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.

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.

A Day on the River

Last Wednesday we drove to Bergerac to pick up Ellen, Ben and Wes, who arrived for a week's visit. We went early and spent an hour or so in Vieille Bergerac, the old part of the city. After a walking tour of the cobblestone streets, we went to the tiny airport for our reunion. From the moment we picked them up, it's been a nonstop adventure that's been a lot of fun. There's been too much to put in a blog, or even two or three, but I'll give you one or two of the highlights.

On Saturday, at Carol's suggestion, Ben and I had a day on the Dordogne. Carol and Ellen drove us to the only canoe rental place still open in October. There are about a zillion canoe rentals (give or take a couple) to service vacationers in the summer. We drove down a one-lane dirt road toward the river and had to slow for an old couple on bicycles, carrying plastic bags with goods from the market. How quaint, we thought. It turns out that they were the proprieters of the canoe rental. We agreed on a meeting time later in the day, and Carol and Ellen went off for their own adventure with Wes. Ben and I paid our nineteen euros and climbed into a clunky old van that may have been used to drive downed American pilots to safety from Nazi interrogators once upon a time. The old man drove us fourteen kilometers to another single lane dirt road down to the river bank, where he gave us a funky (rhymes with clunky) fiberglass canoe, two paddles and a waterproof box for our lunch. (This canoe was not pretty, but it was serviceable. I think you could drop it off a cliff, retrieve it, and still paddle it without concern.) Then, we were off on our adventure.

I was in my element. It was like the Boundary Waters with chateaux along the way.

Ben took the bow, providing the muscle (and getting in the way of all my picturesque photos).

We worked hard, but were rewarded with wonderful sights, like the town of Beynac, with its chateau rising above the town. (Well, we didn't actually work hard; the current did most of the work. But we DID have to steer a little bit.)

Every bend in the river brought us a new wonder to behold. After a cold, foggy start, the day quickly warmed.

Somewhere around the midpoint of our journey - you don't pay attention to mile markers when you're drifting on the river, so we don't really know - we came to the stunning Castelnaud, which the five of us had toured the day before. It was time for lunch.

I was pleased to see that my son-in-law understands the finer points of French dining.

I did, however, have to point out to him that one holds the bottle in the LEFT hand.

Fortified with lunch, we set out to continue our journey. It was important that we not be late for our rendez-vous with Ellen and Carol and Wes. We stopped for directions.

The locals were very helpful. After they reassured us that if we kept drifting with the current we'd be fine, we decided to show our gratitude by boosting the local economy. I wanted to boost the economy with another beer, but Ben reminded me of our rendez-vous, so we were off.

We had agreed on a 3:30 rendez-vous. (Notice how I keep throwing in that French word. I'm getting really good.) We rounded a bend in the river and saw the canoe rental place. I looked at my watch. 3:29! We picked up our paddles; I mean we adjusted our strokes so that we would touch shore at precisely the right moment. A successful end to a successful journey.

Next blog: We walk right off the map!

Bicycling in France

There are tons of gites to choose from in this area of France. The reasons we chose Beauvert were (a) free wi-fi and (b) free bicycles. Last Sunday was our first full day here in la Dordogne. After a heavenly morning at the market in Saint Cyprien, we were on our bicycles in the afternoon, exploring the "neighborhood." We wandered here and there, ending up in the town of Les Eyzies, which sits placidly on the banks of the Vézère River. We were in territory that we had cycled in 2006, when we fell in love with the region and vowed to return. It was a lovely ride from our gite. After a cold beer (we don't always drink wine) at an outdoor café, we headed for home.

I should mention that Beauvert, where we are staying, is high above the river valley, so that almost every time we leave by bike or by car, we descend long winding roads to the river valley. So, on bike we experience a delightful downhill glide for several kilometers, with the wind in our face. The flip side is that we have to return via the same hills. We take a little longer on the return uphill, but we've learned to just downshift and travel at whatever speed works for us. We look around and see the glorious countryside,and we think how fortunate we are to be struggling up this torturous hill, building character along with leg muscles.

This is what makes the long uphill efforts worthwhile.

And this.

And this - the Vézère River near the town of Le Bugue, our destination on Monday, our second day of cycling.

We've wandered quite a bit in just a few days. Most roads are lightly traveled by cars, so the cycling is easy. My favorite roads are the tiny paved paths wide enough for just one car. We meander on these lonely paths past farmland and wooded areas, occasionally encountering small clusters of pretty stone houses. After a kilometer or two, we come to a cross road with a sign post, check our bearings, and turn in the direction that whimsy dictates.


This sign marks an intersection of one of the "larger" roads we travel, not at all busy with automobile traffic, but important enough to merit actual route numbers.

I've chosen words like "meander" and "whimsy," "wander" and "tiny path" with care. They capture the essence of the experience of cycling here. We feel completely carefree when we are on our bikes. We know pretty much where we are, even on an unmarked path that we travel for the first time. Our inner compasses just seem to jibe with the French direction signs that we finally encounter.

I'll close with a counterpoint - cycling in the Netherlands. In our time with Ben and Ellen, we got to explore by bicycle four times (four trips of significant length). I have to say that on each and every occasion in the Netherlands we managed to get lost. We were never seriously lost; we had a "sense" of where we were and what we had to do to get where we were going but sometimes took a kilometer or two to get it right.

The worst case was the day we decided to cycle from Ellen and Ben's home in Eygelshoven to Aachen, Germany, to visit the thousand-year old stomping grounds of Charlemagne. It was about a twenty-kilometer one-way trip. Well, Carol and I took a copy of Ben's excellent directions and began to follow them. Ten minutes into our trip, the choices before us looked nothing like what the directions indicated. So, adventurers that we are, we improvised. We went here. We went there, always applying our own unique brand of logic. After forty-five minutes of improvisation, we found ourselves cycling into the town adjacent to Eygelshoven and recognized where we were as being ten minutes from Ellen and Ben's home!

The Dutch road signs were no help at all. In fact, we think they flat out lied to us. (For example, the first two towns we cycled to had well-marked signs to the tourist information office. We followed these signs to the exact spot of the alleged office, but never found one.) It didn't help that the Dutch have their own idea of phonetic rules and that their letters say and mean different things than either English or, for that matter, French signs.

Don't get me wrong. We had a lot of fun on our cycling misadventures in the Netherlands. But, well, it's just that here in France we feel right at home!

Everyone Here Speaks French!

On Saturday morning, Ben deposited us at the train station in Maastricht in time for us to catch the 6:12 a.m. train to Liege, Belgium. Eight hours and four trains later (five, if you include the Paris metro), we stepped into the warm sunshine in Brive, got our zippy little five-speed Peugeot and headed for our home for the next month. The journey was comfortable on the speedy European trains. The only tense part was rushing from Gare du Nord to Gare d'Austerlitz in Paris in forty minutes to catch our last train. We worked up a sweat doing that, and caught a brief glimpse of the Seine, Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower from the metro - a view of what's in store for us at the end of our adventure.

We arrived at our gite (cottage) around four in the afternoon and were greeted by our very friendly hosts, Jean-Pierre and Danielle. We are in the country, four miles from the lovely town St. Cyprien. Let me tell you, it feels like forty miles! It is quiet here, and little else except for a few scattered houses.

Our first twenty-four hours have been a sensual experience - from the delicious dinner and wines that Jean-Pierre fixed for us last night, to the astounding darkness and silence when we went to bed, to the smell of farmers' wood fires as we cycled through the countryside, to the sights and smells and sounds of the morning market in Saint Cyprien. Ah! The market! I couldn't get enough of it.

The main street was packed with vendors and shoppers. We arrived early and strolled the length of it while stands were still being set up and the region just awaking. After an espresso at a café in the sun, we went to work stocking our kitchen.

There was so much to choose from! Local vegetables, fruits, meats, fish, wines, mussels, nuts, cheeses (not to mention clothing, knives, and a Frenchie kitchen wonder tool - It slices! It dices! - that was being demonstrated).

We found one of the local patisseries and scored our first of many baguettes (and some luscious treats). The line stretched almost out the door as we left, with good reason. We didn't want to leave, but you can only buy so many tomatoes (really!). Our last stop was at a stand where they prepared ready-made dinners to go. We bought our first lunch - paella - and headed for home. There are markets every day of the week in different local towns. Jean-Pierre and Danielle have clued us in on which ones are the best.

We had our paella on the patio, looking up at the swimming pool (which we've used twice). Yum! Next week, we're getting the cassoulet. So, we earned a rest by this time. For Carol, it was a brief nap. For me, it was finishing up my last blog so I could get to this one. (A writer's work is never done!) Then...

...it was time to try out the bicycles! We spent the better part of the afternoon cycling through the countryside, passing through tiny villages. We visited Les Eyzies, where we commenced our '06 bicycle tour. I had forgotten the hills of the Dordogne, but the memories returned as we glided down, wind in our face, for a couple of kilometers. Of course, other memories returned as we cycled up those same hills.

Along the way, however, scenes like this delighted us at every turn.

Ellen, Ben and Wes begin a weeklong visit this Wednesday. It will be our turn to return their wonderful hospitality during our visit to Eygelshoven. Ellen has become quite a master in the kitchen, and we'll have to work to equal the great meals she fixed for us. At least, the market has provided us with the raw materials.