LANGEDOC, the language in which a maiden will lower her eyes and murmur "oc". This column has written about France before no doubt it will do so again. We say France but there is no such thing as France. The concept is a conceit of monarchs and of revolutionary zealots. France is the common name for a shared area of governance, with a shared language of administration. But it is also an area with the most wonderful variety of peoples and cultures, a mini Europe, retaining even the linguistic divisions of ancient Rome.
Latin, like Irish today, had no clear affirmative. It was a yesless language. Assent or agreement were indicated by a repetition of the verb or by employing an emphatic demonstrative pronoun. In the northern French dialect, they used the Latin form hoc ille to indicate "yes". Hoc ille means, sort of, this that but in southern France, deriving their Latin from a more Hispanic route their affirmative was a simple hoc, meaning an emphatic this. One can almost imagine the solemn nod of the head, the growled hoc!
In due course, hoc illc became oil became oui, the affirmative of modern metropolitan French and hoc became oc. Accordingly, the language which used the oc affirmative came to be known as langue d'oc, the tongue of the maiden who whispers oc before being whisked off to a chap's bed and a night of beastliness and the land where it was spoken came to be called Occitan, in emulation of its most illustrious area Aquitaine, whose most illustrious daughter, Eleanor, seems to have murmured oc a lot.
She said it at least twice to Louis VII of France, whose lands were actually smaller than those of Eleanor's in Aquitaine. She had a brace of daughters by Louis before she ceased saying oc to him and declared an emphatic oc to divorce.
Eight children
Still in possession of Aquitaine, she then married Henry II of England, 11 years, her junior, by whom, after huit ocs or even more, she bore eight children and who, in short order, became King of England, Lord of Normandy, Lord of Aquitaine, and Lord of Ireland. Thanks to Eleanor, much of Occitan and of Ireland lay within the lordship of the Plantaganets.
Part of Occitan is now the French department of Herault, whose capital is Montpellier. It is a most surprising that there is still no scheduled service connecting Dublin with Montpellier, even in summer. ,There is a service between Nice and the huge strip of armpit and concrete which stretches on either side of it a couple of hundred of miles to the east but to Montpellier, nothing.
Yet Montpellier is precisely the place where Irish tourists, looking for sun, good food and long beaches, should be flying to. It is only sporadically visited by the odd martial selection of Germans, prostrate beside the sea and singing marching songs from dawn. Most visitors seem to be French. The waters are clean and the fish superb. Restaurants are cheap and numerous. And the city is old Montpellier has antiquity to spare and having been spared most of the nastiness circa 1944-45, is gracious and elegant.
And the culture is more Spanish than French. Many people speak Catalan rather than langue d'oc. Much of the music is hispanic and the dancing has all those declamatory heels, hand claps and wild glottal accompanying.
The land where people say oc is also a land of fine wines, some of which have recently been finding their way onto the Irish market. The mystery is why more are not being sold. For years now, we have had to endure mediocre burgundies with a vague, thin venous quality on the palate before they vanish completely, and clarets that promise body but are ghostly in all but price. Yet the Coteaux du Langedoc produces wonderful wines at prices vastly cheaper than those of the overrated, over priced, over smug northern regions.
Stunning region
One stunning region is Pic St Loup, a curious mountainous district which rises improbably from the surrounding plateau and which benefits from the lower temperatures at altitude. The pic is rocky, covered in garrigue, the rough scrub where wolves once dwelt and which betokens the poor soil which vines love. I finally, finally, was able to track down the source of a Chateau La Rogue, cru Pic St, Loup wine, made by Jack Boutin, which I bought in Paris last year. Does anybody import wines from Pic St Loup? And will anybody fly us direct to Montpellier from Dublin? Or even from Termonfeckin?
No doubt it could be argued that there are enough Irish people in Montpellier anyway. It was more than strange to be sauntering through the magnificent main square and hear one's name being called out of a bank lurches the grinning figure of Colm Toibin, who, as part of the Imaginaire Irelandais, was doing a reading from his latest novel. Somewhere else in the area Patricia Meehan was doing something similar. Dinner at the magnificent Abbaye de Valmagne, and who should be there but Kevin Barry and Aoife Feeney and the lord knows who else from Ireland.
The god of poetry
Some of the Irish presence was due to the biennial Dionysian conference which coincides with every second Vinisud wine fair. Dionysius was as you no doubt know the god of poetry and drink Langedoc is a proper place for both.
If you would like to stay in the Abbaye de Valmagne, a quite, wonderful Cistercian foundation which survived the abominations of the revolution, it has apartments overlooking the quite, wonderful monastic courtyard. It is a few miles from the coast its full address is Abbaye de Valmagne, 34560 Villeveyrac, France. Bon vacances.
Let us hope that by that time the truly wretched duty free in Paris will have improved on the other day. It is a classic monopoly outlet its cheapest champagnes are 30 francs more expensive than equivalent supermarket champagnes. Its brandies were equally ludicrous and it had run out of gin. What do we say to a ginless duty free? Not oc.