Counting Chestnuts

In south west France, in 1285, famine stalked the land. The majority of the population lived at subsistence level at the best of times – and these weren’t. Levies paid to an English king, in his capacity as the Duke of Aquitaine, added insult to injury for the French populace. In the small bastide town of Lauzerte, the presence of the English soldiers, requisitioning the bulk of the available food, violating and abusing, was stirring rebellion in the hearts of the cowed residents. But the English were well-armed, trained soldiers and the citizens were tradespeople and labourers. The walled town sits on the top of a steep hill with extensive views on all sides. Even now, the route up from the plain below is by a narrow, steep and winding road. It was a fortress which allowed the English to dominate the surrounding countryside. Yet, it was all about to change.

One late afternoon, a poor widow who lived in a humble dwelling in the narrow Barbican Street, was sitting shelling chestnuts. Perhaps the grain harvest had failed or been requisitioned, and she was intending to grind the kernels into flour. For centuries, in the poorer areas of France and amongst the poorest people, chestnut flour was a staple of their diet. We don’t know her name, but that afternoon she was sitting in the gloom of the arched gateway; she wasn’t old, she had a young son, but perhaps she just looked plain and careworn through poverty and hunger. In any case the English soldiers paid her no attention, but she, on the other hand, had begun to notice something strange about their behaviour. She realised that they were leaving, singly or in twos, but the footfall was sufficient for her to become curious. She was poor, she had no education, she certainly didn’t know how to count. So instead she started to move chestnuts into her apron, one for each soldier who walked out of the town through the gate.

The soldiers were quiet, they were trying not to draw attention to themselves, but the widow saw them and kept moving chestnuts one after the other, until gradually the number of soldiers passing through the gate trickled to a halt. She could feel the weight of the hard nuts pulling at the rough cloth of her apron, and she knew she had watched most of the garrison leaving the town.

She gathered up the ends of her apron, tied it into a bundle before her, and scurried through the cobbled streets to stop in front of the house of the First Consul. It was a much grander house than hers but she had a tale to tell and she would not be forestalled. She emptied the chestnuts onto the rough oak table in the hall, and the First Consul counted them out aloud, his face changing from slight annoyance, to excitement and then determination. He clapped the poor woman on the shoulders and called out his servant to round up the citizens.

Gandillone Gate

At the gatehouse there were still two or three English guards, resting lazily on their weapons, envious of their comrades who had gone to Miramont to drink the fine, white wine from Toufailles, or had they gone to dance at the big fair at Sauveterre, or even, some said, they had been transferred to the garrison at St. Amans. No one knows for sure. But they had left and the remaining guards were quickly overpowered and hurled over the walls to their deaths on the rocks below. The gates were closed and Lauzerte was free of the invader- and stayed that way until 1360.

This act of rebellion was a catalyst, a signal to revolt against the English in the Guyenne Province. And the town named the gate “Gandillone”, which in its old written form means “the one who serves, who protects”. Legend has it that the poor woman’s son was adopted and educated by the town.

If you visit Lauzerte, and you should if you are in the region, you can see a plaque on the wall on Barbican Street, beneath the Gandillone Bridge, and you can walk through the gate down to the viewpoint where an old cannon sits ready to repel invaders. If you listen carefully you might imagine that you can hear the screams of the English soldiers as they fell to their deaths, and the cheering of the crowd as they slammed home the gate with cries of joy and triumph. The little town of Lauzerte is a gem in the region – the arcaded square with its upturned corner, the fine buildings in the narrow streets, the quirky ironwork which appears on many of the buildings in signs, lizards, and door knockers. The views on all sides of the rich, rolling countryside of this area are glorious. Go there, sit on a bench or at a café table and count chestnuts - who knows what could happen.