sap

Winnick: I just responded to your trip report not one minute ago, too. How funny. Great photos & blogs with your link. The photo book you did is a terrific feature. I'll sit down with Phil after dinner over a glass of wine so we can do the slideshow and compare notes!

winnick

sap: It's funny our notes on each other's reports just crossed. I responded to some of your comments on my report. I can't wait to read more of your report. Your writing is incredible and I love all the history you provide.
I'm also enjoying your pictures, which are terrific.

Your Provence report brings back great memories of our trip there last year. We really liked Bonnieux too. We rented a home in Roussillon which we loved. We were able to enjoy that town in the evenings after all the tourists left

That whole area is really beautiful and the markets are fantastic, much different from those in the Dordogne.

Keep going with your report...am loving it.

TDudette

sap, the photos of St Cirq/Lot are stunning. Def. on my to do list now.

sap

LOT DAY FOUR - TRANSCENDING EXISTENCE
Friday 6/24/11

Art. Life. How far back can one take the old philosophical debate about which one imitates the other? Is the act of living merely an artistic gesture, a mimicking of what we've witnessed since birth? Art solely for art's sake is still a form of expression -- even when it's on the walls of a cave.

La Grotte du Pech Merle was discovered by a pair of teenagers in 1922. The silly boys were probably risking life and limb to explore the fault. They knew of other recent underground expeditions in the region, but they must have been shocked to actually come face to face with such art themselves. They told the local priest of Cabrerets, who was a bit of a cave expert himself, and he confirmed the significance of their find. The site was later opened to the public in 1926. The art has since been carbon-dated and ranges from 13,000 to 25,000 years old. The original opening was discovered when a new gallery was explored in 1949. It had been sealed off 10,000 years ago at the thawing of the last Ice Age, preserving the treasures inside.

Pech Merle is 1 ¼ miles long. Only one-third of the galleries are now open to visitors in seven large halls, with a limit of 700 visitors per day. Groups can include no more than 25 with only three staggered groups in the cave at one time to protect the art from condensation on the walls caused by breath and body heat. I had made reservations online three months before on March 25th and had my printed confirmation in hand when we arrived for the 9:30 tour. We were the first in line to pick up our tickets, having the advantage of staying around the corner in Cabrerets.

The tour was in French, but several in our group were from other countries. We were the only English-speakers. The tour guide gave us all booklets in our native languages, which was very helpful. Better yet, he spoke excellent English. At nearly every stop of the tour, he would let the rest of the people go ahead and would return to us and repeat everything he had just said in English again. It was an incredibly kind gesture and greatly added to our experience.

Some of the art drawings merely consist of fading lines. Until the guide uses his laser pointer to outline the shape, it can be difficult to discern what's in front of your eyes. Pech Merle's art includes horses, reindeer, bison, mammoths, a wounded man and, strangely, several stenciled hands and countless red and black dots, often in clusters like stars. The hands are still clearly outlined in black and brilliant red and their symbolism is mysterious. At first glance, it seems that some primitive man-child was playing around with a new discovery, but the placement of the hands and dots in conjunction with the animals sometimes seems to mean something more. I was also really amused by the creative attempts to portray the shaggy hair on the mammoths.

Even though I had mixed opinions about some of the less detailed cave art in the first few galleries, I did really enjoy actually being in the cave. My dad was a high school teacher who spent many summers as a tour guide at Wind Cave National Park in the Black Hills. It was always a treat for me when I could tag along. Phil was a bit less impressed with the line drawings than I was, but he was still having a ball because he is fascinated by the cave formations. One unique feature of Pech Merle is the Hall of Discs with layered calcite slabs that seem to drip with ribbons strongly resembling the hair on the mammoth drawings. Phil's only regret was that photographs are not allowed.

At another point about midway through the tour, there are a dozen footprints in two directions of an adolescent boy and possibly a small woman. Experts know they must be at least 10,000 years old because that's when the entrance near them was sealed off. It does send a little shudder up the spine.

Then we reached the more impressive Hall of Paintings. The Spotted Horses are absolutely intriguing. Like the Clos des Tourelles wine in Gigondas, they rather knocked our socks off. This relatively detailed mural is over l1feet long and carefully follows the contours of the rock. In fact, the head of the horse on the right perfectly follows the outer curve of the wall, which cuts around the nose and face to the neck. It almost looks like the rock was carved around the painting. Like some primitive Michelangelo, did the artist see the horse in the block of stone before he coaxed it into existence? There are dots all over the black-maned horses and curving over the shape of their backs, some of the dots are red like blood. There are strange hook-like marks and six hands in the mural. Two of them are over each animal - a left hand over the left horse and a right hand over the right horse. It does not seem the least bit random.

What was the purpose of this art? Was it related to religion or animal worship? Were these men experimenting, or playing, or praying for a good hunt? Why the strange stenciled hands and red dots? Were they teachers or shaman? Why did they choose a canvas so far underground when archaeologists all now agree that "cave men" never actually lived in these deeper caves? Some of the work is very rough and childish, while others paintings are incredibly lifelike in their detail, almost sophisticated, especially with that conscious use of the contour and texture of the rock.

Perhaps the men drawing on the wall may have had no other motivation than simply communicating what they witnessed, dreamed, imagined, but it still speaks to us on a mutually human level. Even if, as some experts surmise, their art was solely for art's sake, we know in our bones that it had to mean something. Were they the poets of their time before written language existed? With all of modern science at our disposal, we know when; we know how; but we know not why.

The primary plan for the rest of the day was simply a scenic loop drive up along the Cele River Valley with a stop in Figeac for lunch, then west down the Lot River Valley home. It was only about 60 miles total and it was a beautiful day. There was hardly anyone else on the road in this comparatively remote countryside.

In fact, our first stop of Marcilhac-sur-Cele was a veritable ghost town -- in that good, secret, misty morning way. The tiny town of less than 200 people is in a pretty spot, tucked within a circle of cliffs, but it was the abandoned 9th to 11th century Benedictine Abbey I had really come to see. I'm a sucker for romantic ruins and it did not disappoint. We were the only people in sight as we tiptoed through the arches and around the broken columns and crumbling walls of this ancient sanctuary on the edge of the river. Actually, I doubt this place is ever overrun with visitors at all. It felt like a special discovery and brought back fond memories of a peak experience we had at Minster Lovell in the Cotswolds three years before, but these ruins are far older. Carolingian sculptures, Romanesque capitals and "newer" medieval frescos from the 1500s are some of its jewels. It was at one time one of the most powerful abbeys and even controlled Rocamadour at one time. Like many places in this region, things changed with the Hundred Years War and the Revolution finished it off for good.

There can't be more than three or four streets in all of Marcilhac. We found a restaurant filled with leaves floating down from a shady pergola, brushed off chairs and sat down. They were not yet open for lunch and we only wanted coffee, but the ladies running the place sweetly relented and served us anyway. I can't imagine they ever get much business and we were out of there before anyone else arrived.

As one follows these parallel valleys, surrounded by cliffs with the river and road in between, there is a picturesque village or perched castle around nearly every corner. The whole scene, rugged, lush and humble, seems impossibly pretty and untouched by time.

Our next planned stop was up a few miles up the road at Espagnac-Sainte-Eulalie. It is an attractive town, but we decided we were able to see it just by a quick drive through. Phil was eager to reach Figeac, so we could park the car and relax a bit before looping back the other way.

I had heard many good things about Figeac and we did like it very much. With a population over 9,000, it seemed quite big to us after all the tiny hamlets we'd been through. The town dates to the 9th century and its city center still retains many very attractive cobblestoned streets and houses from the Middle Ages through the Renaissance. The styles include pointed arches, arcades, tiled roofs, porches propped on pillars, covered passageways, carved coats of arms and the decorative wooden patterns of colombage that remind me of a giant tic-tac-toe game where all the circles have been erased.

We had zero problems getting into town and parking across the river. As soon as we walked into the main square of Place Vival, we saw an outdoor cafe on our right called La Monnaie, so we grabbed a seat. It was a very good lunch, though I still say the food in the Dordogne is better. I started with foie gras and Phil had a salade de gesiers for the first time, which he liked so much that he ordered it every chance he could get over the next several days. It's a specialty of the Dordogne/Lot and, yes, it features duck gizzards that have been preserved in their own fat (confit). For some odd reason, I can't bring myself to eat it and yet I don't hesitate to eat duck and goose liver in the form of foie gras. I realize it's nonsensical. At any rate, the French have an uncanny ability to make anything taste wonderful. I don't recall our other dishes, but I know we were more than happy.

Using the toilette was a little different. There was only one room with a door. As you follow the sign, walk past the kitchen and turn left, you have to pass the men's urinals with gentlemen, um, in attendance. I suppose that's better than letting them pee on the walls.

After lunch, we loosely followed a town walk I had adapted from the Michelin Green Guide. The Tourist Office also has a self-guided tour called "Keys to the Town," so we would often see those markers at various points along the route. There were other visitors, but most people seemed like locals. A lot of the walk just entails wandering certain streets that are known for their interesting houses. The Eglise St-Sauveur is quite nice and the Eglise Notre-Dame-du-Puy on the top of the hill has great views from its terrace. Figeac is not too touristy, very handsome and well worth a visit. Two thumbs up.

One cannot leave Figeac, of course, without mentioning the town's famous son, Jean-Francois Champollion. He was the one who deciphered the Rosetta Stone and he also founded the Egyptology Museum at the Louvre in 1826. There is a museum in Figeac named for him. The place des Ecritures in Figeac also has a giant replica of the Rosetta Stone in black granite that was installed in 1991. It's about 23 x 46 feet and you can walk on it. Very cool.

We didn't stop much in the Lot Valley on our westward return, but we enjoyed the drive immensely, weaving through doll-size villages, each clinging to the skirts of a high chateau. We pulled out at a couple of lookouts over the river to take pictures. A spot near Saujac is called the Saut de la Mounine (meaning Little Monkey's Leap in Occitan). The viewpoint is over the river toward Montbrun Castle on the other side. The original rock of that name fell sometime in the last 20 years, but the site is still associated with one of those utterly ridiculous medieval legends: When the Lord of Montbrun discovered that his daughter loved the son of a rival lord, he told his men to throw her off the cliff. A hermit monk who lived in a nearby cave took pity on the girl. He put his pet monkey in the girl's dress and threw it over the edge instead. When Mean Monsieur Montbrun saw his "daughter" falling to her death, he had a belated change of heart. Upon learning she was alive, he completely forgave her. No word on what happened to the hermit monk, but this was obviously before the advent of PETA. Also, it technically seems to me that it should be called Little Monkey's "Toss" as it was a completely involuntary movement.

Just before crossing the river back to Cabrerets, we drove up to the Cenevieres Castle for a close-up of the 13th century chateau in such an idyllic setting. The Dukes of Aquitaine have had a fortress in that spot since the 8th century. The subsequent medieval castle was then remodeled during the Renaissance. One of the lord's sons had become Protestant and joined Henri IV in the 1580 Siege of Cahors. There is a story that he stole treasures from the cathedral in Cahors, including the altars, but the boat carrying the pillaged items sank in the river on the way to the castle. The interior of Cenevieres is available to tour, but we were all content at that point and reluctant to overload such a blissful day. There was packing to do and we wanted to relax in the B&B's garden before one of Magali's wonderful gourmet dinners.

The day simply felt ephemeral. The cave, the atmospheric abbey ruins, the rugged cliffs and languid rivers, even the medieval streets of Figeac were cumulatively such a positive encounter that I had a sense of contemplative calm for hours. Even while it was happening, there was a sharp knowledge that of course the moment could not last, but that awareness itself heightened the day. Long after such feelings of well-being ascend into the dusty attic of memory, they have a lingering effect on our subconscious, the sustained background notes of a peak experience.

I was thinking that night, about all of the pieces of work we had seen over the past few weeks - from the cave drawings to the sculptures at the Louvre, from the Roman bridges to the ruined abbey. They are all pages torn from the story of man. Francis Bacon would have called them, "remnants of history which have casually escaped the shipwreck of time." Their existence now transcends their origin.

Perhaps the most essential element of art is that it multiplies perspective. It pulls the abstractness of concepts and memory out of one man's mind and lays them at the world's feet. It transforms feelings into touchable, tangible things. Like the boy who left his footprints in the mud 10,000 years ago, an artist, a writer, an architect can thus step outside of time and surpass his own existence. This history of human experience is a river that creates and recreates its own reality as it moves. Our common understanding and our individual search for meaning are never in a straight line; but there are bends in this river where we catch glimpses of what has been or could someday be again, as individuals and as a people.

Edmund Burke said, "Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing." I wonder if the primitive painters on some level grasped that thought as they crouched by the light of their torch and breathed life into the art of being human.

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winnick

sap,

Glad to see you got back to your report. Your pictures of Figeac are great. You must be a real history buff. It really adds to the enjoyment of reliving that trip.

FrenchMystiqueTours

As you know I'm a huge fan of ancient history so thank you for the very descriptive tour of Peche Merle. I've explored some of the places you went but didn't manage to get the cave onto my agenda at the time. Figeac is indeed lovely and there are some decent megalithic sites not far off from it but I think I'm the only one interested in such things. I relate to that feeling of basking in the ambiance of the fleeting moment even though you know it's a moment that will vanish into memory at days end.

sap

Actually FMT, I am interested in megalithic sites, but I think I would need to spend more time in an area to really be able to give them the in-depth exploration they deserve. I know there are some dolmens in the southern Lot, in the Minervois and in Les Alpilles in Provence. Brittany is also high on my big bucket list.

TDudette

ttt

sap

DORDOGNE DAY 1 - THE NEEDLE, THE STAR AND THE WEDDING
Saturday 6/25/11

Bonjour and bonne chance. It was a lovely summer day in southwest France.

Our transition from the Lot to the Dordogne was linked by the last of the fortified castles. We found Chateau de Bonaguil to be trés romantique and had a delightful wander around the half-ruins. We liked it as much as the Dordogne castles we saw later in the week, perhaps more. In 1908, Lawrence of Arabia described it as "so perfect that it seems ridiculous to call it a ruin."

The "Bonne Aiguille" (Good Needle) was built on a rocky outcrop in the 13th century by knights from nearby Fumel; modified and expanded in the 15th by Baron Jean de Roquefeuil; and then fortified to the max by his son Berenger, a paranoid jerk who felt the need to defend himself from his own people.

Helen behaved remarkably well all day and proved quite useful. Though we followed some incredibly narrow minor roads through the woods and over hill and dale, a constant map check showed that her directions echoed the route I had outlined. Our only difficulty was finding a manned gas station, which was as elusive as ATMs and coffee in these rural parts.

It took 1 ½ hours to reach Bonaguil and we probably arrived about half an hour from its opening, but there was still only a smattering of other tourists. It was definitely worth the €7 apiece, but not if you're looking for displays and hands-on activities. This visit is all about observing the construction and decay, soaking up the atmosphere and climbing for the panoramic tower views.

By the time the Berenger de Roquefeuil inherited the castle in the 15th century, it had been in his feudal Fumel family for over 200 years, despite the fact that they were usually allied against the King of France. (They oft supported uprisings and backed England during the Hundred Years War). Berenger was evidently a perfectly terrible person. He was remarkably wealthy and had inherited multiple other properties and titles, but he was mean, nasty, vindictive and worried about peasant revolts as much as his enemies. He spent 30 to 40 years fortifying Bonaguil's defenses and amassing weaponry, which all proved completely unnecessary as no power from above or below ever showed the slightest interest in bothering with it.

In some karmic sins-of-the-father thing, Bad Lord Berenger's descendants lost much of their wealth, property and influence over the following 200 years. The castle began to fall apart from neglect. Other nobles throughout the country were beginning to convert their own fortresses into Renaissance pleasure palaces. A wealthy local widow named Marguerite de Fumel bought the property in 1761 and did try to fix the place up for a time. The Cadogan Guide anecdotally describes it as a "white elephant" that "changed hands for 100 francs and a bag of walnuts."

The castle was ceded to the town of Fumel following the French Revolution and became one of that era's many victims after its owner fled the country. It was stripped and demolished, including the removal of roofs and some of the floors. By 1861, Bonaguil was classified as a national monument after France had regained its sense and sensibility. Excavations, maintenance and restorations have been conducted in stages ever since.

Passing through Bonaguil's main gate, we entered the barbican and crossed the bridge over the moat to the main courtyard. The English brochure we received at the entrance included numbers and descriptions to follow a self-guided tour and there are corresponding signs to mark the route as you move along. The boat-shaped Donjon (keep), the stunning views from its top, the Lord's Apartments and the Grosse Tour (great tower) were all very interesting to us, in addition to the well sunk 157 feet deep through the rock. One of the towers has an unusual spiral stone ceiling, which the printed guide described as "an architectural treasure." Another room has interesting medieval graffiti on the walls that has been painstakingly preserved.

The impressive, round Grosse Tour is 115 feet high and crowned with corbels. It appears to have been a focus of recent restorations. Climbing its spiral staircase, we saw children's artwork on display, portraying their interpretations of Bonaguil. It was very sweet. Unfortunately, their little paintings were interspersed with ugly, bright modern art chairs and twisted sculptures that were a jarring contrast to the archaic walls.

There were two restaurants in the village at the foot of the castle's hill. We spent some time debating both lunch menus and Les Bons Enfants won the vote. The food was surprisingly delicious for a village seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The pretty young waitresses were as charming as the setting under the giant oak trees on the large open terrace. You couldn't beat the view up to the chateau, either. When we were leaving, we asked where to find the nearest attended gas station, which is a must since we don't have chip-and-pin credit cards. The girls tried to help, but then sent over a freckled, ginger-haired British waiter who told us our best bet on a Saturday afternoon was down to Fumel, a bit out of our way, but not too far. He was very friendly and, when he found out we were from Silicon Valley, he warmed up even more and animatedly discussed computer games with Joe for a while. Our teen had been somewhat moody all morning, so this perked him up. I think he felt a little homesick after three weeks on the road and was missing his friends.

On our third attempt, we found a supermarche station in Fumel that actually had an attendant before 2 pm. Just half an hour later, we were pulling into Monpazier for a cup of coffee.

Meaning "peaceful hill," Monpazier is frequently described as a perfect example of a bastide because it still retains all the features of the set plan for this type of fortified French town. It is quadrilateral with parallel and transversal streets that create a grid plan divided into rectangular compartments. The main square, Place des Cornieres, is surrounded by houses built between the Middle Ages to the 17th century. Arcaded galleries called "couverts" run under the houses facing the square and there is a large 16th century market hall to one side.

The afternoon was rapidly growing warmer and I had instead decided on iced tea for my caffeine injection by the time we entered the town walls through the arched gates and found a seat at a cafe in the square. There was a wedding reception being held in the market hall on the other side and we were in an ideal position to watch the charming scene and listen to the band while we relaxed. To our delight, a small boy from the wedding party, sporting a straw hat and sunglasses, began to kick a soccer ball around the square. "I feel like I'm in Italy," said Phil as he tried to fit the active little guy into his camera lens. "I really like this town."

The child was soon joined by a little girl and another boy. They all held hands and walked around shyly as the wedding photographer worked hard to get some shots himself. They looked like they had stepped straight out of an antique photo, complete with pink watercolor cheeks.

In 1952, a travel writer named Freda White aptly described Monpazier as a "drowsy yellow cat slumbering in the sun" and it still feels that way today, though things were much less sleepy during its first few hundred years. It was founded by Edward I of England in 1284 and played part in the usual tug-of-war between France and England until the French at last gained control in 1594. No sooner had that era of strife ended then the Peasant Revolts and the Wars of Religion took their toll. One of the rebel peasants (called croquantes), was a guy with the beefy name of Buffarot. He led a mob of 8,000 on a famous pillage & plunder of the local castles. When the 16th century rioter was caught by soldiers, they brought him back to Monpazier where he was tortured and broken on the wheel right there in Place des Cornieres where the wedding party was dancing. No plastic bullets or water cannons for him.

I could have stayed in that sweet spot under Montpazier's shaded arcade for hours, but we had to push on to Beynac-et-Cazenac where we were supposed to meet our greeter in the late afternoon.

We were now fully in what the Romans called Aquitania, though the residents go back at least 17,000 years to the primitive cave artists of the Perigord Noir. The known succession of power carries through the Celts, Romans, Vandals, Visigoths and the Franks to the feudal duchies of the Middle Ages. Aquitaine held out long after other regions had been swallowed by the French crown. When my 32nd Great-Grandmother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, married Louis VII the corresponding unity of serious land mass looked promising for the French. (My rather ignoble descent stems from a bastard born of her feckless son John and his cousin Adela de Warenne.) When Eleanor left Louis for the handsome young Henry of England, all hell broke loose for some hundred years. She was a figurative Helen, launching a thousand ships, though I often wonder how much claret and cognac played a role.

Specifically, we were heading to the Perigord Noir mentioned above. The French prefer to think of Dordogne as part of the larger Perigord region, divided into four sections, which they have characteristically color-coordinated: the Perigord Vert with its rivers and green hills; the Perigord Blanc with chalky limestone; the Perigord Pourpre with its wine; and the Perigord Noir, featuring walnuts, forests, castles and prehistoric sites. The entire region is known for its fabulous cuisine. It's no wonder the clever British still flock here in droves, which must annoy the French to no end. One could be forgiven for thinking that the Hundred Years War still continues on a more subtle, serene level, but the tourism is a big part of the economy. Perhaps it's a mutually happy truce after all.

A couple of miles before crossing the Dordogne River, we drove through the medieval village of Belvès, where we were charmed and mystified by the streamers of paper flowers hanging across the streets. We assumed it was related to a festival, but I've read something since that makes me wonder if this is a permanent fixture, at least in the summer.

The only minor glitch of the day occurred after we pulled into Beynac's lower parking lot. I called the property manager as directed by the detailed instructions from the Utah-based owners. I was relieved when she spoke English well, but then she told me that someone else would be meeting us with the keys and taking us to the apartment.

We stood by the car for 20 minutes as the thermometer steadily crept to three figures Fahrenheit. Finally, a short, animated brunette about my age approached us chattering loudly in French patois. I have rarely heard anyone talk so fast. She had a French version of a Bronx accent. It was fascinating. Come to think of it, she did look just like she'd just stepped out of Little Italy in New York. She was about as far removed from a Parisian as one could imagine.

I could only understand about every third to tenth word she fired like a machine gun, but I doubt that I would have had much more luck if she spoke English. She could see that we didn't fully comprehend, so she spoke even louder and faster, accompanying her steady barrage with wild hand signals. Apparently, she had been looking for us for some time. "Boubladaboublada-VOUS CHERCHER-HAUT-EN-BAS," she yelled as she swept her arm up and down the parking lot. To calm her down and get business rolling, I smiled, patted her on the arm and nodded my head repeatedly, chanting, "Desole, desole." Phil told me later that he thought it was a big mistake because she believed that I understood her. I did eventually get the gist and she seemed to like me; though, when she produced the key, I just wanted to grab it from her and run.

It took at least another 20 minutes for her to lead us the short way up to the gorgeous apartment, show us every single, tiny, obvious detail and finally leave so that we could use the bathroom, unpack and move on with our lives. She repeatedly showed us where the towels were, how the locks worked, etc.: " Boubladaboublada-CLE-boublada-PORTE-boubla-COMME CECI. . .ICI. COMPRENEZ-VOUS?"

I felt like I had just been verbally trampled by a horse, but I said, "Oui, oui!" and vigorously nodded my head. I had only the smallest clue, but I was desperate to get her out of there.

As I practically slammed the door in her face and ran to the bathroom, Phil asked, "Why did you tell her you knew what she said?" I called back, "Because I'll figure it out anyway." And we did. The owners left perfectly detailed instructions about everything they could think of, including how to operate the combo dishwasher/stove/oven and the washer and dryer. Unfortunately, Mme. Bronxois had left us only one key and we knew there were supposed to be two. It was for the outer wooden shuttered part of the double-layered door. I didn't want to deal with her again, but it shut just fine all week and the house was secured without it.

Our apartment was fabulous. Really, really fabulous. It was by far the best place we'd stayed all month and I could just live there permanently, though more than three or four people would seem crowded. The beautifully decorated little 15th century house filled with antiques has three floors. The central and bottom floors each open onto a different street as the path curves around the house on its way to the chateau. The structure juts out into the cobblestones like Cahors into the Lot River. The top floor was a suite that Joe had entirely to himself, including a large bath, sitting area, a four-poster bed and a smaller trundle bed in an upper attic "loft" if one had an extra child. The middle level contains the main area with the dining room, living room and kitchen. The bottom floor was more recently dug out of the basement. It has another bathroom, with one side retaining its stone walls like a cave, and a good-sized bedroom with a large armoire. The bath is larger with a great modern shower including massage jets, so I chose this as the "master suite." The Wi-Fi was flawless, too, for the first time since we left Paris. We were able to get a pass from the mayor's office that allowed us to park in the upper town lot just a few steps away. Here's a link to the equally excellent website for La Petite Maison: http://www.beynacvacation.com/Sites/Site_3/Photos.html

[At one point later that week, I was watering the flowers on the front porch and I looked up to see a small group watching me with their cameras poised. It dawned on me that they were waiting for me to move so they could take a picture of the house and I sheepishly stepped over the little stone sill back into the kitchen. We were literally living inside a tourist attraction from a postcard.]

That night, we went to dinner in neighboring La Roque-Gageac. I had reservations at La Belle Etoile (the beautiful star).

La Roque-Gageac is a strangely-built town. The lower strip of houses hugs the narrow road parallel to the river and the rest of the village rises up the cliff in tiers. It is so steep that you cannot really see the town from the road. It's like sitting in the front row of a monstrous movie theatre, trying to crane your neck while traffic whizzes by mere inches from your back. I have heard that these lower houses are vacated in the winter months when the Dordogne is prone to flooding.

I knew from pictures what La Roque-Gageac really looks like from a distance, but Phil couldn't see what the big deal was until the following Friday when we were on the river. As he saw the view from our canoe, he stopped rowing and said "Wow! It is pretty nice!" (That's high praise from Mr. Taciturn.)

The town's first cliff-dwellers built stone houses here in the 10th century and there is also a 12th century troglodyte village built into the recessed rock. The main town we see today was constructed in the Middle Ages, but it has naturally been a victim of repeated rock slides. In more recent times, there was a big rockfall in 1957 causing severe damage and another just last summer in 2010.

I had planned to climb up into the town before dinner, but Phil and Joe were reluctant to do so. The temps and humidity were still very high and the boys had changed into slacks and long-sleeved shirts for dinner. They sat on a terrace while I walked up to see the unusual little tropical garden tucked into the temperate zone created by the warm limestone, but I also began to feel oppressed by the heat and came back down. I didn't want to enter the dining room dripping with sweat.

La Belle Etoile was terrific. We were seated on the shaded terrace with views over the river. I ordered the walnut wine (vin de noix) I had been so eager to try as an aperitif, but it was a little sweet for me. (I later learned that I prefer the vin de pêche.) As usual, I don't recall what we ordered, but I know it was from the full set menu and included duck and foie gras, along with an amuse bouche before the meal and another before dessert. I think I may have had chicken with truffled risotto. Phil recalls that we tried a Bergerac wine for the first time, which we liked as much as the Cahors, though the Rhones remain our fav French style. Needless to say, we probably looked like a trio of ducks waddling down to our car by the river.

Bonsoir and bonne chance. It had been a lovely summer evening in southwest France.

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kerouac

You clearly had a great time in the area. Bravo for your report!

justretired

SAP, I am truly enjoying your trip report, and, as you know, We are leaving for the region in a couple of weeks. Your history and attention to details is wonderful and I will be adding your notes to my files before we leave.

We are still trying to sort out our schedule, including how much time we want to spend traveling west (and south) to Pech Merle, Rocamadour, Padirac, and the villages north of these areas. I think that Pech Merle is a "must," and I also think we should take another day to at least visit Rocamadour and a few villages. We are staying in Sarlat for 2 weeks, deciding not to go into the Lot on this trip (there's always another trip, right?), but these areas seem doable. Any thoughts about how to organize these days?

Again, thanks for such a detailed report. It will be so helpful during our vacation.

TDudette

OMG, your Beynac apartment is gorgeous. How cute to become a part of someone ELSE's memory book! I always got a giggle when I took shots of someone doing something pedestrian-why is it so special in another country? LOL.

Great report.

kansas

Wonderful report and so interesting! I had been wondering how Joe was doing, away from home and friends for so long. He sounds like a real trooper, though!

I may be jumping ahead here, but did you take a Gabarre boat ride, and, if so, did you buy your tickets ahead of time, on line?

Can't wait for the next installment...

Michael

<i>I have heard that these lower houses are vacated in the winter months when the Dordogne is prone to flooding.</i>

My understanding is that this is a thing of the past. The reason why the Dordogne is clear while the Vézère is muddy is that the Dordogne is controlled by a series of dams that allows the mud to settle in the lakes behind them.

twk

Another Fodor's user stayed at this house in Beynac while we were in town (staying up hill a goodways, closer to the Chateau than to the lower village). It was kind of funny to see all the tourists passing and gawking at the place you are staying.

sap

Thanks to all of you.

Kansas: We actually did a gabarre (also spelled "gabare") ride the next day and I'm writing about that now.

Justretired: Rocamadour, Padirac and the nearby villages (Autoire, Carennac, Martel) can easily be combined, though something might have to give if you spend a lot of time in one particular town. We did all that in one day (an upcoming report), but didn't actually visit Rocamadour -- just took a picture of it from the L'Hospitalet viewpoint on the way to Padirac.

Pech Merle is great, but it is your geographical outlier. You said that you don't want to head into the Lot, but it is certainly in the Lot. From what airport are you leaving? If you're flying out of Toulouse and time allows, you could visit Pech Merle in the morning on the way there. Keep in mind that you really must reserve Pech Merle at least a month in advance as they have timed visits with a limited number of tickets. If you're leaving in just two weeks, that could be a bit iffy, though it might be easier in September. Some tickets are held for last-minute purchase, but you might not want to chance that if you're going out of your way to see it.

On the other hand, if you wanted to combine Pech Merle with the Rocamadour region, you would have to reduce your plan to compensate for the added drive time. I recall that most of the cave visits should be allotted at least two hours (esp. Padirac). Personally, I think you might be better saving Pech Merle for your future Lot trip.

Haven't clicked on your name to check, but do you have a loose outline for such an Eastern Dordogne day? The Fodorites are pretty expert at analyzing proposed itineraries.

It'll be later in the week before I get to the report about our Eastern Dordogne day, plus there are some recommended towns we missed, or didn't fully experience due to time and energy constraints. I had a tough time narrowing it down and we agreed that we still need to go back a couple more times to fill in the gaps.

The Michelin Green Guide and Stu Dudley's description of those towns from the Dordogne portion of his private guides were my best sources, other than Fodor's itself, of course.

StCirq

The paper flowers you saw in Belvès were left over from this year's félibré. It's held in a different town each year.

If you don't know what it is, happy googling!

sap

Thanks, St.Cirq. The announcement I uncovered says it was 1, 2 et 3 Juillet this year, so the streamers must have just gone up for the following weekend. Looks like fun. Too bad we were already heading toward Toulouse on the 1st via another route. I like the fact that they were honoring women as the theme this year.

It's amazing to me how long-standing these rural traditions & festivals are. So many date back to the Middle Ages. They're absolutely embedded in the culture -- just another thing to love about Europe.

http://felibree.jimdo.com/

winnick

StCirq, thanks for the Felibre information. We had first seen the flowers in Montignac, and then in Belves, and found it interesting that two different villages would do the same exact thing. I spent this morning as you suggested, Googling, though I had to Google the specific town and Felibre to get it to describe the detail, and Montignac apparently celebrates on the first Sunday in July. That description warned of possibly having 30,000 people in town to celebrate. Sort of shows why you might need to research holidays and celebrations if you want to have a quiet visit.

nwtraveler

Thank you for the wonderful trip report. I am really enjoying it and love the historical information. The information will be very helpful for my trip next year. Can't wait to read more.