Dog Days in the Dordogne
Aug 9th, 2005, 12:30 PM
#1
Original Poster
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 49,560
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
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.
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.
Aug 9th, 2005, 11:23 PM
#8
Original Poster
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 49,560
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
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.
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.
Aug 10th, 2005, 02:58 AM
#9
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 8,345
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
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
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
Aug 10th, 2005, 05:52 AM
#12
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 6,793
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
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.)
(Guessing that it probably has an acute sense of smell and would probably relocate is the attic were sprinkled with fresh stinky moth balls.)
Aug 10th, 2005, 09:41 AM
#20
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 15,749
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
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.
