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.