Impression: France - Le Lot et La Dordogne
 

Phil, Shari and Joe moved northwest from Provence, with an interval in the Lot and Cele Valleys, before relaxing in the beautiful Dordogne. This third and final section of our journey follows "Impression: France - The Pleasures of Provence", which can be found here: http://tiny.cc/bow2d

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LOT DAY ONE - SEARCHING FOR BRIGADOON
Tuesday 6/21/11

Alas, the walled city of Carcassonne withstood many a battle, but she ultimately lost the war. Her reputation for la resistance, nearly untarnished for 1,000 years, has succumbed over the last century to l'invasion des touristes. Still, she was a good halfway point for a cup of coffee on our way to the Lot.

We loved the A9, despite the tolls. We had over six hours of cross-country driving to do and we needed the speed. After a week of minor D roads, it was nice to be able to fly again. When we turned onto the wide autoroute after Avignon, Phil said, "Yes! A freeway at last!" Of course, after three hours, it starts to seem more like the I-80 through the Salt Flats of Utah. Your eyes begin to cross and you have to start slapping yourself to stay awake. I can see why they have the well-designed aires des repos (rest stops) every few kilometers. The road is as straight as a needle to Narbonne.

Threading through the edge of the Languedoc just north of Mediterranean lagoons, we passed Nimes, where denim was invented, and Montpellier, known for its university founded in the 13th century. This is the Occitan world, land of the langue d'oc. (The southern language of "oc" as opposed to the northern language of "oui" - distinguished by the way they said yes.) From the Celts to the Romans, the Moors to Charlemagne, it was long a tug-of-war zone between the proto Franco-Italians and Spain. After a few brief ages of glory as the birthplace of chivalry and troubadours, it was nearly ruined by the Albigensian Crusade and the Wars of Religion. Today, the region is more pleasantly known for its sunshine and wine. Here back home, we can sometimes find some very good Minervois reds.

At Narbonne, we turned northwest toward Carcassonne. (Another 60 miles on the A9 would have taken us to Spain.) There are two parts to Carcassonne: the medieval Centre-Ville and the upper 5th century walled city on the hill. My main interests were the double-ringed remparts and the chateau in La Cité.

The hill town may first have been called Karsac, a settlement for a Celto-Ligurian warrior tribe with the uber-cool name of the Volcae Tectosages, They had somehow found their way here from the other side of the Danube by the 6th century BC. When Hannibal sneaked across their land on his way to the Alps, some of the local tribes tried to prevent him, while others let him pass.

A little slow on the uptake, the Gallo-Roman town of Julia Carsaco was fortified on the site a century later, eventually becoming known as Carcasum by a strange consonant-switching called metathesis. (How does this happen? Was there some proconsul who mispronounced the name so often, they simply changed it so he could save face?)

When the Romans beat their retreat in the 5th century, they "ceded" the town to the Visigoths, who probably had a good laugh over this since they had been occupying it for over 10 years anyway. By this time it was apparently called Carcasso. Clovis tried to capture the town, but was unsuccessful. Thus, the legend of impregnability began.

Embarrassingly for the Merovingian Franks, the Saracens were able to capture the flag in this Dark Ages game of king-of-the-hill. They kept it for about 35 years. This is the time frame for a later medieval legend more ridiculous than most. Charles "The Hammer" Martel and Pepin the Short, Charlemagne's grandfather and father, ousted the Arabs from the region, but were unsuccessful in taking Carcassonne. (This much is probably true.) The legend has it that, while the Merovingians tried to starve out the occupants, a clever woman named Dame Carcas devised a plan. She fed a pig all the remaining grain and they catapulted him over the remparts into the lap of the besieging army. The attackers were so amazed that the citizens were doing well enough to throw a perfectly good porker away that they gave up and went home. Bells rang in the intrepid woman's honor. Hence you have, "Carcas sonne", as in Carcas-ringing. Get it? Yes, it makes Sleeping Beauty seem like a Nobel Prize winner.

At the Narbonne Gate, there is a bust of the mythical Madame Carcas. Instead of following the crowd, we turned left at the drawbridge and walked between the inner and outer walls along a wide space called Les Lices, where they have jousting demonstrations in the summer. In the Middle Ages, it was also used for jousting practice and was likewise an ideal space for tournaments and markets. I liked seeing it empty now. It was the most peaceful area of the town. The walls are nearly two miles around with 52 towers, but we only walked a portion of the way. The inner walls are older and thus more interesting. Sections of the original Roman fortifications can still be seen, as well as all the additions made from the Visigoths through the Middle Ages. It really gives meaning to "if these walls could talk."

Eventually, The Hammer's son, Pepin the Short, did succeed in driving out the Saracens. The powerful medieval Trencavels were then viscounts of the city from 1067. (The surname means "nutcracker" in Occitan, which smacks a bit of some mafia technique, no?) The Trencavals were the ones who built the Château Comtal and the beautiful Basilica of Saint-Nazaire. This was the time of troubadours and chivalry, arts and literature. It was La Cité's Golden Age.

When the city became aligned with the Cathar religious sect (aka Albigensians), its fate was sealed. The Crusaders, bent on wiping out the sect, captured the town in 1209 under the bold and beastly leadership of Simon de Montfort. He got rid of the Trencavals, declared himself the new viscount and built more fortifications. The place finally came under the control of the French king in 1247. The reputation for invincibility was reinforced in 1355 when Edward the Black Prince of England failed in an attempted siege during the Hundred Years War.

The outer walls date to the 13th century and it was fun to climb up along the ledge and walk around the remparts looking over the crenellations to the dry moat below, peeking through the arrow slits at imaginary enemies. Of course, much of this was restored in the 1800s.

By 1659, all the surrounding territories were also under France's domain and so Carcassonne's fortifications became unnecessary and were abandoned. For almost 200 years, they crumbled and plans to demolish the old city were made in 1849. Suddenly, the long-forgotten citadel that had been used only as a military garrison became a focus of a passionate "Save Carcassonne" campaign. After this public pressure, it was instead restored, but with several historical inaccuracies, including pointed cones on the towers and slate roofs. It was opened for tourism in 1902 and subsequently suffered greater indignities than just a misguided makeover. The crowds increased in 1997 when it became a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Realistically, of course, it is the only way to maintain an historical landmark these days.

We entered the city through the inner wall gate and rounded the corner to the beautiful Gothic-Romanesque basilica of St. Nazaire. The stained glass was just lovely and Phil managed to get the best gargoyle photos of the trip. The Romanesque portion dates from the 11th century, built on the site of a former Carolingian church. The Gothic sections were added in the 13th and 14th centuries. It was the town's official cathedral until 1801 when the 13th century church in the Ville Basse was given that distinction instead. For us, the Basilique St. Nazaire and the walls were the highlights of Carcassonne.

The reason for this is because, as we turned down the rue St. Louis, we hit thick crowds, obnoxious hawkers and a sign at the entrance to the Chateau: "Le Monument is Ferme. . . Strike".

Well, I thought, at least it was just a stop en route and not a special trip. I looked at the incredulous faces of the people around me, some with their jaw dropping to their chest. The poor souls had probably gone out of their way and this was their destination for the day. It was like coming to Disneyland to find out all the rides had been closed. What do you do, buy a plastic sword and a T-shirt, eat a hot dog and admire the walls? I do realize that the streets around the chateau have probably been packed with trinket sellers since the Middle Ages, but I doubt I would have liked it any more then, either. I have a strange, visceral hatred for tacky souvenir shops.

I looked up at Phil, who shrugged his shoulders. The chateau was what I had been looking forward to most and I was slightly disappointed, but he was ready to move on. "Let's just find a cup of coffee and get out of here," he said. And that was okay. As a history buff, I understand that it's more about what it has been than what it is.

On the way north toward Toulouse, we stopped for lunch at Castelnaudary because they are known for a local specialty called cassoulet, a sort of stew with white beans and loads of meat. Sure enough, we started to see several billboards advertising the stuff as we approached the town. It was exactly like driving down Highway 101 when signs for Pea Soup Andersen's start increasing as you approach Buellton.

It was practically impossible to find a restaurant open for lunch in the little town of Castelnaudary. All the places were advertising cassoulet, but their doors were shut until dinner. We finally found a small outdoor cafe that had it on the menu. Feeling a little silly about eating stew in June, Phil and I eagerly ordered it anyway, but Joe wisely refrained. It was downright ghastly. We could barely choke it down. When I said that the cafe in Arles had been the worst meal of the trip, I had forgotten about this experience. I am quite sure that cassoulet can be delicious at other establishments and that we had just picked the wrong place -- but I don't think we'll be trying it again anytime soon.

The roads up to Toulouse run alongside the Canal du Midi, a stretch that begins at the Garonne River in Toulouse and ends at the sea, essentially linking the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. The idea belonged to a 17th century man named Pierre-Paul Riquet who convinced Louis XIV that it would be good for business. It utilizes a clever system of mountain reservoirs that channel run-off to compensate for its high point in the middle. The project lasted 14 years and cost Riquet everything he had (why the king didn't pay, I have no idea). The poor man then died only six months before it was completed. En toto, the tree-lined canal has 99 locks and 130 bridges. It is used as much for vacationing houseboats now as for barges carrying goods.

It seemed like a long drive up the A roads to the Lot, but the routes were well-signed and Helen was behaving well until we exited at Cahors. (We didn't actually need her on the autoroute.) Suddenly, we were on small roads enclosed by forests and overhanging cliffs. It only took a couple of wrong turns and a lack of signage before we realized we were lost.

We were looking for the tiny 13th century village of Cabrerets (pop. 230) where we were staying four nights at Un Jardin dans la Falaise (a Garden in the Cliffs). We must have crossed the parallel Cele and Lot Rivers multiple times and driven around a half dozen other villages, but our own destination remained elusive. The circling on the minor roads had completely thrown me off and I couldn't even find where we were on the map. We didn't see one sign for Cabrerets anywhere and Helen seemed to have no idea at all how to find it. I don't even think it was on her radar, even though I re-entered the address several times. "It's like Brigadoon, Phil," I said in bewilderment. "It doesn't seem to exist even though we know it's here."

After some 20 minutes, I switched my strategy and entered "Grottes du Pech Merle" into the GPS. We had passed a sign for that cave a ways back and I knew it was just around the corner from Cabrerets. Sure enough, Helen got us right there and this time we saw a sign for Cabrerets that seemed to materialize out of the mist. It was less than a mile east, hugging the Rochecourbe cliffs like it had grown out of the rock (which obviously it must have done just before we got there).

Our B&B was tucked at the top among other houses under a large shelf in the rock. The slightly modern guest rooms on the left have been linked to the main house on the right by steps and a lower patio with beautiful views over the tiny valley and bridge across the little Sagne River. The blackened ruins of the Chateau du Diable are just across the way, looking like a broken Lego project attached to the cliff. At the top of the steps, you enter into the guest dining room and upper patio attached to the owners' house. Our hosts were out shopping, but they had left us a note on the door of our room, so we made ourselves comfortable, unpacked our things and Phil parked the car just down the hill near the river park below the village. It was a sweltering day and we soon discovered that one of the only drawbacks to our new accommodations was the lack of air conditioning. Thankfully, they had provided fans.

This B&B was highly recommended on Trip Advisor and Fodor's. I scheduled it nearly a year in advance, as I did all of our rentals, because I knew it booked solid very quickly. Simon (Australian) and his wife Magali (French) were wonderful hosts, though Magali is no longer able to cook her popular dinners every night as she has a new baby. We were able to enjoy them twice during our stay. This is important because the local restaurant selection is practically nil.

We had the family suite midway up the steps, which is a studio consisting of two bedrooms, a bath and a kitchenette with a microwave, fridge and hot water kettle (but to our shock and dismay, no coffeemaker). I really liked the neutral bedroom decor and linen coverlets, though the red and yellow bath was a bit bright for my tastes. The beamed ceiling in the back "master bedroom" is also slanted so low that anyone taller than a midget like me would hit their head. As with all the places we stayed in France, the water was instantaneously scalding hot and the water pressure was terrific. Here's a link to the B&B's website: http://www.unjardindanslafalaise.com/gb/accueil_gb.htm

Since Magali was not cooking that night, we asked them what they might suggest for dinner. In his Australian accent, Simon said something like "Ah, Loyo, I think. Just down off the main road" and he pointed east. Magali just nodded her head. Main road. Oka-a-ay. I hadn't seen anything I would classify as a main road.

So, we headed out of town with no address looking for "Loyo" and turned onto the D662. On the way, we passed through rock tunnels and drove under cliff overhangs. The Lot is stunningly beautiful and scarcely populated. Just as we were beginning to have serious doubts, I saw a stone building with a bright blue and orange sign, "L'Oilo Bar Restaurant." Bingo. As we parked, Phil looked up and said, "What's that," pointing to a church and houses perched on a cliff across the river.

I gasped at the gorgeous scene and instantly knew. "Why, that's St. Cirque Lapopie, one of the reasons we're here." I had chosen this part of the Lot just so we could be near that village and Pech Merle early and late to beat the tourist hoards at those popular daytrip sites. It turned out to be an excellent plan.

The food at L'Oilo wasn't anything to write home about, but you couldn't beat the location and one isn't exactly spoiled for choice in that neck of the woods.

After dinner we drove across the river to the top of St. Cirq Lapopie and looked down over the village and valley that looked like it had been standing still for hundreds of years, completely changed from the outside world. I had heard it can be horribly Disneyesque with swarms of visitors during the day, but it was very quiet that evening except for a few restaurant patrons, straggling tourists and overnighters. "Let's come back really early before breakfast, Phil," I suggested. "The light will be better for pictures and we can explore when everyone else is still asleep."

Looking down at the fairytale village, I wanted to pinch myself. I had this odd fear that it wouldn't be there in the morning. It was almost too pretty to be true.

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P.S.: The reason there are so few Carcassonne pictures is because Phil found it difficult to get shots without tons of tourists blocking the view. The photos of the "Brigadoon" towns of Cabrerets and St. Cirq Lapopie are coming up next as they were taken on Lot Day 2.

Bookmarking!

Looking forward to the rest

Carcassonne was restored by Viollet-le-Duc who had the bad habit of restoring things to their "ideal" state as he saw it. He apparently sketched the Pyrenees as they should look rather than how they were.

That's funny, Michael. I had read that, when he came down to restore Carcassonne, he was fresh off work in the northern regions of France and either didn't know or didn't care that the southern fortifications had been constructed in another style. At various points in his career, he flat out admitted that he was deliberately changing things to suit his personal aesthetics. Evidently, he was given carte blanche by the state to do what he pleased, even to Notre Dame.

LOT DAY TWO - SAINTS, DEVILS AND BLACK WINE
Wednesday 6/22/11

I love the smell of serenity in the morning.

Now, Joe and I are by no means early risers given the choice. This was the 16th day in a row we had forced ourselves awake and the first at the crack of dawn. I was motivated by the prospect of capturing another village at its secret best; but Joe just groaned and rolled over, begging us to let him sleep until breakfast.

Phil and I were at St. Cirq Lapopie within minutes. (Note that the "q" in her name is silent.) We parked in the middle lot and only one other visiting couple was there, just getting out of their car. We never saw them again. The tiered streets of the empty town must have swallowed us on different levels.

St. Cirq was still asleep and she was the most beautiful village we saw during that entire month. We felt like we had the place completely to ourselves and the lighting and atmosphere were sublime. In the hour or so we were there, we saw less than a handful of locals, a couple of cats and a delivery truck. The highlights were the views over the roofs cascading down the valley to the Lot River 300 feet below and the ruins of the La Popie Fortress high on the hill, but the entire village looked like it had fallen out of a child's storybook. I can see how the midday crowds would completely ruin that effect. It was worth getting out of bed with the sun.

The site dates back to the Gallo-Romans when it was called Pompejac. I have encountered more than one story about how it ended up with its current name. One tale is that, when St. Amadour brought the 3rd century relics of St. Cyr to town in the early 8th century, it adopted the first part of its name. Some two centuries later, Lord LaPopie added his name and so it is distinguished from other towns named after the saint. Another explanation is that the cliff on which it is built is semicircular, hence the "cirq."

Most of the existing houses were built in the 13th through 16th centuries, so St. Cirq is clearly a medieval/Renaissance town. Four feudal dynasties ruled here during those eras and the village had about 1,500 citizens. Anyone familiar with the Lot and Dordogne will recognize that these aristocratic surnames are now the names of French towns: Lapopie, Gourdon, Cardaillac and Castlenau. By the 15th century, the economy was mainly focused on the craft of wood-turning and the village became a major source of robinets from the 19th through 20th centuries. (These are wooden taps for wine and water barrels, though the term is now also used for modern faucets and plumbing.) Like other villages in the surrounding regions, St. Cirq then drew the attention of 20th century writers and artists who were flocking to the countryside for calm and inspiration.

I have heard that today St. Cirq is still home to many craftspeople who sell their work to visitors, but of course we didn't witness this because nothing was yet open that morning. I do like the way Pauline Caldwell describes the situation on her web page: "[I]n rural places like this in France people are generally interested in simply making a living while preserving their community, not in ripping off visitors." We found this to be the case in even the most popular places we visited provided the locale in question was still a "real" working town with people going about their everyday lives.

Innumerable castles in and around the historical region of Aquitaine were built or fortified during the Hundred Years War and then changed hands several times, often having to be rebuilt after the battles. These same castles then faced further trouble during the Wars of Religion. St. Cirq's chateau was no exception. The LaPopie fortress changed hands several times and was often in the middle of the action, including resisting an attack by Richard the Lionheart. It was ultimately demolished in 1580 by the Huguenots.

After kicking Joe out of bed back at the B&B, we shared breakfast at the communal table in the guest dining room with a friendly couple from Boston. Charlie had lived in France for a time as a teenager and was relatively fluent in the language, but it was his wife's first visit. This was actually their second stay at Un Jardin dans la Falaise within the week. They had been unable to book all their dates, so they ventured up to the Dordogne for a few days before coming back to the Lot. They had traveled extensively in various countries over the years, with and without their young adult daughters. Interestingly, they acknowledged that they weren't big on planned activities, sites or museums and spent most of their day just wandering around looking for a good picnic spot. Phil nodded his head enthusiastically when he heard this and agreed that it would be an ideal way to travel. This was followed by a meaningful glance in my direction, but I ignored the hint.

On the other hand, Phil had to agree that there was little to complain about on this particular day, other than having to be behind the wheel. The goal was winetasting in the western Lot Valley.

The Black Wine of Cahors earns its name by its unusually inky midnight-purple hue, darker even than my favorite Petite Sirah. The depth of its color is then matched by its full mouthfeel, strong body and tendency toward high tannins. It is one of the oldest wines and yet, due to a rocky historical fate, is now considered a new and evolving member of the wine world family.

The Romans first planted vineyards in Cahors more than 2,000 years ago. It was later loved by such men as Pope John XXII in the 14th century and Peter the Great in the 1600s, but it was soon losing the competition with the popular Bordeaux clarets between the 17th and 19th centuries. The game was up when the Cahors vineyards were destroyed by the disease of phylloxera. The vines were replanted and the winemakers were still trying to renew their reputation when a freeze in 1956 wiped most of them out again. By 1971, the wine had climbed back from the brink and was awarded AOC status, but it remains a rare wine as only 4,000 hectares are devoted to the vine, produced by about 200 domains.

Most Americans have probably never heard of it and I understand that it is even difficult to find in England. Despite this, it is surprisingly inexpensive and I imagine that is because it is definitely not a wine for everybody. It is not overtly fruity like the popular red Zinfandel spoonful of raspberry jam. It is by no means light like a Pinot Noir, or as food-friendly as a subtly layered Burgundy. On the other hand, if you enjoy chewing your wine and being gently kicked at the finish, this one's for you.

Dominated by Malbec, which is somehow much different than its descendant, the Argentinian Malbec, it is then softened by Merlot and balanced by Tannat. (The French call their Malbec, "Auxerrois" or "Cot".) Overall, we liked the Black Wine more than we thought we would after the mysterious descriptions we had read prior to our first taste. Quite a bit more, actually, when you consider the value. I'm nearly always a fan of a robust red. There are actually three styles: 1) tender and fruity; 2) feisty and powerful; and 3) intense and complex. Most of them benefit from aging to soften their tannins.

On the way to the other side of the valley, we drove through the main town of Cahors (pop 20,000). Our new acquaintances from the B&B were going to the market there that morning, but we just wanted to skirt around to see the famous bridge. Like everything here, Cahors dates back a bit. To the Celts, it was Divona Cadurcorum. It is basically a peninsula, shaped like a thumb that has pushed a big dent in the Lot River. Its heyday was in the Middle Ages and Dante mentioned it in his inferno as a wicked place. In fact there is a legend that the architect of the Pont Valentre made a pact with the devil during its construction, then tried to get out of it by leaving out one stone. (Cue in the Charlie Daniels Band.) During a 19th century restoration, they carved a devil into one of the towers in honor of that myth.

The 14th century bridge is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It's more than a bridge actually. It's a mini fortress spanning the river. The three towers have machicolations, crenellations, gates and portcullises just like a castle. The central tower was the observation post. I'd say it is certainly an attractive and interesting bridge, but I'm glad we didn't go out of our way just to see it.

We stopped at three wineries during the afternoon: Chateau de Lagrezzete in Caillac, Clos Triguedina in Les Poujols and Chateau du Cedre in Bru. The latter two were rather difficult to find as they are in the middle of nowhere with no address, but we managed surprisingly well and enjoyed our hunt. Clos Triguedina was easily our favorite.

Not only was Clos Triguedina's wine just slightly better in our opinion, but the experience was again enhanced by the personality and knowledge of the person pouring. While the estate has been known for their Probus wine since 1976, three of the wines we tried were part of an experiment by winemaker Jean Luc Baldès. He has used the exact same varietals, blended, aged and bottled all in the same way. He also kept the yield low to increase what he calls the "typicity." The difference is in the type of soil in each of the three levels of vineyard terraces. The winemaker is trying to identify how much expression comes all the way through from the earth to the glass. It's all about terroir (a term that's also become quite popular in California wine discussions). He decided on three plots that together represent the three basic terroirs of the Cahors AOC region. Au Coin du Bois comes from the red clay/chalk soil of the 2nd upper terrace, Les Galets from a complex clay/limestone/flint soil on the 3rd terrace; and Petites Cailles from a different clay/limestone soil having a high iron content on the 4th terrace. There was a tall glass vase on the tasting counter containing different sizes and types of rocks that represented each of the three levels. The wines are only sold as a "trilogy" set in a wooden crate, so that's what we bought. We haven't opened them yet and will likely age them for a time for comparison. (As if we'll actually remember!)

Besides visiting the wineries, we also stopped in the towns of Luzech, Belaye and Puy-l'Eveque. Luzech's market was just winding down and a brief walk around the town didn't exactly enthrall us. In fact, the glowing descriptions I had copied into my notes were nothing like what we saw at all. We all gave it a "meh."

The purpose of Belaye was solely for its viewpoint over the river. Just as we found it and parked, the skies let loose in a sudden downpour, so we ate our picnic lunch in the car instead. As soon as we had finished and cleaned up, the sky was clear again.

Puy-l'Eveque was a really cute town, but we had unfortunately caught it during its doldrums. It's that same old story. Everything was shut tight mid-afternoon and we were becoming absolutely desperate for a cup of coffee. We walked around for a bit, but I actually think it is one of those rare towns that would be much improved by some activity, commerce and - gulp - tourists walking around. (We encountered the same phenomenon at another town the next day.) Phil did get pictures of some amusing trompe l'oeil paintings of medieval scenes on the sides of buildings throughout the town.

When we got back to Cabrerets, we took more photos of the town and then sat on Un Jardin's lower terrace while we waited for dinner. Magali's three-course meal was simply fabulous and served with Cahors wine. She cooks while Simon serves and buses the tables. I believe we had duck breast, which we ate at nearly every restaurant for the rest of the trip, but the only thing I can recall for certain is a chocolate raspberry creme brulee that Joe absolutely loved. (I really must remind myself to keep better food notes and take pictures of the plates like a good Fodorite.)

Besides the Boston couple, we were joined by a large, boisterous, ruddy man from Marseilles and his thin, quiet, blonde wife. Neither of them spoke English. While Charlie was able to do a lot of translating back and forth, we were certainly lost much of the time. Everyone stayed at the table long after the dessert dishes were cleared. Mr. Marseilles eventually started talking directly to Phil in a rapid, excited manner, telling some convoluted story punctuated by gesticulations. He either forgot or didn't care that we didn't speak French. He simply spoke louder so we would "get it." I was actually shocked to realize that Phil somehow did pick up the gist enough to turn around and explain to me what he thought Mr. Marseilles had said (and I'm the one who studied the language for months before we left).

As charming and fun as these fellow guests were, we finally couldn't take the amplified table ambience any longer and bowed out politely. They looked like they could sustain it for another hour. Instead, I practically crawled into bed. It had been a rather long day; we wanted to get up early to catch a market in another town; and the serenity I had felt at dawn was becoming a dim memory. Apparently, I'm becoming a morning person after all.

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I've decided to also post a link to our family & friends shutterfly share site if anyone wants to see what that looks like. I really like the ability to select feature photos and switch them around. (I change the main page photos almost every day.) The trip report is then to the left below. There are several different designs to choose from. I hope Fodor's develops something similar soon. I know they are working on new trip report features, too.

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Still enjoying your report. Went back and checked out the Paris pics as well and am really impressed with what great shots your son took. You all take very interesting shots. LOVED them!

You had a great time by the sound of it and what a wealth of knowledge. We like to spend a week in each area in a vacation rental. My Phil and your Phil would get on very well as we spend a lot of time just pottering about, stopping wherever and finding some wonderful places. We do lots of research about each area before we go and just take each day as it comes. If we don't get to something this time,well we may just have to come back. Right???

Hmm, when I was in the south of France a few years ago we visited a town named Biran. When I was writing my trip report I looked at the town's website, which told me that a one street fortified hill town such as this was known in Occitan as a castelnau.

Not sure how that jives with the feudal dynasty explanation.

Maybe the family took their name from one of the towns? That's interesting, Nikki. I'll see if I can dig up anything.

Yes. Castelnau simply means "new castle" and the dynastic family was of course originally "de Castlenau" and simply shortened it to the surname of Castlenau somewhere along the way. The family dates back to at least the 11th century and had several large holdings and chateaux (e.g., Castlenau-Bretoneux further north.)

I imagine the other surnames could likewise have evolved, though it may be difficult to determine in which cases a town gave its name to a dynastic family, or when it occurred the other way around. I don't know how many experts there are on French feudal dynasties these days, but the whole subject is rather interesting.

Castelnau is an old French/Occitan word that meant a village or town founded in the vicinity of a château. People with authority in those towns and villages sometimes took on the name of the place, so they became, for example, Michel de Castelnau or Philippe de Castelnau...and eventually just Michel Castelnau or Philippe Castelnau. It doesn't have anything to do with how many streets there were as far as I know. There are a gazillion Castelnaus all over France. Same with Villeneuves and Villefranches, which were other kinds of administrative entities.

From an on-line dictionary of French names:

Castelnau
Le nom est porté dans le Tarn-et-Garonne et les départements voisins. Variantes : Castelnaud, Castelneau. Il désigne celui qui est originaire de l'une des très nombreuses localités ainsi appelées dans le Sud-Ouest et plus généralement en Languedoc. Sens du toponyme : le château neuf. Forme similaire : Castetnau (64). L'italien possède le même type de formation avec les toponymes et noms de famille Castelnuovo, Castelnovo.

LOT DAY THREE - AT THE EDGE OF CATHAR COUNTRY
Thursday 6/23/11

We spent the day in the northeast corner of the Midi-Pyrénées, old stomping grounds for the Counts of Toulouse. Like much of France, it is a land of legends, with deep wooded valleys and tragic clifftop fortresses. We were off the beaten path much of the way among some incredible scenery. Fellow tourists were few and far between and all of them were French. The only downside was the 117 miles of driving. Well, that and the lack of coffee. (I am packing a thermos next time.)

The first goal was the market in Villefranche-de-Rouergue. (Rouergue is the historical name for the department of Aveyron.) While it was less than 30 miles southeast of Cabrerets, it took about an hour to get there on the D-class roads. It was nearly 8:30 by the time we arrived and parking was already scarce. It took us a good 15 minutes to find a spot and reconnoiter before finding the market square a few blocks away. There was also a small carnival setting up for the weekend, so it was a busy, bustling place.

Villefranche-de-Rouergue is a relatively large town for the region with a population of 12,673, but the old interior portion maintains its medieval charm. While the town dates back to the 11th century when it was founded by the Count of Toulouse, it became a bastide in the 13th century and its main square is still a particularly attractive example of this type of development, though the town is now missing its outer gates, remparts and moat. (A bastide is a fortified medieval town designed to a specific grid plan.)

The arcades surrounding the Place Notre-Dame are a nice feature common to bastides. They have offered shade to shoppers since the Middle Ages. This was not a touristy town and the shops were thus reflective of local business: dress stores, boulangeries, cafes and fromageries. The market itself was very large, nearly the size of the one we had visited in Arles. Besides produce and every other imaginable food stuff, there were also numerous brocante and craft stalls spread under the arcades and throughout the adjacent medieval streets. Joe was impressed by the intricate little cars and toys made out of soda cans. The square is dominated by an immense church that took some 300 years to build. There is also a tall ironwork statue of Christ on the cross that creates a unique backdrop to the market mayhem. We spent an enjoyable hour browsing, buying picnic supplies and stopping for our morning coffee. If we had known it was going to be our first and only cup that day, we would have stuck around a little longer and ordered more.

It took some effort to get out of town since so many roads were closed to traffic by either the market or the carnival rides. This threw Helen off and briefly muddled our sense of direction. When we did finally exit Villefranche heading south to Najac, it was on the D47, which was a slightly more curvaceous and scenic route through forests along the Aveyron River than the parallel D922 I had originally planned to take.

I am so glad I added Najac to our list in the last stage of planning. It was probably our favorite village that day. Originally a Roman settlement, the medieval town that now exists was built upon a rocky ridge above the river, with houses lining either side of the main street which stretches across its length. The road then rises to a cone at the end where the 13th century chateau was built on the foundation of an even older castle. The king had the Knights Templar imprisoned in its dungeon in 1307. In fact, the chateau was never actually occupied by a feudal family, but remained a garrison.

We parked at the upper lot near the narrow, park-like little town square. From there, we walked down through the medieval village as the road dipped, narrowed and then climbed again, becoming a path winding up the hill toward the imposing fortress. These topographical changes allow for some decent views of the whole scene along the way. It was a somewhat long, steep climb on a hot summer day, but well worth the effort.

We elected not to spend the 4€ each to go into the chateau, though it may have been nice to climb to the top of the keep for views over 650 feet above the river. Instead, we walked around the far side of the castle to admire it from another angle. Then, the guys rested while I walked down the other side of the hill a short way to see the 13th century church that the residents were forced to build as a punishment for becoming Cathar. At least they were lucky enough to be left alive.

This is the edge of Cathar Country, as much an inherent emotional jurisdiction as an area on the map. The knowledge of its exact geographical boundaries may be somewhat ambiguous, but the pain lingers from 800-year-old wounds. Surprisingly little is known, though a great deal is speculated. When we are trying to peer into the darkest corners of the past, truth can sometimes be such a tentative thing. As Churchill, said "History is written by the victors." The Catholic Church spent centuries teaching only what they wanted the world to know about this shameful episode. Most of the Cathar texts were destroyed. The followers weren't simply suppressed, they were virtually annihilated.

Some attribute Albi as the Southern French center of the religious movement (hence the alternate term of Albigensians), while others place it closer to Carcassonne. Certainly, the ruins of the most impressive Cathar fortresses are in the rugged mountains southwest of Carcassone stretching toward the Pyrenees, but the numbers of followers were relatively high in the Minervois, moving further through the eastern Languedoc into Provence and up north of Albi through the Aveyron.

Throughout this entire area, castles were either built or fortified in the 12th and 13th centuries to protect these Cathar "heretics" who leaned toward a dualist vision. To them, God represented all that was good and he could never be responsible for the evil found on earth, so they attributed that to Satan. What really worried the Popes enough to encourage the Albigensian Crusade, though, was the fact that the Cathars questioned the sacraments, along with the Church's power and wealth. Many of them were aesthetics and believed in Perfection reached through humility, poverty and chastity. While these may seem like extreme but noble values, the sect was active at a time when many bishops and popes were contrastingly proud, corrupt and immoral. The Cathars didn't hesitate to point this out. It wasn't good for Church business.

Likewise, the men who led the Albigensian Crusade tended to be opportunity seekers, or those who were trying to get back into the good graces of the Church after being excommunicated. Beyond that, there was bait: Pope Innocent III, with his ironic name, announced that any lord could keep a Cathar city that he captured; and several centuries of Purgatory would be knocked off in the bargain for every 10,000 killed.

The slaughter was particularly gruesome and thorough as it was led by the bloodthirsty Simon de Monfort. Entire villages were wiped out, women and children with men, practicing Catholics with Cathars. I read that there was frequently no attempt whatsoever to separate the heretics from the faithful and that, when asked about it, the Abbot of Citeaux said, "Kill everone. Kill, kill, God will know his own."

This is one of those human horrors that remain deeply disturbing even though the events have settled into the dusts of time. When studying history, we are taught the importance of putting actions into context, avoiding assumptions of modern judgment and realizing that we cannot attribute the current state of our evolved (or devolved) values to our forbearers. In cases like this, however, I think we can be forgiven for making a serious exception to that neutrality.

Fortunately, we weren't having such heavy thoughts in the late morning sunshine that day. On the way back to the car from Najac's chateau, Joe befriended another friendly feline, which gave us an excuse to sit down on the stone ledge again and just admire the peaceful scenic views over the valley.

From Najac, we were heading into the Gorges de l'Aveyron. I cannot hear this French word for valleys (literally "throats") without thinking "gorgeous" since they usually are. The Aveyron Valley is a lovely drive, though it's sometimes hard to see the forest through the trees. The woods become increasingly thick heading south from St. Antonin Nobel Val on the D115 toward Bruniquel.

Before we got that far, though, we needed sustenance. Naturally, I had a specific location in mind. My notes said that Cirque de Bone is three kilometers west of St-Antonin off the D958, a "magnificent" viewpoint with a panorama of the Gorges de l'Aveyron, an orientation table and picnic facilities. No address, though, so we were looking for a yeller lab again. After several minutes trying to find it, Phil just parked in a pullout in the forest and we tailgated. On the way back through town after lunch, we saw the elusive sign for "Cirque de Bone" immediately. It was tilted in such a way that we wouldn't have seen it earlier. Maybe it's another one of those local Brigadoon spots.

We were getting further from our home base by the minute and Phil was suddenly not feeling so well. Whether it was from out-of whack blood sugar or a lack of coffee, he had a pounding headache and we clearly had to wrap things up more quickly than planned. Having enough on our plate for the day, we had already decided to make St. Antonin a drive-through, but I was looking forward to Penne-du-Tarn and Bruniquel just up ahead. Phil pushed on like a trooper, but it ultimately wasn't the best idea.

Joe and I thought Penne was the coolest thing ever. The chateau, if one could still call it that, barely clings to the edge of the steepest, strangest rock and looks for all the world like it has just grown out of it -- an immense, deformed stalagmite. The castle has been damaged or crumbled in such a way that there are two burnt spires with a big dip in the middle. It looks like a giant hand with two fingers up in a victory or peace sign. Perhaps it was actually a sign of surrender since its state of ruin is partially Simon de Montfort's handiwork. Before the crusaders lit their fire, this village of Celtic origin had been invaded by Romans, Franks and Saracens. The citizens who built the chateau in the 13th century were clearly descended from mountain goats.

This weird castle must actually have remained relatively intact by the Hundred Years War as the English occupied it for a time before the Protestants finished it off during the Wars of Religion. I can't imagine what it must have looked like when it was whole. Perhaps part of the cliff itself was destroyed along the way, because it seems improbable that it could even have been built on such a site. Joe wanted to climb all the way to the top, but Phil opted to stay in the parking lot and take pictures. I joined Joe and we walked about halfway through the village and then turned back, too. I was starting to worry about Phil and realized I was being insensitive to keep up the sightseeing while he sat in the sun. (Okay, there was also the fact that I took one look at the long, steep path and changed my mind.)

Ahh, but I was messing with the sightseeing formula. I failed to add up the fact that our next stop would make our fourth town of the day, not including the drive through St-Antonin. I failed to remember that mid-afternoon was rarely a good idea. Certainly Phil and I had begun to understand the dos-and-don'ts of rural French travel by then, but I was just so certain Bruniquel would be great. I have a full page of notes about this attractive and authentic pretty pink town and I stubbornly persisted, saying "Come on, it's only seven miles away. We're practically on top of it."

Of course, Bruniquel was a ghost town at 3:00 p.m. on a Thursday in June -- and not in the sweet, all-to-ourselves, misty morning way. It was hot, dusty and faded. The two chateaus appeared to be closed. The only thing in town that was open was a single craft shop. Still holding out hope, Joe and I split up to get the lay of the land. We met back in the middle with the same sad report: Bruniquel had her back turned to visitors. Our timing was simply off. Glancing down the street at Phil leaning against a wall, I saw with alarm that he had his head in his hands. He was further on the edge than Penne's castle.

Just as we turned to leave, I had an odd encounter. As Joe and I were talking, a French tourist stopped me and abruptly asked, "What language are you speaking?"

"Anglaise," was my startled reply.

"No! No!" he insisted, practically yelling.

Oka-a-ay, I'm not speaking English. Do I not know my mother tongue?

Then he asked where I was from. "California," I replied hesitantly. His cross-examination was strange, intrusive and not even remotely friendly.

"Ah-h-h, NOT Anglaise! That's why I couldn't understand you," he said as he walked up the hill to join the rest of his party. I stared after the huffy little man. Good grief, I hadn't been talking to him anyway, so why did he care? I was bemused, though. I didn't realize there was a California accent and that some French apparently think American is a separate language. I found it hard to believe that he might have better understood me if I spoke Cockney.

I walked back to Phil, still shaking my head. "Okay, I surrender. Let's swing back to Cabrerets." Poor guy, his eyes lit up for the first time since we'd left Najac.

Darling Magali wasn't cooking one of her gourmet meals that evening, so we decided to check out one of the only restaurants in town. If you're ever in the tiny town of Cabrerets, you might want to avoid the Cafe O'Louise. It wasn't the worst food of the trip, but it was like finding Mel's Diner in France. I expected the waitress to come out and take our order chewing gum with a pencil behind her ear. The food was a little bland, heavy and less than fresh. (How can one serve duck that is both dry and greasy at the same time?)

Now, we weren't expecting a fine dining experience that night, so we were okay with this up to a point. Then Phil realized they had overcharged us on the bill, which left a bad taste in his mouth beyond the poorly-cooked duck. Joe and I had ordered choices from the set menu and Phil had ordered a la carte; but the waitress had charged everything Joe and I ordered twice as both menu and a la carte items. (I sure hope they weren't trying to pull a fast one because they knew we were tourists.) The manager immediately saw the problem, but they couldn't figure out how to reimburse us since we had paid with a credit card. Phil asked, "Couldn't you just pay me back in cash?" Gee, what a novel idea.

We were on vacation, though, so it was easier to look on the bright side. The happy result of all this actually was that handful of cash since ATM machines in the neighborhood are as scarce as coffee and Cathars.

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Actually, when books are translated into French, it is always mentioned what kind of English. "Anglais" "Anglais (américain)" "Anglais (australien)" etc. It makes a considerable difference.

I have learned to speak English rather than American in European circles. It is a question of good manners.

"Many of them were aesthetics and believed in Perfection reached through humility, poverty and chastity."

These were the ascetics who lived in particularly picturesque locales.

<i>These were the ascetics who lived in particularly picturesque locales.</i>

Somehow I think that the idea of "picturesque" passed them by.

Oops. You're on top of things as usual with your sharp eye, Nikki. The correct word is "ascetics." There's also at least one typo, if anyone noticed. It should be St. Antonin Noble Val.

Good one, Michael.

Pray tell, kerouac. How on earth do you do that? I think you must be pulling our legs. (Of course, "good manners" didn't apply in this case anyway since that funny little man walked up to me and interrupted my personal conversation with my son. I still don't get that. I felt like an exhibit.)

sap,

Am enjoying reading your wonderful trip report - we were in the Dordogne region about the same time. We loved it there. I'm really enjoying reading your history about each site as it jogs my memory.