Country French Charisma

The French, they say, are both artistic and practical. In my experience, that’s hyper true. Perhaps it’s why the country French—whether Provençal, Québécois, or Acadian—all have that simple, rustic beauty and je ne sais pas quoi charisma.

Did your ancestors live in a cottage or a castle? A pioneer cabin or a princely manor? As my husband and I hiked the cobblestone streets of my French forebears in old-town Québec City, I wondered. But whether it was a chalet or a chateau, I was convinced it must have been charming.

I’ve wanted to visit Quebec forever. As luck has had it, either we’ve raced through the province en route to somewhere else, or winter weather has made sightseeing uninviting. Even last year while on furlough in Canada, we dashed through to Ontario the first time and the next we drove straight to Manitoba.

And on to reconnect with my husband’s roots. One of his grandpas once mined coal in Alberta’s badlands, the other farmed wheat on the prairie. A cousin runs a tractor bigger than an average house in Chile. Grain elevators have grown scarce, while dinosaur digs have expanded.

Next, we headed to beautiful British Columbia’s always spectacular Okanagan Valley… Then the Twilight saga’s vampire rainforests on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula… Hot springs in the offroad ranges of a Nevada wildlife refuge… The bizarre land formations along the highway in Utah and Wyoming.

On the road home, we weekended in cosmopolitan Ontario. And finally stopped in Québec for a couple of nights, with nothing to do but play the tourists.  

Country Charm

Our pause to Search for Rose Michaud has led us back to the beginning of the historical trail. Or, since we started in Maine where Rose ended up, perhaps we should call this the end of our research trek. From late spring to early autumn, we’ve traced her life and family background into the past. Although we’re really not finished yet, Québec City represents a monumental “this-is-where-it-all-began” for Rose—and for me.

“She danced along the edges of life, like lavender in the wind, delicate yet resilient.” –Unknown

Years ago we stayed at an auberge near my family’s ancestral farm in Kamouraska, a charming country French village on the opposite bank of the Saint Lawrence River. At the sumptuous Québécois breakfast, my husband absently thanked the waitress for his second cup of coffee with “gracias.” Our three daughters erupted in gales of giggles. “Daddy! It’s merci!”

Our French hadn’t improved a lot since, but we now managed to get a mixed-up order of café at the Tim Hortons drive-through and then a quart de livre avec fromage later while we planned our day in and around the Québec capital. (I know, I know, we could have had poutine, right? But it was late, and the Golden Arches were close to our hotel.)

“Never doubt the courage of the French. They were the ones who discovered that snails are edible.” –Doug Larsen

So much to see and do, and so little time! Once, seven years ago, we had stolen a few hours to follow the Michaud trail in Québec, but really, who wanted to venture far from the car in snow two feet deep and temps well below zero? Montmorency Falls hung like a cathedral pipe organ of icicles.

Québec City

Now it was a glorious mid-September. We rose early, parked as close as possible to the center, and descended into the historic Old Town of Québec via Rue Dauphine’s cobblestone alleys and archways. I wish we’d had more time for fuller exploration and engagement with the atmospheric charisma of this wonderful French provincial space.

The Provençal (provincial) or country French style refers to a culture rooted in rural France of “olden” times. It can embrace a wide range of ambience, from decadent luxury to homey comfort. And architecture, from the Paris townhouse to the riverfront chateau, from the alpine chalet to the farm cottage in Provence.

“When we grow up in the shadow of mountains, we do not feel at home in metro stations… Our roots infiltrate us from birth and we gain nothing by trying to hide them.” –Cathy Bonidan, The Lost Manuscript

Québec City brought all of that together for me. This UNESCO World Heritage site was no reenactment venue or restored historical village. Rather, it was an immersion in the real thing, living in history. An ongoing and vibrant country French experience in the middle of a modern city.

As the most efficient use of our time that day, we’d chosen to board a two-hour hop-on hop-off Red Bus tour. While we waited in the Place d’Armes in front of iconic Chateau Frontenac, we admired quaint sidewalk cafés, sky-blue fleur-de-lys flags, and windowboxes spilling scarlet geraniums. Restaurants and museums housed in colonial buildings; lush formal gardens arranged around a fountain.

The Old Town

We did a quick walk-around and walk-through of the castle-like Fairmont Chateau Le Frontenac. The enormous lobby spreads out into multiple wings of marble floors, crystal chandeliers, exquisite boutiques, and elegant staircases. A showpiece example of the grand hotels developed by Canadian railway companies in the late 1800’s, Le Frontenac is said to be the most photographed hotel in the world. Understandably so. I’d recently snapped up a vintage Cat’s Meow replica of the place at a thrift store in Maine.

Time to climb aboard our bus. Even though a cool breeze blew, we opted for the open-air top deck and plugged in our earbuds. We circled Chateau Frontenac along the Dufferin Terrace boardwalk and the old port area where a cruise ship lay at dock. I can’t remember everything, by any means, but the picturesque avenues lined with balconied shops, the misty, scented air, and green parks bursting with flowers galore—all stand out in my memory.

“Some old-fashioned things like fresh air and sunshine are hard to beat.” –Laura Ingalls Wilder

We saw Place Royale, the birthplace of French Canada. The Museums of Civilization and Fine Arts. Notre Dame de Québec and other lovely churches of several denominations. The Citadel and the Plains of Abraham, where Wolfe and Montcalm fought out the decisive battle of the French and Indian War. The impressive Québec Parliament building. Squares and quarters and history-laden corners everywhere.

What would it have been like when my 19-year-old ancestor, Pierre Michel (or Micheau… or Michaud…) landed in 17^th-century Québec?

Wandering Pierre

The story goes that Pierre’s shopkeeper father Antoine apprenticed him to a haberdasher in Fontenay le Conte, Poitou, France (part of the former Duchy of Aquitaine). But restless Pierre, more interested in farming than fancy hats, fled to the New World—and a good thing, as he may have ended up mad as a…hatter!

This took place during the Golden Age of France as a world power, but the country seethed with turmoil. The Wars of Religion, corresponding religious persecution, crop failures, food shortages, and plague epidemics all combined to cause many young people to look elsewhere for opportunity and advancement.

Apparently, Pierre’s dream was for land, which in the France of his time belonged mostly to feudal overlords. Or to the monarch, Louis XIV, the notorious Sun King, whom we know as the twin brother in The Man in the Iron Mask and the son of the king of The Three Musketeers. Pierre left France soon after the Musketeers’ heyday (hence the aborted hat-making career) and around 125 years before the Revolution.

Québec City reigned as the center of French colonial life.

Pierre wandered about the Beaupré Coast (just north of the town), working as a carpenter, farmhand, lumberjack, and possibly soldier, for more than ten years. Then, at age 30, he finally married his 16-year-old sweetheart, Marie Ancelin, a newcomer hailing from the same French region as Pierre. Women were so scarce in New France that King Louis sponsored a group as settlers’ wives in the late 1600’s, However, Marie had come with her family, not as one of the “King’s Daughters.”

“She is a Frenchwoman, and you will find that in her misery she has still got resourcefulness, majesty, and true stoicism.” –Isak Dinesen, Babette’s Feast

Pierre and Marie soon settled on the Ile d’Orleans, a large and fertile island in the Saint Lawrence, on riverfront land Pierre purchased from Monsignor Laval, the first Bishop of Québec. As their family grew, they moved from island to island, continuing to upgrade their property while occasionally serving under the local lord, Sieur de Granville.

(Inevitably, in a wilderness area with such a low population, even the bumpkins knew the big shots personally. Madame de Granville became the godmother to Pierre and Marie’s first child.)

La Buche

After the tour, my husband and I also wandered…seeking not our fortune, but food! The streets of the old quarter—Rue Saint-Jean, Rue Saint-Louis, Petit-Champlain—abound with an eclectic array of world cuisines from Middle Eastern shawarmas to tapas bars. But how could we eat anything but country French food in New France?

We finally made an excellent random choice along Saint-Louis. La Buche (“The Log”) serves traditional Québécois cuisine in what feels like an old-fashioned log-and-fieldstone cabin—maybe a sugar shack?—complete with fireplace, snowshoes, oil lanterns, and fox-fur rugs.

Oh, the comfort foods on the menu! Croquettes, pork cassoulet, rabbit “wings,” maple smoked salmon, pea soup. I kept eying my husband’s crusty tourtière (pot pie), but I still wouldn’t have traded my Quebec shepherd’s pie with “fruit ketchup.” This folkloric experience reminded me of our Chilean country cuisine.

“The flavors melted in my mouth—warm chocolate and melted butter and the flaky sweet crust. This was what I loved about France. A keen appreciation for the simplicity and sweetness of life. The French seemed to savor their minutes along with their food.” –Melanie Dobson

Although the food was delicious, a trip to the funky restroom (“washroom” in Canada) turned out to be the highlight of our restaurant stop. Downstairs, the basement was lined with little booths, not exactly outhouses, but…evocative. In the center of the room squatted a huge clawfoot bathtub for a sink. Wine bottles fitted as soap dispensers and a galvanized bucket for trash. 😉Yes, artistic and practical.

Log Cabin Love

Next we will drive north to the villages of the Beaupré Coast on the trail of Rose Michaud. We’ve covered the city, albeit cursorily—it surely deserves a better visit someday. For now, however, we headed for the country. For the French countryside of the country French who were my ancestors.

I have a fair idea that they didn’t reside in a riverside chateau or keep a lavish townhouse for the social season. The Michauds’ early homes more likely resembled the dark, dank settler’s cabin my husband and I toured a few years ago. Banked with snow, it still let the sleet sift, rattling, through the chinks between the logs.

“You shall create beauty, not to excite the senses but to give sustenance to the soul.” –Gabriela Mistral, Chilean Nobel poetess

But the country French, men and women, were a hardy, hearty lot. They eked out beauty from the simplest of lifestyles.

My dad built houses, hutches, chests, from cast-offs—learned from his dad. His mother—my grandmother—frequented flea markets before they were fashionable. Her vintage bottle collection, like Rose’s, sparkled in the sunlight on windowsills all over the farmhouse. And though she barely had two cents to rub together, she dressed très chic and wore her platinum hair in a French twist for church.

I suspect they all ate more pancakes and poutine than foie gras and escargot. Just as well. (I was relieved when Grammie Alice forgot the hog’s head cheese, too.)

If you’re Canadian, or even a nearby New Englander, I invite you to visit. Come wander the streets of Le Vieux Québec with Pierre and Marie.