Dog Days in the Dordogne
 

Despite a late departure our United flight lands on time at CDG. CDG is utter mayhem at 7:30 am. Some people simply shouldn't be allowed to use a luggage cart without passing a test. Nevertheless, we're in the taxi queue a mere 15 minutes after landing,and at the Gare d'Austerlitz at 7:50 after a taxi ride that resembles a space shuttle takeoff and costs only 35 euros. How I have lived through this many such taxi rides, not only in Paris but in far scarier places like Rome and Tunis and Athens and Casablanca, I don't know, but I'm exceedingly grateful.

We have prepaid for tickets on the 10:08 train to Perigueux, but there's one leaving at 9:09, so I ask at the counter if we can switch to that train. Not without paying a supplement of 25 euros, I'm told, because it's a "periode blanche" - will have to research that on the SNCF site later. We pay the supplement, but then the train is delayed by a half-hour. Still, it's a direct train, whereas our original one was to have stopped in Limoges for 45 minutes, so all in all we gain almost two hours.

Somewhere around Chateauroux the man opposite me begins a full-blown wrestling match with his nosehairs. He yanks away completely oblivious to the horrified stares of nearby passengers. He could have made a small pillow out of the harvest, which he then brushes vigorously off his trouser leg into the aisle. Then he takes out a magazine and a pen and begins to take a quiz called " What kind of Sleeper Are You?" I don't look at his answers.

After the Thiviers stop the familiar landscape elements start showing up - the big disks of hay strewn around the fields or neatly stacked up in barns, the flocks of swallows dipping over fields of harvested sunflowers, the patches of walnut groves, plump cows lazing under poplars.....I saw a miniature house in the middle of a field, maybe 5 feet tall by 8 feet long by 5 feet wide - a tool shed, perhaps - but with miniature window boxes full of geraniums, tiny potted plants by the front door, and a perfect red roof. Such is the sweetness of the Dordogne.

A day that had dawned in the DC area as today did in Paris, with a steamy haze, would have soon turned into an unbearable scorcher with air the consistency of a good potage. But today's steam burns off slowly to reveal corfnlower blue skies, a temperature of 69 Fahrenheit, and a persistent breeze. Even when we alight in Perigueux I'm glad I've got a light cotton jacket. Speaking of which, just about everyone on the train had a sweater, an athletic jacket, or a lined raincoat. In August. Va savoir.

The Europcar lady in Perigueux wastes not a minute in pointing out that we have arrived earlier than expected and hinting at how grateful we should be that our car is ready. Not only that, it's a " modele superieure." She says she doesn't understand how "these AutoEurope customers" get such good deals with prices and upgrades - she herself can't rent a car for these prices! I give her AutoEurope's URL and tell her to go for it.

We've got a Toyota Avensis, a new car for me, but thank God she showed me the tiny button on the driver door that opens the gas tank, or this would have been a one-tank vacation!

So off we go in the Avensis, which is fun to drive, hugs the road, has a gazillion gismos to play with, and possesses a large enough trunk that we can buy out half the Intermarche if we're so inclined. And we are. I'm starved, and the kids are just overeager to indulge in all the foodstuffs they've been deprived of since last summer - Orangina Rouge, boulots, Liptonic, terrine forestiere, tarragon mustard, cabecou, baby Norwegian shrimp, celeri remoulade in a jar.......the list grows as we drive toward Le Bugue, and by the time we're actually at the Intermarche we need to purchase five expensive Intermarche-brand plastic bags to hold our purchases because of course the French don't just throw plastic bags willy-nilly at you for free.

The house, fortunately, is still standing, though the view has diminished because of the explosive growth of a pear tree. The geraniums Madame L has planted for me along the wall in front of the house are so bright red they strain the eyes and credulity. But all's well in St-Cirq. At least for the first five minutes, until M changes into her bathing suit and jumps into the pool, completely forgetting about the pool alarm that's now mandatory in France. Within seconds the entire commune is treated to the repeated scream of the alarm, which sounds like a large cat being disemboweled. This goes on for a good 10 minutes while we run around the house trying to remember where the alarm key and instruction booklet are, race down to the pool with them, and insert the key and position the alarm to OFF. " Well," says M, " at least everyone knows we're here."

After we unpack we decide tradition must be respected,and so we run back into town to the artisanal patisserie for three chocolate liegeois - dessert before dinner is a hallmark of our trips to France. Then home to a ping pong tournament, and another tradition in which I almost take out an eye opening a bottle of Beaume de Venise, then a Boggle tournament, and then to bed at 11 as jet-lagged as it's possible to be.

Somewhere around 3 am I awake to what seems to be the scuffling of a large animal over my head. I'm sleeping on the third floor, under the eaves, and it seems to me in my dreamy fog that something is letting out low screaches, scratching like crazy on the ceiling, and running back and forth across the ceiling above me with thunderous hooves. The experience is so eery, though, I decide it must be a combination of jet lag and Beaume de Venise and turn over and go back to sleep. It's not until tomorrow that I discover that it wasn.t my imagination.

Delighted that you're posting from the Dordogne. Now I can be in France vicariously...ahhh.

Um thanks for the info about the man on the train with the nosehairs.

Thank you St. Cirq,

30 days to go before we visit the Dordogne.

((I))

OK, it wasn't your imagination, but I guess I can stifle my sense of anticipation knowing that you survived to tell the tale.

Only 18 more days till we will be there too.

Stu Dudley

Lovely, I enjoyed every word!! Please tell us soon what animal was on your roof!!

Thoroughly enjoying your writing style! Looking forward to more installments & a revelation of the critter cliffhanger too. Trish

Sunday, August 7

Sun streaming through the window wakes me at 6 am, and I'm feeling fresh and vigorous - that's why I never take a nap upon arrival. If you just plow on through the first day you can start the second feeling totally invigorated - at least I can.

With only vague memories of the critter-in-the-night experience I shower and grab my market basket and,leaving behind two teengers who will sleep all day if I let them, drive to the self-satisfied town of St-Cyprien, which sprawls contentedly on the alluvial plains of the Dordogne that have been the source of its richesse since the Middle Ages.

It's great to get to market early, when the vendors are huddled together at La Taverne over steaming cups of cafe au lait, rolling their own cigarettes, and sharing their anticipation of a tourist-packed August market. It's quite another thing to see these same marchands on a frigid February morning when they've been up since 3 am in towns as far away as Monflanquin packing their trucks with frozen fingers. But today everyone is feeling merry and flush, and the jokes and mild insuts are flying, along with futile exchanges of notes and coins so that everyone will be able to give change without running to another stall.

By 8:20 my basket is full, and I'm on my way home. I love going to market - there's something so elemental and human about it. It's so much more than just going to buy stuff. Whether you're a tourist or a local, or something in between like me, it's a chance to partake in the community, to stop and converse about this and that, to haggle and joke, to carry on tradition, to feast the senses.

When M&T have finally slept the requisite 270 hours since boarding the flight, and when my stomach is growling, I wake them and we head for Limeuil for lunch at Le Chai. This is a simple place right at the confluence of the Dordogne and the Vezere that serves wonderful salads, pizzas, galettes, and carpaccios, along with about 100 exotic ice creams and sorbets (including things like parmesan, saffron, rose petal, mojito...). Even though it's after 2 pm, the place is packed and service is interminable. The food's great as always, and the price is good (35 euros for a huge beef carpaccio with capers and sworls of parmesan, a large pizza marguerita, a huge tomato and mozarella salad, a large bottle of San Pellegrino and two Cokes), I wouldn't come back here in August unless they hired some extra help. I like a leisurely lunch as much as the next guy, but this one took almost three hours.

Back home I'm weeding the garden in front of the house when I hear a kind of sreechy chatter coming from the roof and look up. Don't see a thing. Walk out to the lane and up the hill to the roof of the house for a better look. If you were to find a large cliff and hollow out a huge square several feet into it and erect a wall in it, then build out a house from there, that would be us. The result being that we are literally built into the side of a huge limestone hillside, and our roof is at road level. This makes us a prime target for picnickers and animals. It's not at all uncommon to go out into the yard, hear voices, and see a small regiment of Germans splayed all over our roof munching sausages and tearing at loaves of bread. Nor is it unusual for the neighbors' chickens to wander over to play on our roof. Once their sheep took a few turns up there. Anyway, I don't see evidence of anything ON the roof, but I do see two holes the sides of baseballs along the gutter line leading into the very small attic space directly over my bedroom. And I know instantly what was lumbering and screeching over my head last night - house martens.

This is not good. House martens are protected by the French government, so you can't kill them, but they are notoriously hard to get rid of. I don't have a 30-foot ladder, and the neighbor who helped me out when I had them a few years ago is now lying dying in a hospital bed. I'm not quite sure what to do, but I'm sure it will involve a trip to the mairie, which is always a strain on a vacation.

In the meantime I thnk we need to have another round of chocolat liegeios and then come home and feast on market goodies and open a bottle of Pecharmant.

StCirq,

I'm rarely enthralled by reports from places beyond Switzerland, but your report here is **fantastic**! I love your observations & your life there! I envy your children very much!!

Looking forward to reading more!

s

Hi SC,

>...the self-satisfied town of St-Cyprien, which sprawls contentedly on the alluvial plains of the Dordogne...<

Well done!

((I))

I love when you go to France - it is so much fun for us, the readers!
OK - I give - what is a house marten?

Awww: http://www.cpawscalgary.org/graphics...rten-large.jpg

(Guessing that it probably has an acute sense of smell and would probably relocate is the attic were sprinkled with fresh stinky moth balls.)

I think you're a lucky woman. I think we're lucky that you share the experiences and your expertise.
Sigh... I'm one of those who will just have to "visit vicariously"...

Lovely! I can't wait to hear more--especially how you vanquish the martens.

Personally, I would be thankful that it was JUST nosehairs.

Loving the report, trying to get any bird/animal out of the attic is difficult let alone if it is a "protected creature". Bonne Chance ;;)
Deborah

Martens! I was sure it was mice or squirrels or something. Can't wait to hear how you relocate them OUT of your attic!

Hang on... didn't my Grandmother have a few Martens in a stole? Their little teeth bit their little tails... and so a stole was born?

cmt - thanks for the picture - oh my! It looks a little vicious!

What an interesting and enlightening post! I've been wondering for years what happened to my old high school physical education teacher/basketball coach. It was nice to know he's now busy riding around trains somewhere near Chateauroux.

This is such fun to read, keep going, St. Cirq! By the way, loved the picture of the marten - it looks adorable - but St. Cirq probably doesn't agree!

Suzie, your reference to those little teeth clamped to a little tail rang a bell. I still have my grandmother's ring of fur, but every time I so much as touch the thing, it sheds uncontrollably.

My room mate - many years ago - was then a geologist who did exploration in the winter in far northern Ontario. They would be dropped in with tent, supplies and snow shoes by helicopter and left there for some months. One her worst experiences was when a marten got into the tent and destroyed everything plus ate their food.

Thanks for sharing St.Cirq. Your posts are beautifully written and allow us to "share" in your visit. It is generous of you to allow us to travel along with you - a great break in our non-vacation days.

I enjoyed your reports last year too, it is a nice read with my morning coffee.

Martens: I just finished reading Corelli's Mandoline and the doctor and daughter had a pet marten...they use to tell strangers that it was a cat. They also mention that it had a wonderful sweet smell, I'm assuming this was the "fiction" part of the story, does anyone know for a fact? Thanks for posting the picture, I was wondering about what it looked like...very cute.

StCirq, As usual, your reports from the Dordogne are a pleasure to read (although the nose hair story was more than I needed to know!). Looking forward to more.

StCirq; eagerly waiting for more of your gifted writing!

Monday, August 8 (I think - I'm beginning to lose all sense of time here, which is a good sign)

A frozen nose and streaks of light wake me at 8 am - how can it be this cold in August? I take the quickest shower I can manage, dress and go downstairs to rummage in the large chest where I keep winter clothes. And that's how I come to be driving into town at 8:30 with pink capris, a sleeveless white top, pink sandals, and a huge hooded red and green checked flannel shirt. Mkingdom would die if he saw me.

At Fauque I devour a pain au lait and grand cafe creme, pondering how all the Dutch tourists can sit outside in halter tops and shorts and not a goosebump apparent. On to the Bricomarche, where I must buy a new telephone, as the one in the house is broken; it emits little beeps every five seconds and then hangs up on callers.

Apparently it's not going to be my lucky day, because Jeannette, whom some of you may recall we affectionately refer to as the Bricob**ch, is the first to come forward when she spots me wandering around the aisle that normally has phones on it, but doesn't today. When I ask if they still sell phones, she says "mais bien sur, Madame." When I say "but there aren't any out here," she gives me that dismissive look of hers and says with a small sigh, "that's because we keep them in the warehouse, Madame." When I ask to see one, she sighs again and tells me I should follow her but NOT under any circustances to actually enter the warehouse. She comes back with a pile of little boxes wrapped in bubble wrap and shoves it at me. "Is there no box, no instructions?" I ask? "Non, madame," she says, implying any idiot could put together a phone. " It's the latest model from Sweden," she tells me, "the smallest cordless phone ever invented." I don't know why that's an advantage, but she tells me it's the only model they have and essentially says take it or leave it, I have other things to do.

So I go to the cash register with my pile of bubble wrap and fork over 85 euros. On to the Intermarache, where the only thing worthy of mentioning is that in parking on top of a small cement barrier overgrown with weeds, I manage to rip the front bumper off the car, causing a dozen people to gather round me and point and laugh and speculate on what should be done. Never one to be afraid of anything mechanical, I get on hands and knees and fold the bumper back into position and snap it back into place - it's really like playing with Leggos (in fact it's rather alarming how flimsy and toy-like this bumper actually is!). Several people clap when I'm done.

Then to the mairie to inquire about my house martens. A very intense young man hears me out and produces a document that confirms what I already know - I can't kill the house martens. I tell him I have no desire to kill them, which seems to relive him a bit. Then he tells me what I already know is the recommended procedure - fill the holes with rotten eggs, wait until the martens leave and then fill the holes up. I thought maybe the procedure had been updated since my last marten episode several years ago, but apparently not.

So now I must find someone or something tall enough to get to the holes on the roof............

more later as my computer battery needs a recharge

St.Cirq, it's beginning to sound like Mayle's "A Year in Provence", a wonderful read but probably slightly less wonderful to live through. What a cast of characters you meet each day.
Can't wait to hear more. Deborah

Why do you have to go to the mairie about your martens problem if they do not take care of it for you and you're just on your own when it comes to getting rid of them anyway, so long as you don't harm them? Is reporting to them a requirement, like reporting certain infectious diseases to some official health office in the US? Is there normally a naturalist/wildlife expert who works in the municipal office, as some counties in some states in the US may have wildlife officers and agriculture extension services that might answer questions on such things? I wonder why they don't recommend moth balls instead of rotten eggs. (It worked for getting rats to relocate.)

Just curious.... But I could ask elsewhere if answering wopuld disrupt the story too much.

Loving your report! Even your irritation and frustration is a pleasure to read. The realities of dealing with the martens and the ineffectual mairie does help to contain my envy somewhat, but, sigh...., it's still France!
Paule

You needed a phone? Why didn't you say so. I can be there in less than 24 hours with a new phone:)

Darn, someone beat me to it ;-) I too could have been there ASAP with a selection of phones for you to choose from!

Can't wait for the next installment!

Sorry I don't have a phone to offer you, but I could be there in less than 24 hours to help you figure out how to use your new one.
:-)

Magnifique, comme d'habitude...

Please come! There's plenty of room since I put M on the train to Paris this morning for her first ever solo sojourn in Paris for two days. I figure at 18 and having spent every summer in France since she was 5, she'll be OK, but I still asked her to call me on the (old) cell phone (more to come later about my new unlocked quad-band phone with Riing callback service that NO one can figure out how to use later) to let me know she arrived OK, and of course she did.

cmt: I don't HAVE to go the mairie about the house marten, but that's what's expected, because along with many other things the mairie is responsible for making sure that inhabitants of the commune respect the laws with regard to hunting and protection of wild animals. When I had an infestation of moles years ago I was told by neighbors to go to the mairie and report it, presumably because such an infestation could affect my neighbors, and a "commune" is just that, a place where people look out for one another. I don't know if house martens migrate from one house to another, but I suppose that's possible. In any event, when I had the moles, the mairie dispensed me arsenic, which they instructed me to put down every hole, then close the gates to my property when I left. I never had another mole. So I thought perhaps they might have a similar solution for house martens, which they didn't, but it was reassuring to know that they recommended the rotten egg solution, which I effected with the help of a neighbor with a tall ladder and some fine porceleine de Limoges egg cups delicately balanced on my gutters.

Tuesday, August 9

It's market day in our town of Le Bugue, and I actually manage to haul two teenagers out of bed by 7:30, promising chocolat liegeois for breakfast. It is positively freezing this morning - 10 degrees Celsius - and we are shrouded in old sweaters and jackets dug out of the living room chest as we pull into town and, miraculously, into a parking space in front of the Credit Agricole, just steps from the beginning of the market.

While the kids order chocolats chauds from the Cafe de Paris (it's painfully obvious we aren't going to begin the day with ice cream), I run to the boulangerie for pains aux lait and chocolatines, which we munch with frozen fingers while our drinks steam behind the stall of the woman who makes vats of paella and sells exotic spices from North Africa and Madagascar.

M and T go off in search of their own market treasures, trinkets for friends and some cabecou, and I head to my favorite poulet roti man, for I have in mind a simple dinner of roast chicken, haricots verts, and a salad of wilted frisee, warm cabecou, and walnuts with a walnut vinaigrette.

I know I don't have to confess this, but it seems as though it might be a good tale for unsuspecting travelers to the Dordogne (or anywhere else in France) and maybe just a testament to how guileless I can be at times, but after buying my poulet fermier roti, I fall under the spell of a cheese vendor from Cantal and end up spending 98 euros on cheese (yes, 98 euros! - it was heavenly cheese, if I do say so).

I suppose this could only really happen if you speak pretty fluent French, and in hindsight I suppose any real French person would at some point have asked HOW MUCH PER KILO IS YOUR CHEESE, but I completely naively skipped that part of the conversation, and when le monsieur with the wheel of Gruyere the size of a 16-wheeler tire asked me if I wanted to sample a bit, said yes, of course. And into my mouth melted a sensation I can hardly describe - sweet, honeyed, soft, milky, fresh, airy - a cheese that literally took my breath away. As I oohed and aaahed, le monsieur told me in excruciating detail how the cheese was made, how it was the finest of the finest in the world, how it was paired in the finest restaurants of the Cantal with red berry confits and fig compotes. He told me it was absolutely SUPERIEUR with a compote de griottes. I remarked as how I had griottiers in my very own yard, and I never knew what to do with them, and most years the birds ate them before I could use them. I said I also had apricots. He said Oh non, Madame, ONLY the red fruits! So deep into culinary exhortations were we that I had no sense of, well, no sense at all. I told him we were here for only a week more and please to cut me the smallest slice possible, and please one of the delicious brebis as well. Not realizing that the smallest slice possible of a wheel of cheese the size of a 16-wheeler tire is still a MAMMOTH slice of cheese. All the while imagining the innumerable delectable gratins I will cook over the coming week, and all the delicious baguettes I will fill with this ambrosious substance.

So monsieur cuts me an admirably small slice from the colossal wheel, and then a relatively small slice of the brebis, and says "Ca serait quatre-vingt euros, Madame. Je peux le guarder pour vous pour qu'il soit frais, et vous pouver repasser apres que vous avez fait vos cours." I hear the bit about holding it for me until I've finished doing my market shopping, but the price goes right over my head. "Combien est-ce que vous avez dit, monsieur?" I aks. T, st my side, says "Mom, you're absolutely crazy. You just spent 120 dollars on CHEESE!" "Yes, son, I did," I say, and hand over 100 euros. We'll have Gruyere sandwiches and pommes de terres dauphinoises, and tartiflettes and whatever else it takes to use this wonderful cheese. Whatever it takes. And we'll cut a wedge for Madame L and take some to P in Provence when we visit her. And we'll wheel it onto the baggage cart at CDG if necessary! I have done stupider things than spend 100 euros on cheese.

After the air heats up and we end up with a glorious hot afternoon by the pool we feast on succulent poulet roti, tomato and mozzarella salad and potatoes dauphinoises, which fill the commune of St-Cirq with the heady smell of a beautiful Gruyere.

Oh that cheese sounds absolutely divine. I love your description - I could almost smell and taste that cheese right here in my office in Denver!

Wednesday, August 10

Today was a boring day, so I'll keep this brief. There has been no more noise from the fuines (house martens), so perhaps they responded to the eggs, or perhaps they just decided to sleep elsewhere.

We were planning to go kayaking today, but M's cold is bad and she's cranky, which doesn't augur well for a lazy day on the river, so instead I get up early and head to Fauque for a cafe creme and a chocolatine followed by a brief trip to the Intermarche where, thankfully, no bumpers are torn off. When I come home at 11 am, there's no sign of life from the teenagers, so I weed a bit in the garden, read by the pool, swim a bit, and change my clothes.

At 1 pm we head to Beynac and reserve three kayaks for tomorrow at Randonnees Beynac, not our usual kayak vendor but one who can guarantee the traditional kayaks that you insert yourself into, not the flat ones that are hard to control.

We have delicious sandwiches at the usual place right north of the pharmacy, then M gets grouchy with her cold and we buy French drugs for her at the pharmacy and head home, stopping at the Intermarche for the makings of spicy couscous with harissa and leftover poulet roti and vegetables.

While the kids lounge at the pool and play Pente, I make the couscous and watch and listen to big storms that are making their way down the valley. I love late summer storms here. They start off low-key and far away and work their way down the valley inch by inch. The sky turns alternately yellow and purple and the electrical current falters and sometimes quits completely. The wind picks up and birds scatter squealing. Chickens and ducks and geese holler over the valley. Roosters go mad. Lightening begins with small sparks miles away and progresses to valley-filling bolts. You can hear the low rumbles of thunder for hours before the storm hits, but when it does it is a full-jolt powerhouse of a storm, with winds whipping and whistling through the orchards and walnut groves, large-drop rain pelting the corn and tobacco crops, and utter blackness all around. It can last for hours, and I choose to nest in my bedroom under the eaves to sleep it out, knowing the dawn will bring a crystal clear awakening with lots of Gruyere left to eat.

. . . well I must say I think I'd pay $120 just for a *bite* of that cheese as you described it! Especially if I could be munching it where you are instead of here in hot wet humid se US.