Posted October 02, 2007 by Tom Moore
Arriving at Gibeau
October 2007 - Tom Moore
We drove down from Duras and descended into rolling hills and valleys tamed centuries ago to the tasks of working life. Turning off a road more main than others, but more minor than most, we wound our way to Gibeau. It was September, blue sky and windblown clouds, a comfortable coolness in afternoon air. We passed working farms, pastures and stables, barns and hay bales stacked high. We passed orchards and vineyards and woodlands, land for growing, land for hunting, the road narrowing until it ended and our tires crunched to a stop over a pebbled drive.
We got out, stood and took the measure of the place. The property was about one hectare, but seemed more expansive. North, past the pool and abri, farm fields stretched to the little town of Levignac. Westward, a meadow ran down to a stream. Across, it climbed back up to a neighboring farm and the coming sunset. South, on the other side of the house, lay a private shady grove, perfect for lazy picnic lunches. East, fruit trees stood beside the road back to a world that seemed suddenly, wonderfully, distant.
The house was stone the color of bread, its old bones evident amidst loving renovation. Inside, all was airy and inviting. It felt timeless. Dusk light moved across the thick walls, and windows framed the contented landscape. A long farm table stood underneath the vaulted ceiling. Here was the focal point, the gathering place to share the pleasures of this rural world.
For those who seek La France Profonde, look no further. It is here — the food and wine, the calm, the light, the fresh, sweet smell of the countryside, the deep sense of being relaxed and removed.
My Day-trip Cycling in the Lot-et-Garonne
August 2007 - Steve Hamilton
Gibeau is surrounded by beautiful, gently rolling countryside, including miles of vineyards and fields of robust sunflowers the size of corn in Kansas. It is a cyclist’s paradise, offering a great variety of daytrips filled with wonderful discoveries and beautiful resting spots.
I began my daytrip renting a comfortable hybrid bicycle from the MBK store in nearby Duras. I purchased a local map and traced out a meandering ride on mostly back roads from Gibeau in a loop, with plenty of time for relaxing and taking in the scenery.
My first stop led me up a small side road to Monteton. Upon entering the Ninth Century Romanesque church there, I was treated to the morning sun’s rays filtering through the delicate stained glass windows. A lookout next to the church provided a stunning panoramic view of the entire valley.
I cycled on to Allemans-du-Dropt. A brief rain shower had me ducking into another local church, where I discovered its delicate 15th Century frescos. The medieval farmers and villagers who worshipped here would have recognized the figures on these walls to be people much like themselves. The once vibrant crimson, gold and white had softened to saffron, ochre and ivory. I sat in the stillness for several minutes, then headed out of town, crossing the lazy Dropt over a wonderful old bridge.
By the time I reached the bastide town of Eymet, I was ready for a break with a café au lait and a fresh pain au chocolat. I sat outside the café on one side of the square and took in its central fountain and the delightfully easy pace of late morning.
I headed leisurely back to Gibeau, just in time to hop into the pool for a refreshing dip. Then came a simple lunch – a fresh bâtard, pâtè, vibrant, sweet tomatoes and rose champagne – all purchased that morning at the farmer’s market in Duras. After it all, a well-deserved nap.
You can head in any direction on a bicycle from the house for a delightful outing and not get lost, thanks to the meticulous signage at virtually every highway and road crossing in this part of France. The possibilities are endless and the memories are forever.
Barbara's Pies
May 2007 -
I have many delicious recollections of Barbara’s pies, but the sweetest has to be of the tart tatin she made one late summer day. The gnarly old apple tree there, badly in need of pruning, still produces an abundance of small, red-skinned, slightly tart fruit.
One afternoon, Barbara and Tom and I gathered up a huge bowl of fallen apples. By the time it was peeled and cored, and its bad spots cut away, a single apple didn’t yield more than a bite or two, but we had plenty of apples and plenty of time, and there was virtue in using something beautiful that would otherwise have gone to waste.
While the oven was heating up, Barbara cooked a caramel of butter and brown sugar in a skillet, then tipped in the apples. While they were cooking, she mixed the flour, salt and butter together with her fingers, then rolled out the dough with a wine bottle. She draped the pastry over the simmering apples, tucked in the edges, then put the skillet into the oven.
About a half-hour later, it was done. Barbara put a plate on top of the pastry, then flipped the skillet over to lay the tart on top of the plate. She lifted the skillet away and we beheld perfection: golden flaky crust under tender apples in a rich amber caramel. I couldn’t’ tell you what else we ate for dinner that night, but the memory of that tart, how it looked, how it tasted, the smell of it filling the old house, are all still fresh in my mind. Barbara said it was the best one she’d ever made, and gave credit to the apples and the gnarly old tree. The tree, for its part, remained silent, but proud.
