Wandering the Back Roads of La Belle France

It is Monday afternoon and the cruise is finally underway heading out of Paris toward Normandy. This is the first chance I’ve had to blog since who knows when! My greatest fear materialized: we (or more accurately, I) bit off more than we could chew. Our five days getting from Cannes to Paris and aboard the boat was not exactly relaxing, although I had fun and I hope Sandy and Bob did too, although there is no question we had to spend too much time in the car—compounded by several bouts of driving through the mountains at ear popping altitudes and along dangerously unprotected roads. Tom drove stoically the whole way, magnanimously only complaining once or twice that the driving was “torture.” I was in the front navigating with the help of Rhonda, the Garmin GPS with European capabilities that we had taken to Ireland a couple of years ago. Bob and Sandy shared the back with the overflow luggage, no doubt on the verge of throwing up as we shifted gears and lurched over hairpin curves and bumpy narrow roads. Unfortunately, Rhonda did us dirty a couple of times and we ended up driving much farther than we would have had we followed a proper map.

But along the way, we saw some wondrous sights. The next morning, after Carcassonne and Albi with its glorious cathedral, we took off for Sarlat, the great little town near which Tom and I rented a house for a month about ten years ago. The hotel person had said that if we bee-lined it for Sarlat we could make it in less than three hours, so I had planned a leisurely day with several interim stops enroute.

Our first stop was to be Cordes-sur-Ciel, yet another perched village, where we could have lunch. Cordes is a popular spot for visitors because it has a wonderful four star hotel with a restaurant whose chef is one of the most famous pastry chefs in France. It’s also very lively with many cute cafes and shops and medieval stone houses. In the first of several comedy-of-error moments that day, we parked the car in the parking area and started uphill toward the town. I could have sworn that we parked right in the town the last time but now it all seemed very far away. We walked and walked through picturesque cobblestone streets uphill the whole way and finally Bob and Sandy (who were a bit ahead of us) stopped a man on the way down and asked where the restaurants were. He didn’t speak English, but he managed to communicate that there were no restaurants up there, that it was all residential! Well, oh darn, thought we, as we started back down the hill—a feat that I actually find more difficult on the knees than walking up. At the bottom of the winding road, Tom and I knew this was not the Cordes we remembered and I was beginning to think it was a different place entirely, when just then two Americans came by and we asked again.

The upshot is that the first gentleman was mistaken—or just plain mean--we had been about fifty feet from the village center! One more bend in the road and we would have walked right into one of the most charming villages in France. No way were we going to walk back up so we had a mediocre lunch in the “lower village” (not the charming one) and went on our way. After we left Cordes, we experienced Fiasco #2: Rhonda decided we should take the scenic route and before we knew it we were irrevocably in the mountains with no means of retreat.

When we finally reached the highway, it was four-ish and just ahead was Rocamadour, the second most visited site in the country after Mont St. Michel in Normandy. I dialed ahead on Rhonda and she said it was only 12 miles off the highway. I didn’t want Sandy and Bob to miss it since it really is a spectacular phenomenon: Amadour, a witness to the martyrdom of St. Peter and St. Paul, traveled to this cliff after the death of his wife and became an ascetic hermit whose body was discovered during the 12^th century and had several miracles attributed to him. Thus, on this spot on a rocky cliff, five chapels were built into the rock—this feat alone is a miracle—and over the centuries a village grew around them. Pilgrims come from everywhere to pay homage to St. Amadour and to the Blessed Mother. In the Chapel dedicated to her, aptly called Chapelle Notre Dame, is the Black Madonna, a famous 12^th century statue of the Virgin Mary holding the Christ child. It also contains a bell which supposedly rang on its own in response to sailors’ prayers.

Unfortunately, our drive to Rocamadour seemed more than 12 miles and by the time we got there the skies were dark and threatening and the wind was dangerously strong. We managed to see the chapels but only briefly, and we didn’t even enter the town where a glass of wine and a bite of the famous Rocamadour goat cheese would have been a lovely respite. We got back to the car in the nick of time before the rain started which quickly turned to pea-sized hail. We took refuge under a tree but that didn’t stop the hail from pelting our rented car in a most menacing way. In about fifteen minutes it stopped, but by then we were not much in the mood for more sight seeing. Enough said about that day…

Friday was much better. Bob and Sandy escaped into the town which is a great place to walk and enjoy the many old residences and public buildings, shops, the cathedral and a wonderful covered market. Sarlat is the center of the foie gras industry and every shop sells all types and qualities of the duck and goose liver pate that many consider the most revered of French delicacies. Tom and I re-traced our steps of years ago when we spent many a day just hanging out in Sarlat. The town is so small that we eventually ran into Bob and Sandy and agreed to meet at eleven for the day’s activity, lunch and a couple of pleasant hours in Domme and Roque Gagiac, two more of Les Plus Belles Villages de France. Did I tell you before that that is a designation the French Government awards to those villages worthy of the name. And they are only twenty minutes drive from Sarlat! No long trips on the agenda that day.

Domme has a beautiful square which is set high above the River Dordogne, one of the most important rivers in France. It is very scenic. We walked the single street poking into the little shops and then had lunch on a beautiful tree-lined terrace in the square. Afterwards, we drove about ten minutes to the charming village of Roque Gagiac which nestles up to the Dordogne and has a castle and beautiful stone houses built right into the rock.

Enough already, I’m going to attempt the amazing feat of posting this essay and hope that the connection is strong enough to allow it.