A history lesson

Last night Barbara and I were invited to dinner by a man who lives in Pontalier and works in my beloved Val de Travers on the Swiss side of the Franco-Swiss border. He keeps his grandparents’ home in Argelès as a vacation place.

Not only did we get an excellent meal, we got an entire history of his house, and indeed the street which he still owns. “This is where my grandfather’s cave, where he kept the horses, the rabbits, the chickens…” on and on. The armoires, tables, tiles, were beautiful enough to bring tears to an antique dealer’s eyes.

But more than looking we got an insight into the history of the village, who was right, who was left, who was hidden during WWII, who was an informer. We learned more about the refugees from Franco, what people ate, what the manners were in the past.

Walking home, over stuffed after midnight it seemed as if the people from the past were still there, not as ghosts, but as reminders we never really own anything. We occupy places for a time and then disappear for another generation and then another and then another who will not ever know we exist. However, for a few minutes on a cool September night, those that were gone came back into existence over a dinner.