A Weekend in Quillan, France

On a gorgeous morning near the River Aude, British expats are taking French classes in a vegan tea shop that doubles as an art gallery in Quillan, France. As I drink a pot of tea, an organic rooibos blend of some sort, other expats saunter in for their language lessons. French locals arrive with food to join the group and assist in the conversation.

The tea shop, Naturaya, exudes a global peacemaking vibe, with open airy rooms, eclectic furniture, African art, Chinese calligraphy and various health elixirs curated by the owner. Along with many other groups, Naturaya regularly hosts the native English speakers, who seem like a sizeable chunk of Quillan’s population, which might only be a few thousand. This might also explain a few British pubs around town, where one can watch rugby or football.

Over the course of a few days, I discover that Quillan would be a wonderful little base from which to explore the occult underbelly of Southeastern France. The surrounding targets are already famous: Rennes-le-Château. Carcassonne. Cathar castles, Rosicrucian legends, winding roads and the foothills of the Pyrenees. Even before Holy Blood, Holy Grail was published 40 years ago, even before the bloodline of Jesus conspiracy later went Hollywood, this part of France was a magnet for various fringe spiritualities, in all the right ways.

But first, I need to acquaint myself with Quillan, even if just for a brief visit. In addition to Naturaya, I begin to sing the praises of a few joints in particular:

• Over at Bar Le Glacier, the bartender seems surprised that an American like me is knowledgeable in Association Football. This happens all the time. For 30 years, I’ve been through this. Yet I can identify most of the club scarves draped across the ceiling. Hundreds of them, perhaps. I even ask if I can watch the Liverpool game or the Nottingham Forest match during the subsequent days. The bartender says, through a translator, sure, no problem, as long as the France rugby game isn’t on.
  
• ArtVin3, a wine bar and art gallery, features live music and a fantastic charcuterie board. An Irishman plays acoustic guitar and seems to know a hundred songs. He tells me stories about the legendary Charles Trenet and we talk about La Mer, since I’ve played the English version a few times, but there is no keyboard in the house, unfortunately. Next time, I tell him. Upstairs, we find another space, an art gallery where the works on display include several by the owner. The room would also serve as a splendid function space for events. Again, I vow to return.
  

• Bienvenue au Tibet becomes a fantastic local restaurant, as we spend a few moments. We devour a purple cabbage concoction, plus an esoteric mushroom and cashew nut mélange. I cannot believe an authentic Tibetan restaurant exists in this tiny French village. It is so good.

• Operated by a Canadian woman, Biblioteque Anglais, is a small English bookstore that only opens for a few hours a week. People wander in and trade their used books, while taking a few more for the next round. The friendly proprietor talks our ears off. I spy a few things I might want: an old Len Deighton spy novel and even some Orhan Pamuk.

• La Fabrique Coffee Truck shows up for the weekly street market, where many locals pick up their produce, plus breads, antiques and other goods. A fantastic local artisan roaster, the owner of La Fabrique makes me a double espresso that does the trick.

From there, the infamous occult mysteries of Rennes-le-Château make themselves known. We drive up the hill on a drizzly November morning. At first, we are the only ones in the village, but by the time the Bérenger Saunière Museum opens for business, a few other tourists begin to meander through the streets. The gift shop even sells Knights Templar tea-La Tisane Du Templier-an herbal blend of meadow sage, yarrow, asphodel flower, juniper, nettle and thyme, all of which I only know thanks to Google Translate. The tomb of Saunière himself is now located outside the cemetery and only accessible if one pays for the museum tour. I do not find any buried treasure, but the views of the surrounding landscape are impeccable.

As I finish my rooibos concoction, the French conversation group continues to filter in for lessons at Naturaya. One woman shows up with a loaf of bread for the group. She asks me: “Où habites-tu?” I reply: “Somewhere near San Francisco.”

I don’t want to go back to California. Such is the vibe of Quillan, a wonderful place.

A journey without a story is a journey incomplete. This is why I do what I do, and that’s why I live the way I live. I can do no other.

The next day, I depart with my bag of Knights Templar tea and begin the journey homeward.