Gasquie, on the heights of Najac, is where before heading towards Laguépie, the poet and agitator of ideas Maxime Roumagnac had chosen to live in his house without electricity or modern comfort. Not like a hermit, far from it for this character open to others, but more in the spirit of a solitary walker dear to Rousseau…
Far from the world, very close to the simple happiness of living and breathing, at the age of retirement, this teacher who experienced forced exile far from these Rouergate bases loved to make his wood stove hum in his little house in La Gasquie. , a few steps from Najac, a stone's throw from Laguépie and therefore in the center of Rouergue.
It was there, in a schist building covered with slates, that this epicurean of life had chosen to live a contemplative retreat.
No electricity, it's his choice. Water, of course, the telephone too, so as not to be disconnected from the outside world, and the battery-powered radio so that at nightfall, before the quilt warms your bones, you can grab the last notes sent to you to him by France Culture.
“Every day is a magical moment”
A poet, a juggler of words that he assembles like a puzzle in the form of a Japanese haiku, he is. Already when he speaks. Without raising your voice, with spoken words, counted or told, it depends. “I write with a Sergeant-Major pen, because I like it,” whispered to his visitor the one who was educated in post-colonial Africa and in the lost suburbs of the capital metropolis, light years from the chestnut groves. of Aveyron.
“Every day that dawns is a magical moment for me,” he continued, he who in the neighboring woods offered children young and old both an incredible “Santa Claus trail” and a corner for passing friends. . With a glance through the window of his living room, his pupils encountered a pair of deer as well as a few plowing wild boars turning over his piece of orchard. “If they are happy, I am too,” exclaimed Maxime.
Both a rural children's poet and a chronicler of the passing of time, he lived his life from both ends. An assumed choice that does not flirt with chance. The character let his mind wander to the rhythm of the seasons. With him they overlap again and again.
In the inglenook fireplace, the stove crackles again and again. The flames dance their saraband. If the frog announces a sharp cold, don't panic. “Wood and layers of duvets will do the trick and I hope to encounter the joy of a morning getaway in the snow.” From this perspective, Maxime confined his interior territory to a single room with the triple vocation of bedroom, dining room and office.
Jealously guarded secrets
A brief look back at his lost years above the Loire: “it was living up there that was anachronistic for me”, summed up the man who admits to having felt “in the shoes of an immigrant” when he taught in Mureaux.
Far from view, although he still loves to share his pickings, he jealously keeps a few secrets like his morel or chanterelle corners. When he returns from time to time to this preserved haven, happiness remains intact. “Push the door and sit down, the fireplace is lit…”, he always says to his passing visitor.
Even today, the octogenarian is and remains this contemplative poet, carving out beautiful pocket poems in blue ink that he self-publishes.
He gives away his books as much as he sells them in fairs or Christmas markets. When he becomes a photographer (the old-fashioned film type), the poet's eye sharpens. Witness his XXL and all-time Easter egg that he offers to his pupils on a giant canvas, or even more intimate photos. Time is slipping away. With a lively gaze, he continues to unfold his life along the path of the passing days.
