In 1998, Phil and I bought sabots (clogs) at a rest stop on the péage (toll road). That was fourteen years ago. We’ve been wearing them ever since. For me, they are the shoes I resort to when
my feet are bothering me, which as I mature, is more and more often. After arriving in France, I realized that the
needed to be re-soled and I went off in search of un cordonnerie (cobbler).
The ugly truth was that the cobbler wanted more money than I was willing
to pay for fourteen-year-old clogs that the dog had chewed on when he was a
little younger and a little smaller. I
did an internet search for a replacement pair and found Isa.
Isa has an atelier in St. Bertrand de Comminges where she
makes clogs in the same way her father-in-law made clogs and his father and probably
his father’s father. In business since
1880, the family has been making sabots (clogs)—for much of that time the kinds
of sabots that would be used by farmers and other rural workers. Now, of course, Isa has transformed the
sabots into something more fashionable.
St. Bertrand de Comminges is located east of Pau and west of
St. Gaudens and about half way between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. We left Moliets with heavy fog threatening
the two and a half hour drive. Crawling
along behind whatever vehicle moved at a comfortable speed, we finally emerged
from the fog to find ourselves surrounded by green touched with fall
colors. Fields stretched away into hills
to the north and to the south into the Pyrenées. They beckoned us from the péage,
but we had too far to go to distract ourselves with the mere beauty of the
place. So we drove on.
We stopped for lunch in St. Gaudens and arrived at the
atelier just after two. We found it
locked and were ready to drive away to explore the town when a car pulled
up. It was Isa, who hurried from her car
and went through the gate to enter the atelier and open the main door. Just before getting out of the car, Phil
reminded me that he didn’t want to be pressured into buying anything unless he
happened to see something he liked so I should make it clear that we’re there
only for me.
Isa is a one-woman show—but an energetic one-woman
show. She handles the atelier and sales
space, the internet sales, designs and the footwear all by herself. The inventory, then, is not always big, but
it’s a made-to-order kind of operation. All
the shoes are made with materials made in France. Most of the wood comes from the walnut trees
of the Perigord and the leather is either local or comes from the north of
France.
Pas de problème, said Isa.
She’d finish it up now if that was his pleasure. And finish it up she did. She put on her heavy apron, sat down at her
work bench, draped a leather sheet over her lap, wedged a wooden form into the
instep and drove a huge nail through the form and the shoe. She shaped and tapped and cut and suddenly,
the clog was a finished product. She
removed the nail and the form, filled the nail hole and covered it with a
label. Phil was over the moon.
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