Au Revoir, la Dordogne

Our last week in la Dordogne started slowly; after a month and a half "on the road," both Carol and I needed a little down time, so we didn't stray too far from Beauvert. We took some short walks from our gîte, and one lovely "randonée" outside the town of Les Eyzies. (Remember our first randonée, when we managed to get spectacularly lost?) This time, it was uneventful - if a walk in the French countryside on a sunny day can be deemed uneventful.

Jean-Pierre and Danielle invited us to dinner Tuesday evening. Once again we were treated to Jean-Pierre's culinary mastery, Danielle's marvelous desserts and satisfying conversation on an evening we wished would not end - metaphor, perhaps for a visit that we wanted to prolong. We started with wine and a dish of walnuts harvested by Danielle. This night was seafood night. We started with Coquilles St. Jacques, beautifully presented. I found myself, not for the first time in la Dordogne, practicing the art of prolonged chewing in an effort to make the sumptuous taste last as long as possible. The main course was also an ocean fish, named in French Rouget for its reddish color. They were small - three to a person - and possessed a delightful natural salty taste. Then, the pièce de resistance - a pie-sized flan created by Danielle. Ummmm! Throughout the evening, we enjoyed our hosts' delightful company and good conversation. What could be better than good food with friends - anywhere, in any language?

On Thursday, we set out on our only long automobile exploration of our entire stay. At our hosts' suggestion, we drove over 160 kilometers to the caves at Pech Merle. Along the way we drove country roads high above the surrounding farmland that afforded us views that seemed to be endless. We were in the region of Lot. The villages seemed more modern, neat and tidy than in Dordogne, where every dwelling seemed to be hundreds of years old. The farms were larger; there seemed to be more activity. But we weren't swayed; Dordogne had already won our hearts.

The caves at Pech Merle are larger and more geologically interesting than Font de Gaume. The drawings on the walls were older and more primitive. We found the site interesting, but not as stunning historically or culturally as Font de Gaume. If you're in the region and have time for only one, Font de Gaume is it.

Jean-Pierre and Danielle told us that if we went to Pech Merle, we should be sure to visit the pretty hill town of Saint Cirq Lapopie, just down the road from the caves.


Saint Cirq - un des plus beaux villages de France - sits high above the River Lot, providing spectacular views. It was late in the afternoon of a day late in the tourist season, so it was pretty quiet. We found an open restaurant with wine but no view. Since we wished to tarry amid such beauty more than drink wine, we chose to visit the ruins of the fortress, which afforded the best views. Then we walked the streets a bit before pointing the car for home.

In Europe, pointing your car doesn't always mean that you'll be moving in that direction, at least not on the schedule that you had set for yourself.

And then, it was Friday, the 24th, our last full day in la Dordogne. I looked back over the breadth of our adventure to the early days of feeding Wes, changing his diapers and chatting with him about the important things that grandparents have to say to their infant grandsons. Back then, we walked Spud and Bella, drank Dutch beer with Ben, enjoyed Ellen's culinary creations and got lost on bicycles with regularity. So much had happened. And now it was time to... clean the gîte! That knocked the memories out of the forefront. We got a head start the night before, and promised ourselves one more country walk as a reward for a job performed to Carol's exacting standards.

The walk would be to the Chateau de Commarque, an unrestored twelfth century castle not all that far from Beauvert. Road signs pointed to the traditional approach to the chateau, but Carol found a spot a kilometer or two away that would reward us with a pretty stroll through the countryside.

The results were familiar. Actually, we were not lost. When I took this photo, we could see the chateau through the trees off to our right. To our left rose a steep rocky cliff that kept us from wandering too far astray. The path was not well-used, and it took a little while to find our way. But the intrepid Americans prevailed, enjoying the wandering the entire time.

We emerged from the woods at the base of the fortress and were rewarded with beautiful views of the unrestored castle. I've told you in earlier posts about impressive restored chateaux we visited. Chateau de Commarque was closed, but as we gazed up at its magnificence, we were enchanted by the powerful and haunting remains of its former glory. Once again, we were alone amid the natural and historical splendor of la Dordogne. We lingered, allowing the ghosts of long ago work their magic on us.

These are the remains of the village at the base of the chateau's domineering cliff, where servants, merchants and tradesmen who provided their services to the chateau lived.

We learned later - as we researched on the internet at Beauvert, glass of wine at our side - that in July and August, the lonely, magical spot we had visited is so crowded with visitors that English language tours are given hourly!

This was our last Dordogne adventure. Ahead now lay Paris, which I'll tell you about in my next posting. But I must finish my Dordogne journal by introducing our hosts, about whom I cannot say enough good things.

Jean-Pierre and Danielle Caron-Lys, the owners of Beauvert, have made their home a special place. From the moment we arrived, when we found them waiting outside their home and waving to us (alerted, I suppose, by the sound of our car's approach in the serene valley), Jean-Pierre and Danielle treated us with gracious warmth. Chief among the delights we experienced during our stay in la Dordogne were the times we got to visit with them. If we saw them outside doing chores or sitting on their patio on the warm autumn sun, we felt a rise of excitement at the thought of visiting and telling them of the day's adventure.

Their pleasure at hearing us recount our day's wandering was genuine. They offered ideas and insights on places to see that we hadn't known about. (Their knowledge of the region of la Dordogne is extensive. In fact, I invite you to check out Jean-Pierre's own blog, which reveals their knowledge of the region as well as their own fascinating interests. It's a good way to practice your French, but you can get the gist of much of what they have to share, with a little reliance on context and, of course, photos.)

Jean-Pierre and Danielle were so helpful and so kind to us, day in and day out. In addition to tips about the region, they were eager to help us with any question, any problem that arose. When I had my unpleasantness with our rental car (a little scratch or two, a bit of a dent), Jean-Pierre looked at the damage and in his best English exclaimed, "Sheeet!" He seemed even more upset that I was! He proved invaluable in calling the car rental agency in Brive and later helping me to translate my letter to the agency - a necessity for making sure that they did their part in providing necessary documents for insurance.

And all the while, we grew more relaxed with them, more comfortable in our conversations, eager to visit with them and to chat. As I wrote in their "Livre d'Or" - the "Book of Gold" - their guest book, I felt that among all the memories we were leaving la Dordogne with, one of our fondest would be the memory of our hosts who had become our friends.

Au revoir, Jean-Pierre et Danielle. Jusqu'à ce que nous nous réunissions encore.

Not heaven, but you can see it from here!

On Thursday, I wrote about practicalities, because it was a rainy day and there was nothing else to write about. Thursday night, the clouds drifted off to the east and a full moon appeared, illuminating the late night countryside. In the morning, the sun took its cue from the moon, bringing brilliant blue skies. Out came our smiles and our bicycles.


We were up and out early to capture the day. (Well, it was before noon.) On this day, we pointed our bicycles towards Les Milandes, the fabulous chateau that was once the home of the fabulous Josephine Baker.

The day promised near perfection, and we were not disappointed. The air was warm; and the sky, crystal clear. As always here in the valley of La Dordogne, the journey was the destination. Every spot along the road was where we were supposed to be.

There was, of course, La Dordogne itself.


Sometimes we cycled beside its banks.


Sometimes we were high above it. Today, even the climb out of the valley was gentle; we found ourselves high above the river, although we had hardly broken a sweat. Though the river was not in sight, we felt its allure.

Everywhere we looked we found beauty. Perhaps Monet's dreams looked like this.

We stopped near a farm for a drink of water and a map check. The farm dogs bounded out to check us out and to remind us that this was their place. An old man ambled out to see what all the fuss was, and Carol told him we were on our way to Les Milandes. He pointed across the fields to where in the distance we could see the chateau's towers. We wished him a bonne journée and set off again.

Not too much later we cycled up to the entrance gate, where we paid our sixteen euros and entered the grounds of this stunning chateau. We sat on a low wall overlooking the Dordogne far below us and ate our croissandwiches. Then we took the tour. Here's a taste of what we saw.






I took lots of photos of the gargoyles. I like gargoyles.

The tour is fascinating. Josephine Baker was quite an interesting woman, with a flamboyant style, to say the least. The chateau is furnished and decorated the way it was during the time she lived there in the mid-twentieth century. The walls are filled with photos of her life and posters of her as an entertainer. She was a striking personality and a beautiful woman. I was so caught up in the photos and the documentary of her life (good practice in reading French!) that I often had to remind myself to pay attention the building itself, a masterpiece of medieval architecture and grandeur.

Photos inside the chateau are not allowed. This is my forbidden photo. Carol set me straight, and I behaved from this point on. (I confess that I was tempted to cheat a little even though I knew better, but there were other people around!)

We had toured this site in 2006 when we were on our bike tour, but it was every bit as exciting and beautiful the second time around. And if we're ever lucky enough to be in this part of the world again, we'll come back for more.

Oops! How did he get in here? Okay. No more gargoyles. I promise. (Believe me, I have lots more I could show.)

Soon it was time to get on the bikes and head for home. We had a dinner reservation at La Plume d'Oie (Goose Feather) later on, and a little down time after the bike ride sounded real good.

There was a magical moment in store for each of us on our way home. Carol's was different from mine; but, well, I'll just show you.

As we neared Saint Cyprien, we cycled a lovely stretch along the Dordogne. We were alone on the gravel path, and I came to a spot that completely captivated me. I told Carol that I needed to stop. She rode on, and I got off my bike and sat by the bank of the river.

This was what I saw. This is not the most beautiful photo of our trip by any means. But this is the one that will mean the most to me months from now when I remember the day. I sat there and absorbed the silence, the sun shimmering on the water, the soft breeze brushing across my face, the current slipping by on its journey. The Dordogne holds me in its grasp, for a reason I can't explain. So, for that too brief a time, I allowed the river to keep me there and work its magic.

I could have stayed there for a long long time, but I knew it was time to go. I got on my bike and set out to catch up to Carol. I didn't pedal far before I saw Carol also sitting by the side of the road. Her back was to the river.

Her attention had been captured by this view of Saint Cyprien. As I approached, she said, "This is it. This is the place I want my home." I knew exactly what she meant. It may never happen, but it's a dream we have, the two of us. I'm glad to have shared it with you.

Prehistory

This week, on an overcast day that didn't encourage cycling or hiking, we fortunately had a date with history, or rather prehistory. The region we are in is famous for caves that bear traces of prehistoric humans. The most famous of the caves are at Lascaux, and they are quite stunning. The Lascaux caves themselves are now closed to the public in order to preserve them. An exact replica of the caves with their drawings and paintings has been constructed for modern day visitors to experience.

Just down the road from our gîte is Font de Gaume, the last of the prehistoric caves still open to the public. We took an English language tour this week and were left searching for words to express our feelings afterward. I won't have any photos for you, since photos aren't allowed in the cave; but this link will show you what we saw.

The cave itself is not the attraction. It is perhaps 120 meters in length. The attraction is the artwork on the walls. The walls are covered with polychromatic paintings of animals - reindeer, horses, mammoths and bison primarily. These paintings have been scientifically dated as over 14,000 years old. 14,000 years! These prehistoric artists used native iron oxide (red) and manganese (black) and the natural 100% humidity of the caves to create their paintings. And they used perspective, the technique "discovered" during the Renaissance period of art. Furthermore, they used the shapes of the rocks to create figures that appear to move in the flickering light of a flame. Our tour guide said that scientists have speculated that these "primitive" humans may have "seen" the animals in the rock walls, knowing with some instinctive skill where to paint the figures.

The paintings were made over a period of a few thousand years. These people inhabited the region for quite a long time! The photos near the entrance are somewhat worn, the result of their proximity to the outside air. Farther into the cave, protected from external elements, the paintings have retained a startling detail and clarity, as if they had been painted yesterday.

We discussed the purpose of the paintings, the fact that only animals are represented (no humans or plants or stories), the fact that the caves' only purpose was to hold the paintings (they didn't live in the caves). What I kept coming back to, however, was that these people so long ago possessed such talent, intelligence, emotion and sense of the abstract. They had a life far richer than one in which they spent all their time hunting for their next meal. It was an experience both inspiring and humbling.

Les Practicalités de la Vie en France

A beautiful full moon lit the countryside last night. A full moon never fails to delight and to leave me with a sense of awe. The magic was gone this morning. When we looked out the window, we saw rain.

Rain is beautiful in its own way. It revives the earth (and brings mushrooms back to the market, we hope). It presents its own melancholy beauty. It encourages you to slow down, to have an extra cup of tea, to read just a little longer, perhaps spend some time in reflection. And, of course, there is the pleasure of a rainy day nap. But it also puts a damper on planned outdoor activities; our bike ride was definitely put on hold today. Soooo, this is my opportunity to talk about a few practicalities of traveling in France.

First, there's money. In Europe, size matters. In the U.S., we're beginning what is sure to be a long and frustrating discussion of whether we should size our money. In Europe, they've been doing it for a long time. The bigger the bill or coin, the greater the value. I love it! There is one interesting quirk to the Euro. European coins in order of size/value: 2 Euro, 1 Euro, 50 cents, 20 cents, 5 CENTS, 10 CENTS, 2 cents, 1 cent. What is it about nickels and dimes?

But what I really wanted to comment on is how easy it is to spend euros! There's something about being on vacation in Europe and having this cool play money. A glass of wine may be only 3 euros; a delicious crêpe, only 2. A yummy three-course lunch may be only 15 euros. Give the waiter a tiny blue five-euro note and that bigger pinkish ten. It's really easy. And the ATMs spit out euros as easily as they spit out dollars in the U.S.

I'm sure you see the logical step I'm omitting. But it's so easy to just ignore the fact that the 15 euro lunch is really costing me way more dollars. (About 1.5 times as much) But never mind. I'll worry about that later.

What did bring me up short however was the first time I filled the gas tank on my fuel efficient little Peugeot! Never mind what I paid! I don't want to talk about it! I don't even want to think about it! On the bright side, the price per liter was a measley 1.37! Such a deal! I love the euro and the metric system.

Now, a word about the language. Settling into a place for a full month has been interesting. I don't know if my French has gotten any better, but I do know that I have from the outset been nearly fearless about speaking it. I'm sure I've amused more than one local with the enthusiasm with which I've mangled their language. The thing is - I smile when I speak and somehow I manage to get my point across. And they smile back and speak a little slower for me. (I'd like some of you at home to remember that, please.) Some merchants in town have gotten to recognize me, notably the women in my favorite patisserie and the guy in the wine store (hmmmm ). We talk a little longer; they volunteer a little about their product. It's fun.

But you have to be careful! I asked Ellen before we left the Netherlands how to say, "I'm sorry." I wanted to be ready to win hearts and minds in case I told some lady her baby looks like a schnauzer, or some such blunder. "It's 'je suis faché,' isn't it?" I asked, wanting to show my daughter that I remembered a lot from high school French. "Not exactly," she replied. "You just said, 'I'm angry.' " She told me the correct phrase, and I practiced "Je suis desolé" on the train. Happily, I have not had to tell anyone here that I am "desolé," or "faché" for that matter.

And finally...

Lightbulbs! The bulb in the light above burned out yesterday, so rather than bother Jean-Pierre, we just bought a pack of two at the supermarket. Well, it's not quite that simple in France. We correctly figured out that you unscrew the bottom of the globe to get access to the bulb, but that was the end of our success. Carol, with the smaller hand, could just barely reach in to get hold of the bulb. She could not unscrew it. Something wasn't right here. So, before we shattered the globe or pulled the assembly out of the ceiling, we carefully put it all back together. Then I went next door and bothered Jean-Pierre.

Of course, he said, he would be right over. Five minutes later, the owner of the house and the lights was scratching his head. I'll be right back, he said. He came back with a screwdriver and, while I held a flashlight, he unscrewed the top of the assembly from the ceiling, disconnected the electric wires, took down the entire globe, then removed the bulb, which was not even a screw-in type of bulb. It had two little pins that you slip into two little slots before giving the bulb a little quarter turn. Jean-Pierre said simply that in France they have two kinds of bulbs. We're French, he explained with a shrug of his shoulders and an abashed smile. (This wasn't the first time he offered this explanation during our stay.) He replaced the bulb and hung everything back up. "Turn on the switch please, Marc," he said. I did, and voilá! Nothing happened. So he took it all apart again and carried the entire assembly to his house. He returned a half hour later and we repeated the operation. "Turn on the switch please, Marc," he said and this time - yes! Light!

I hope the sink doesn't back up before we leave.

Un des Plus Beaux Villages de France

That's what it says on the sign that greets you as you enter the town of Saint Léon-sur-Vézère. It lives up to the sign's claim; it is, without any doubt, one of the most beautiful villages in France.

As you cross the Vézère, you get this look at the town. We were happy to get off our bikes, which are not the most comfortable contraptions we ever rested our derrieres on. We sat on a stone wall and ate a picnic lunch as we watched the river flow by. Then, drawn by the town's allure (and looking for a reason to not get back on the bikes for a while), we wandered the narrow streets.

We took in the twelfth century church. In the summer, Jean Pierre told us, the church hosts classical musical concerts. Talented musicians from all over France perform here. Today, we just got to absorb its beauty in silence.

It seemed that nearly every door and window demanded a photograph.

We saw beauty on a grand scale...

... and on a humble one. (These flowers were so bright that at first I thought they had to be plastic! If I said such a thing out loud, the French would be appalled.)

We had wandered the entire town and were running out of reasons to stay; even I had to admit I had taken more than enough photos. Then we found an excuse to postpone getting back on the bikes!


Nourishment! Of course!

We had started the day with a vague idea of heading toward Saint Léon, but to our wanderers' souls Saint Léon was mostly just a direction to point the bicycles. The ride, with beauty everywhere you looked, was the reward. At one point, I looked ahead on a stretch of road that was made a tunnel by trees lining both sides of the road. Carol was ahead of me, and I watched as she moved under leaves falling from above like fat yellow snowflakes. I thought to myself that we had absolutely nowhere to go and that every spot along our route was the place we were supposed to be. Turn left at the intersection. Or right. Or go tout droit - straight - it doesn't matter at all.

A minor catastrophe - Carol hit a pothole and took a fall - brought us to a stop in the little town of Tursac. She was bruised but unhurt; the bike needed its chain put back. We sat on the narrow sidewalk, leaned our backs against a building and looked at our map. We heard the sound of schoolchildren at play behind a wall, unexpected music on an autumn day.

We glided over rolling hills surrounded by fertile fields.

We climbed hills in low gear and then flew down them, all the while taking in the sights.

P.S. Stepford Seniors!
St. Léon was a sleepy village - few locals about, little to no activity. (Well, yes, all the towns are like that, now that you ask.) The only significant activity was the appearance every few minutes of wandering couples taking in the beauty of the town before speeding off in their rental cars. All these couples moved slowly, looking around, speaking softly. Some held hands. Some held cameras. All were gray-haired. Arghhhhhh! It was us! Eerie! Scary! Suddenly I was very pleased about returning to my bicycle and pedaling out of town under my own power.

Can We Talk? About Food?

This talk is long past due. I've shown you lots of scenic photos of Europe, and I've told you lots of stories of our travels. But I haven't talked about food yet. Oh, I've mentioned my fascination with the markets, but I've just scratched the surface. I mean, we're in France for cryin' out loud. So let's get serious for a while. Here's the other Europe that we're visiting.

I'll begin at the beginning. There are no photos for this part, maybe because I just wasn't expecting good food in the Netherlands. (And maybe because I didn't do a very good job with the photos I did take.) Ellen and Ben each took us to a favorite restaurant in Maastricht. Ben thanked us for helping him care for Wes while Ellen was gone by treating us at Tapas & More, a delightful Spanish place where we ordered somewhere around a dozen of the appetizer dishes and passed them around while we drank sangria.

Then, Ellen thanked us for teaching her French class by taking us to India House, where at the end of the meal we ordered additional bread because I did not want to leave one drop of the exotic and unbelievably tasty sauces on my plate.

So the best two restaurant meals we had in Netherlands were from faraway places. Coincidence? Not exactly. We had a third restaurant meal in the Netherlands - at a real castle. It was Haute Cuisine with a vengeance - Formal to the point of stuffy (I don't know if it was a rule that you had to whisper, but everybody did). It was verrrrry slow-paced, but tastefully so. It was delicious and well-presented. It was the most expensive meal Carol and I have ever eaten in our entire lives. (Maybe if you ply me with enough good wine, I'll reveal the price tag.) We knew all this going in; it was something we just had to do, and it was fun.

And then, we went to France. We had arranged with our hosts, Jean-Pierre and Danielle, for a home-cooked meal upon our arrival, since we would have been traveling all day (since six a.m.) and knew we would be exhausted. What a wonderful introduction to France, a reminder of one of the reasons we love this country. Jean-Pierre and Danielle welcomed us into their lovely home and gave us a lovely meal - regional wines (I learned to savor Monbazillac) and a famous regional specialty - duck, prepared exquisitely by Jean-Pierre. It was topped off with a delicious tarte au pommes, an apple tart made by Danielle. We enjoyed the good food and got to know our gracious hosts, practicing our French and having a thoroughly enjoyable first evening in France.

Ellen and Ben and Wes followed us in a few days. My daughter, I have to brag, knows her way around a kitchen. For a firsthand look at her culinary adventures, check out Ellen's cooking blog. She cooked that Dordogne specialty - duck - for us while she was here. Ooh! La! La!

The master at work, with one of her sous-chefs in the background.

A most yummy accompaniment to the duck - a potato/apple/shallot hash. We've imitated it since Ellen left, but haven't matched it.

And voilá! The main dish - duck breast with balsamic/fig reduction! Carol had a delicious duck at a very nice restaurant several days later (I'll get to that, be patient), and said that it wasn't in the same league as the dish served up by Ellen.

Breakfasts around here aren't like at home. Ellen (again!) served this up for her dad one morning.

Our first restaurant meal here in the Dordogne came last Friday, at La Belle Étoile (Beautiful Star) in the lovely town of Roque Gageac, on the Dordogne River. Ben and Ellen had celebrated their sixth anniversary there a few days before, while we happily watched Wes. They returned with rave reviews, so off we went.

Ellen and Ben had gushed about the little complimentary "amuse bouche" we started with - a cup of pumpkin soup. After my last spoonful, I thought long and hard about tipping the cup upside down to get what I couldn't spoon out, but I opted to not be an ugly American. I will experiment with pumpkin soup when I get home, with the hope of approaching this dish.

For the first course, I had a smoked salmon appetizer, and Carol had a poached egg with morel mushrooms - essentially a creamy mushroom soup. Doesn't sound so special, does it? Well, my dish was wonderful; Carol's was bowl-lickin' good. (She didn't.) For the main course, Carol had duck with pasta. I took Ellen's advice and had the veal, which they didn't order but ogled whenever the waiter brought it to another table.


It was delicous, fabulous, stupendous, scrumptious, heavenly. I saved my bread, so I did not have to lick the sauce off the plate. I would have. And the veal was perfect - tender and full of flavor. I chewed very slowly and only grudginly gave Carol a taste. (After 35 years, the romance still flames!)

For dessert, I had the tiramisu, since it was the specialty of their in-house chef. It was very good. Carol, on Ellen's recommendation, had a chocolate trilogy and loved it.

And then it was Sunday! Market day! I was so happy! We've learned not to arrive too early. (These French just aren't in a hurry to get started with their day, a trait I'm growing to admire.) When we arrived near 10:00, the street was bustling with shoppers. We walked up and down Rue Gambetta, the main street, taking it all in and deciding which vendors had the best-looking foods. Then we got down to business.

I bought country sausages, which Carol turns her nose up at. Ben and I love'em. Maybe it's a guy thing, slicing hunks, eating with your hands or stabbing a piece with your knife. We don't need no stinkin' forks.

We bought lots and lots of fresh produce. We were disappointed to find no mushrooms; it's been very dry here. By the way, the cherry tomatoes are delicious. I eat'em for snacks. They won't replace chocolate, but what can? Really?

I needed a panoramic lens to capture all the olives for sale. My favorites so far are the green olives stuffed with garlic or walnut slivers or anchovies.

This cheese vendor was in a very good mood. Each time we passed, if she wasn't helping a customer, she was singing or playing with her yellow lab, who sat patiently watching all the action. What choice did I have but to chat with her (Yes, in French), taste her samples and buy a wedge of a local cheese?

And finally! Our special treat at the Saint Cyprien market is the vendor who sells "to go" dishes. I should've taken more photos, 'cause words don't do justice to the dishes they serve up. Each week, they have huge wok-like pots on an open flame. They offer paella, cassoulet, mussels and duck confit. At our first market, we took home the paella. The following week we nearly cried because they weren't there.

This Sunday we ordered the duck confit! And next week, I'm getting the cassoulet, no matter what.

So, what do a couple Americans on holiday in rural France do after such a frenzy of food acquisition?

They go out to lunch, of course!

There! I'm glad we had this little talk. I know that talking about food isn't the same as tasting it. I hope I kept it interesting. But I had to write this one.

Random Thoughts While Perched on a Bicycle Seat

Autumn comes softly here in la Dordogne, at least this year. In Minnesota, it is winter that will not let go, prolonging itself with a vengeance long into the spring. Here, summer seems reluctant to depart. There is color in the trees, but only sporadic - a dot here, a splash over there. The fields of corn, much still unharvested, have turned yellow. It is enough to change the light; the days have that brilliance that autumn brings. We've had some chilly evenings, enough for a fire in the wood-burning stove some nights; but we shut it off when Ellen and Ben left with Wes. The climate reminds me, surprisingly, of the desert. We lie on a chaise lounge in the sun, and it is easy to drift off to sleep; but in the shade, one reaches for a jacket. Each day demands that one be outdoors. Get on a bicycle and explore. Take a walk. Visit Saint Cyprien and wander the narrow back streets. Or sit and read until your eyes close. Just be outdoors.

Early mornings are stunning as the mists rise from the river valley.

The days are so bright; the air, so clear.

Have I written about the silence? It is as close to absolute as one would want. When outdoors, I often find myself stopping to listen, to see if I can discern sounds. Then they gradually appear - birdsongs, a soft wind in the trees, a distant tractor, occasionally a human voice so far away that the words are indistinguishable but the human presence is felt, the mooing of a cow, a barking dog. And at night! Well, let me just say that Carol and I sleep like we haven't in a long time.

And speaking of dogs, it seems as if every occupied house has one (or two or three). Carol and I have provided countless Sparkies and Bowsers and Rovers (or whatever they might be named in French) with moments of delight. They lie about all day, waiting for something to happen. Two cyclists or walkers passing by is high adventure. They are up and barking at our approach. If they are lucky enough to be unrestricted by a wall or fence, they run into the road. When we saw the first ninety-pound canine bounding across a field toward us, it was a little unnerving. But it's all just a game. They get to DO something! They run. They bark. If we let them, some will sniff. Most don't even want to get that close. They just want to check us out, to greet us. We move on; they return to their laying about.

I like the scale of things here, the pace of life. The other day, Carol and I were walking through an isolated forest when we were surprised to see a man and a woman bent over in the woods. They were looking for mushrooms. We called out, "Bonjour, MonsieurMadam," They returned our greeting with a smile and went about their searching.

It's the same with walnut harvesters. We've seen many of them. They are always either alone, or a pair. There are no machines. They bend and gather them by hand. I spoke to one man the other day who was working alone, filling his wheelbarrow. He was at it for hours. Most have large sacks, and all work patiently.

These are some of the people we encounter at the markets. It's why I loved the market from the first day I shopped. At the market you are face to face with the people who have harvested the vegetables or made the cheese. It is commerce at a personal level.

Every interaction begins and ends with a politeness. Whether you bargain with a vendor at the market or ask directions on the street, pay the attendant at the gas station or enter a quaint shop, one always begins with a friendly "bonjour" or "bonsoir." And always you say good-bye and wish a person well. Always. It's hard for an American to remember, but it is immensely satisfying when you get the knack of it. It's about living life on a manageable human scale. It's about finding a civilized pace at which one can navigate through life.

Next post, I'll set aside the philosophy and talk about some practicalities of life here - like money, language and food.

We Walked Right Off The Map!

Okay. My apologies to the Dutch. If you read my blog about bicycling in the Netherlands with their confounded phonetically incorrect road signs and about being a perfect four-for-four on bike expeditions (four trips, four times lost), then you'll have some background for this apology. I sneered at the Dutch and their bewildering signs that led us around in circles. Then I went on to describe how we cycle the French countryside as if we lived a full life here in a different incarnation. Well, yesterday we were brought up short. Does this photo look familiar?

The signs are a different language, but my companion is the same, and her expression is the same as the one she gave the camera in the Netherlands.

If you double click on the photo, you'll see that the café is called Le Bistrot Des Randonneurs - The Hikers' Café. "Randonneur" also resembles "random," doesn't it? Well, local maps indicate numerous walks through the lovely countryside. So, the five of us decided to take one of these jaunts. We found the town of Siorac and parked near the town center, the start of the circular walk we chose, according to the map. Nothing was obvious, so I marched into the Office de Tourisme. I parlayed Français, got directions, returned to the group and said, "Follow me." We were off and hiking.

The hike was the Randonnée de la Dordogne. The map told us it was eleven kilometers and three hours long. It was lovely.

Every country house seems to be bedecked with beautiful flowers.

Every crossroads seems to have some icon reminding all who pass of the ages old traditions of Christianity.

There were stunning views.

We made new friends.

We had a delightful picnic.

And then we got lost, really lost. How lost? Well, we were so lost that we didn't even know we were lost. A couple of us had suspicions, but we didn't speak up because, well, we didn't have an alternative to offer. You see, the French mark their randonnées with sturdy metal posts with yellow caps. If you see the yellow cap, then you're on the trail. Sometimes the posts with yellow caps have yellow arrows indicating a turn, so you turn. Easy. What we didn't quite understand was that the same yellow-capped posts seem to be used for the multiplicity of randonnées in the region. Randonée? Randomy?

Our suspicions grew stronger as we reached the three-hour mark, the time we should have been walking back to the town center of Siorac to find a café and a glass of wine to celebrate our adventure. Instead, we found ourselves in a dense forest with only occasional signs of human habitation. Also, we had started in the river valley, and we were still in the hills, high high above the river.

We crossed a paved road that wound downward. Pavement! Downward! My body at this point knew that it had marched much farther than eleven kilometers, and I suggested that we take the road. We checked the map. Someone pointed to where we must be if we were crossing the road. Just a few hundred meters and we'll be right here. See? We wanted so badly to believe the map, so we did. On we walked, back into the woods.

Soon we came upon two gray-haired British ladies who were staying at a chateau nearby and were out for a short walk. They were delighted, positively delighted, to encounter fellow-English speakers. We told them we were doing a circular walk from Siorac. Their response was something like this - "Siorac? Oh dear! Siorac!" We showed them our map, with the route neatly highlighted in yellow. They looked puzzled. We had to open up the folded map to reveal areas not on our route. They looked some more and then said, "Ah. Here we are." One of the ladies pointed to a spot that was not remotely near the highlighted yellow path. In fact, we were about two kilometers from the nearest tiny village, which on the map looked discouragingly distant from Siorac. We had walked right off our map! At this point, I can't speak for the mental state of Ellen, Ben or Carol. (Wesley, snuggled next to his dad's chest, was one contented randonneur.) For myself, I thought words that are best not printed. I just wanted to sit down and weep, not so much for how far we had gone out of our way, but for how far we still had to go.

Well, we all smiled bravely for the ladies and headed off for the sleepy town of Urval. Not much was happening in Urval. The bistro in the photo above was closed. So much for a cold lemonade or a cold beer. The mairie (town hall) was open. I wandered in and explained that we were lost and was there water? The gentleman in the office pointed me to the bathroom which had potable water. He then told me we were five kilometers from Siorac.

The city hall in Urval, where we benefited from the kindness of strangers.

I was willing to make the trek to get the car and return for the others, but Ben volunteered. We gave him a liter of water, and he left. He RAN, God bless him, and was back with our air conditioned car in a half hour!

While Ben was gone, we sat in the shade on the front steps of the mairie. The man came outside and talked with us and brought us bottled water. The ladies came out to admire Wes and admonish Ellen not to let him get cold. (The Europeans have a thing about protecting babies from the cold. The afternoon was very warm. Wes was safe from any chills.) The man came back out and asked if we wanted coffee! The last thing any of us wanted was coffee, but we were so grateful for his kindness that we accepted his offer. I followed him into the tiny office, where the man and two women and I chatted in French while the water for instant coffee heated up. Imagine that!

Things improved dramatically from there. Ben returned, and soon we were speeding back to our gite. In no time, we were at the pool with snacks and chilled white wine and beer. In retrospect, it was a great outing. The day was lovely. The walk was delightful, even if we did go a little astray. You know - a bad day in the French countryside is better than a good day at the dentist, or at work.

P.S. If you fall off a horse, you're supposed to get right back on. So today we went right back out on a new randonnée. It was a delightful as yesterday's misadventure, and much shorter. There not only were no wrong turns, but also there were...


Blackberries! Lots of them!

And more natural beauty all around us!

Ellen, Ben and Wes return to the Netherlands tomorrow. It's been an exciting week, a week full of activity, good food and wine, and love. We'll miss them. Tonight after dinner, I sang and cuddled Wes to sleep while his parents had some down time free of the demands of raising a seven-week old baby. I looked at my grandson's face as he slept in my arms, and I thought, not for the first time, that I am a fortunate man.

Blessings abound. Good night, everyone.