline and I indulge in an airborne finale — a flight for a bird’s-eye view of the region. At 300 feet, I see flat land divided by hedges forming an irregular patchwork of spring greens, bracketed by oak forest, and hundreds of lakes, some large, others mere splashes of ephemeral puddles.

The week feels like a month. There is such a sweetness to this reunion. Pauline loves the collage, but more importantly the kept promise to deliver it brought about another layer to our 50-year friendship, including promises to not wait another decade before visiting again.

Seeking friends from our many years of travel is now a priority, creating the space in which to enjoy one another, in the coming years. Most of our travel destinations are determined by a geographic place; this destination was a place of the heart.