The village of Champeix lies, half-hidden, in the verdant folds of the Couze Valley southwest of Clermont-Ferrand. Easily overlooked, it forms part of the Pays d’Issoire, a kind of province of Puy-de-Dôme whose scenery — as observantly pointed out by the English historian Edward Augustus Freeman in the nineteenth century, seems more Italian than French. Terracotta-roofed townlets, acres and acres of vineyards, and columnar cypresses are all common sights in these parts, which is why some have likened this corner of Auvergne to Tuscany.
I first stumbled upon Champeix by chance on a drive to the hilltop town of Montpeyroux. It was only meant to be a short stop, but as we ambled around the village centre, we found ourselves drawn to the Pont de la Vernoze, a bridge that stretches over the Couze Chambon river. As we stood there, marking how the waterside houses reminded us of those we’d seen on the banks of the Arno in Florence, I spotted a picturesque campanile looming in the distance. Curious, we crossed the bridge and turned onto the Rue du Fort. A labyrinth of slippery and moss-covered steps cut into the hillside gradually led us to our ultimate destination: the ruinous Château du Marchidial.
Without question, the Château du Marchidial is Champeix’s prime architectural attraction. Its origins date back to the early Middle Ages, when it served as the seat of a powerful ruling dynasty, the Dauphins of Auvergne. Although it survived the ravages of the Hundred Years’ War, which saw areas of Auvergne fall under the control of mercenaries linked to the Kingdom of England, the castle was ultimately dismantled in the 1630s by the order of France’s infamous éminence grise, Cardinal Richelieu.
But perhaps “castle” is too poor a word for the Marchidial. Over the ages, Mother Nature has laboured to reclaim the old feudal holding, and since the 1980s, members of a local preservation society (L’Association de Sauvegarde du Marchidial) have gently guided her hand. What remains now of the Marchidial is a phantom of castle — a lushly foliaged assemblage of mouldering walls, pigeonniers, and portals. Like other ruins in Auvergne, it does have its haunters, although they are not the ghoulish denizens one might expect to hold sway over a structure of this kind. Instead, the Marchidial appears to be under the dominion of a sect of particularly active dryads and fairy-folk. This accords with an old legend, which links Champeix’s origins to an ancient building called the “Temple of the Fairies”.
This fabled temple lives on in today’s Marchidial, whose stepped gardens — full of clustering honeysuckle, vibrant wildflowers, and Mediterranean fruit trees — resemble the Helicon of mythic fame. As you walk among the old ramparts, breathing in the aromas of ripening quince or one of the Marchidial’s other fragrant plants, the fairies of the place, like the Muses of old, do seem to sing — if ever so softly. Another way to encounter these spirits is by visiting the chapelle Saint-Jean, the Marchidial’s crusader-era chapel. The city of Champeix has essentially dedicated the space to the Muses, transforming it into a venue for art exhibitions, concerts, and other performances.
As we left the Marchidial, shuffling carefully down the steeper portions of the path, I entertained the thought that our detour had been orchestrated in some way. Had our minds, to use a phrase from the American folklorist Charles Godfrey Leland, perceived the Marchidial’s “elfin thoughts”? Had we, as in the old fairy tales, been charmed by ethereal voices over the wind? I still don’t have answers to these questions. But if the Muses do live in Auvergne, Champeix is where you will find them.
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