Destination Bouges

Racing against the setting sun, reliable German engineering sped us Northwards along the Autoroute, kissing the Spanish coast, and slipping past the Pyrenees as they relinquished their grandeur to the sea.

Then, au revoir to Nimes, and inland, into the Heart of Nowhere, a land rich with the echoes of religious battles, mysterious retreats and magnificent scenery.

The sun abandons us to the interior, darkness falls, and with it, the temperature, as we climb higher, Motorway gives way to Road, Road gives way to track as we wind around and around, onward and upward, sheer precipice inviting a quick death beckons at every turn. Then suddenly, there, then gone in a moment…did we glimpse a welcoming bouquet of light on the far darkened hillside? We dared to hope.

Still, we hug the edge, the car becomes a claw grasping for purchase on the well-worn track, and then, finally, the Lights, flickering, the wind and rain beat a tattoo of welcome, this cold and lonely place, the end of the road, the end of the day, the beginning of our adventure…..


Morning brings the gift of sunlight, a photo-negative of the night before, the rays dry out the heather on the hillsides that cradle this idyllic place.

The house, a cornucopia of delights…what stories these walls could tell! Our hosts, Fine wine and Conversation, Breads and Cheeses, Soup to die for!!

In moments, Bouges has us in its thrall, we seek out every nook and cranny, comb the Village end to end, our sketchbooks out and ready, we begin the process….take in every nuance…so much more to see through Artist’s eyes, that casual glances sinfully ignore.
And so they come, the drawings, village, doors, and trees all fall beneath the humble pencil, captured, kept and treasured memories, set in stone.

Day after day this wonderful cycle repeats. My soul, my heart is full. The songs begin to come. I know Miki feels the same. I write “Baby Paints The Stars”. We walk the meadows and insects explode in colour with our every step, a Rainbow dream to mark our passing.



There is talk in the village. Hushed low tones. No –one must know. An expedition is planned. Only the chosen few are told. We discuss it at dinner, though the shutters are closed and the lamps are low. The dinner conversation is wide-ranging. I discover the origins of the name “Bouvier” and venture the opinion that it is a most unfortunate occurrence that America’s former first lady was saddled with a surname that meant “Cow-Herder”.

But, as the sorbet is served… talk turns to the morning expedition. One word…MUSHROOMS. It is guaranteed to capture the attention of any Bouges resident. For the rare mushrooms of these hillsides are fought for with vigour, obsession, and not a little subterfuge.

It is a matter of pride for the Mushroom-hunter that they are not so much as even observed whilst hunting them. Camouflage fatigues are de rigeur, and the baskets are hidden from plain sight, for fear someone will tumble to their work. A circuitous route is always attempted, as rival families are often to be found on the end of a pair of binoculars, cynically spying on the location of the choicest mushrooms, unwittingly revealed by the careless hunter.

A tension pervades the house. You can cut it with a knife. Will they return laden with the bounty? Will they return empty handed? Will they return at all?

Dusk casts its cloak across the hills, and with it, the hunters return, victorious, with choicest fayre for our table tonight. We consume them with awe and wonder, and, for my part, not a little bafflement…..


Another day, and the morning begins with a gunshot. A little confused, emerging from a dream I briefly wonder if Miki has finally found the solution to my snoring, but, as reality seeps into my brain like spilt coffee on a tablecloth, I realize…..BOAR HUNT!

After breakfast, we watch them combing the steep hillsides with their guns, trying to flush out their almost pre-historic prey. The boars have roamed these hills for eons, they do not give up that right easily.

Throughout the day, an occasional shot punctuates the silence, and we wonder…..
Late in the afternoon, we stroll through the village and find the hunters, successful, butchering their prey. It is a humbling sight. The whole village shares this experience, for, once completed, Wild Boar meat is sent around to all the residents. A communion with the land and all its riches, in the purest form.


And all too soon, that fateful day arrives. Our day of departure. And we remember the stormy night’s arrival, with a smile.

Bidding farewell, our hosts, recede in rear-view mirror, and the treacherous tracks now cradle us, one of their own, in bliss descending, leaving this Secret Garden, for the Real World.

KEV MOORE