Michael

<i>Out of some cruel perversity, Jean heaped more indignity upon Therese's corpse. Insisting that such a woman did not deserve a proper tomb, he walled her up in the room that had already been her living catacomb.</i>

and this has been presumably verified by ...?

sap

Gasp! I'm shocked, shocked to find that the legend of Dame Blanche might not be true!

Seriously, you can't possibly be serious. (During your fine-toothed combthrough, you did catch the part of my report where I had to suppress a giggle, right?)

I hate to break this to you, Michael, but I highly doubt it's verified at all. You need to lighten up and get a little perspective on this. Some "history" is clearly fictionalized. Are you telling me that you believe in ghosts?

In this case, I'm merely reporting a cute story told by the descendants of the castle, probably to drum up more tourists. While it would certainly be interesting to know what event led to the family tale -- and I'd hazard a guess that there was some sort of source event -- I doubt it's something that could be traced. If the family wanted it verified, they would long ago have torn the walls of the room apart, but that would risk their income. Instead, they mention reports of ghost sightings by guests. Do you think we should alert the authorities that they could be frauds?

Questioning the veracity of the Montbrons' story is missing the point, which is that the silly legend is part of one's visit to Puymartin. (I have read that Comte Xavier often admits that it was his father's favorite story that he is now retelling.) If you have a problem with the tall tale and want to conduct your own ghostbusters investigation, I suggest you contact the Comte de Montbron. He seems to be a sweet man, though, so I'd hate to see you pick on him.

While you're at it, you might want to raise the alarm about all the chateaux in the Loire who also claim to have a Dame Blanche. It's a popular French legend with many variations.

Michael

Jumilhac has a similar story, I don't recall hearing such stories in the Loire valley.

nwtraveler

Hi sap

Thank you for the all the information and taking time to write it all down. I am particularly interested in the history books as I love to read and history is one of my favorite subjects. I agree with FMT, your writing is worthy of publication. It goes beyond recitation of a list of facts and reads more like a novel.

castlevisitor

What a fabulous report. It reminds me of our 2009 trip to the Lot and Dordogne river valleys, and gives many additional places for me to look into next time. The history and resources are wonderful. Thank you for taking the time to post such a detailed and also entertaining report.
Anne

CaliNurse

Sap, i'm enjoying your report. We LOVED the castle at Beynac . Arrived late one dreary cold evening in early June (such diffeernt weather from yours) and had the place virtually to ourselves!! Wonderful. The place you stayed...wow.

100% know what you mean about the paintings in Font de Gaume.I may have written on FF, to not expect them to look like those postcards!! We must've had a different guide.Our was tall, spoke English, but was a bit too spiritual! Or maybe he WAS the same fellow, and what i took as spiritual, was just a spaced-out look, lack of understanding questions in English

About missing Les Combarelles. When you return to the Dordogne, unless it is right on your way, i wouldn't recommend a detour. Howevre, your husband might enjoy it as a cave, as you walk pretty far into it. The etchings themselves took LOTS of imaginatin to "decipher" Daughter actually enjoyed it more than Font de Gaumes, but i didnt "get " it.

ON the other hand, i'd love to go to Peche Merle some time, esp'lly combnined with a stay at the b and b mentioned by one Fodorite, right against the cliff.

Thanks for sharing your knowledge/

sap

Thanks all.

Michael, dahling: You really do remind me of my husband. I am beginning to suspect that you may be in the same profession.

CaliNurse: That B&B you just described could well be the one in Cabrerets against the cliff where we stayed. I first heard about it on Fodor's (and Trip Advisor), too.

After we take Joe out for a birthday sushi lunch, I'll be back to writing Dordogne Day 6 (featuring Padirac). Hope to have that posted by Mon.

TPAYT

Bookmarking and saving this to read with a glass of wine later.

CaliNurse

When is Joe's birthday? Younger grandson just turned ten on Sept 14th. Lucky boy--Sushi for lunch!!!! Bon anniversaire de naissance, Joe!! Bon anniversaire of parenthood to you and DH, Sap
.
You make me want to return to the Dordogne some time, Sap. Now, if i can just find a chauffeur...Daughter vowed never again to drive in the French countryside!!!!

The B and B near Peche Merle is Le Jardin dans la Falaise in Cabrerets. Is that the one? looks "incroyable"!!!!

StuDudley

>>By the way Stu, we visited the Gourmet Corner and Weimax last Saturday & liked both. I drooled in front of the truffle case for a minute, but refrained as I still have to put a couple more kids through college. We did buy a trio of magrets, though I haven't yet decided how to cook them. I'm considering something with plums and Armagnac. Any favorite recipes?<<

We just returned from 2 1/2 weeks in London - where I purchased magrets from Selfridges and prepared my favorite magret recipe while at our apt. I do this same dish about 6-8 times a year at home in the US and at least twice each year while we're in France.

Magrets & cassis are common commodities in France. You can purchase them both at any grocery in France. We've done so around 30 times. We had to "export" our own cassis to London. Cassis in this recipe is also called blackcurrent syrup. It is NOT creme de cassis that you can easily find in liquor stores in the US. Monin brand cassis/blackcurrent syrup is NOT a good brand to choose - it is too weak (use it in salad dressings). We also use in cassis to make kirs (Woodbridge Chardonay as the wine), which we have been drinking almost every evening for the last 30 years. We also have kirs at our gites & apts in France. I use Routin 1883 Cassis/Blackcurrent in the US. I purchase it by the case from Creative Drinks in Los Gatos , Ca 408 374-6537. They may only sell it to you by the case (6), but ask them about retailers. In France, there are other brands - but after 12 years of experimenting with cassis in France, we prefer Routin 1883.

Magret de Canard with Cassis sauce

For 2 people

5/8 cup Sirop/Syrup de Cassis. This is very hard to find in the US. In France every market has it. It is not the Creme de Cassis that's alcoholic. The Syrup is non-alcoholic and you can probably find it in France in the section of the store that has Coke, 7-up, etc. It comes in a 750 ML or 1 liter container that is either glass or metal. Cassis is also known as Blackcurrent syrup. There are other flavors of syrup - peach, Blackberry, etc.

1/2 Cup Red wine vinegar

1 Cup Normandie Cream "Entiere" (full fat). This is not normally found in the refrigerated section of the store in France. It comes in a container that is just a little fatter than a pack of cigarettes. It has a red (or it may be blue) plastic screw top & is often shrink-wrapped in a set of 2 to 4 containers per. It does not need refrigeration, until it is opened. You'll probably need 2 containers to get 1 cup (use the rest in your coffee).
In the US - use normal heavy whipping cream

2 Magrets. You will probably have some left over. For 4 people, we buy 3 magrets. In groceries in France, they are usually found in the refrigerated section next to the chickens. Some are larger than others. Get the larger ones. Sometimes they are packaged 2 to a "shrink-wrap". Most outdoor markets in the Dordogne will have them also. They will be about the size of a normal US "New York" steak - about 3/4 to 1 lb.

Pour the Cassis & Vinegar into a sauce pan & reduce to 1/2 to 3/4 Cup. Don't reduce it too much or it will turn into hard candy (this happened to me once).

Score the skin of the Magret with a knife - making 2 sets if diagonal cuts 1 inch apart. This will give you diamond shapes in the middle of the duck. Do not cut through to the meat - just barely cut the skin. Salt & pepper both sides.

Heat a non-stick skillet/saute pan to med hot

Put the Magret on the skillet, skin side down. You do not need cooking oil - the fat will be rendered enough to make the oil. Cook 7-8 minutes on the skin side. If you get a real fat magret, you may need 9 minutes. If you are not using a non-stick skillet, move the magret around every 1-2 minutes to make sure it does not stick. You will probably have to remove the skillet from the heat mid-way through cooking to drain the duck fat from the skillet.

Turn the magret over & cook 4-5 minutes on the flesh side. Add another minute if the magret is large. It will plump up quite a bit while cooking.

Remove the magret, keep warm by covering with a plate or tin foil, and get all the fat out of the pan & wipe the pan clean with a paper towel.

Return the pan to the flame & pour in the cream & reduce to 1/2 to 3/4 cup.

Pour the reduced Cassis/vinegar into the pan with the cream & whisk a bit to blend. Reduce a tad if it's too thin.

Cut the magrets into 5/8 inch slices, put on plate, and spoon the cassis sauce over the top.

Stu Dudley

Travelnut

aww..... wonder if the remainder of the travel report will be told....?

sap

Well -- I didn't say which Monday, did I? Yikes, but never-ending loads of work have kept me from what I'd rather be doing.

Stu: That looks like a fab recipe, but half the battle may be in tracking down the ingredients. We ended up going with a cherry/port reduction, but I'll print your detailed notes out for next time 'round. You really do appear to be a talented gourmet chef. Thank you very much!

Okay, and away we go. . .

sap

DORDOGNE DAY 6 - IN FENELON'S WAKE
Thursday 6/30/11

On the other side of happy and barely awake, Joe peered down from the stairhead, "Do I have to get up this early? It's only 7:00 a.m."

"Get moving!" Phil called up. "Your mom wants to be out of here within the hour." And he lifted a creamy white bowl of blood-red strawberries. The morning offering. Tiny and luscious with a scent sweet enough to lure a blind man down the stairs.

We knew that our journey would lead us further and wider as we explored the eastern Dordogne valley and so we needed to begin our venture early, not knowing what follies might come our way or cause delay. As luck would have it, the only trouble was in the beginning. The travel gods must have felt indulgent on that particular day.

The Dordogne lies in two halves on either side of the A20, one looking west and the other east. From the volcanic Auvergne, the river flows past many a medieval village, witness to man's story on its perpetual journey toward Bordeaux. Beyond the renowned vineyards, it meets its sister Garonne and empties at last into the wine dark sea.

I planned to cross the Dordogne at Carsac and follow the river east on the D50 past the Chateau de Fenelon in Sainte-Mondane. The 14th century, lauze-slated fortress had been the family home of Francois Fenélon, the Duke of Burgundy's tutor who wrote the Telemaque, published in 1699. It fascinated me that this local lad who became an archbishop could so cleverly twist a Grecified tale of Ulysses' son, Telemachus, into a message of morality -- a treatise on the practical simplicity of a humble soul struggling for an ideal existence. The Son's quest for the Father.

Helen did her best to screw up our own quest that morning. Our first main goal was to wend our way to east to l'Hospitalet for a morning view of Rocamadour. I figured we could either continue straight and cross the A20, or head south to Gourdon and then bear left. I let Helen choose the latter route, but she then lost her bearings along the way. Not only did we give up trying find Fenelon's castle, but she continued to route us south after Gourdon. Letting her do this was a big mistake. We were on the D6 for some time, but I was so preoccupied with the dream fields and misty forests out my window that I failed to heed the warnings in my head until I saw signs for Catus. Good god what had happened? We were nearly at the Lot River! Furious at Helen and myself for blithely letting her steer our ship so far off course, I ignored every one of her instructions until we found our way to the A20 and headed back north. By the time we reached l'Hospitalet, it was nearly 9:30. We had lost at least 20 minutes, but had to admit that in truth it had been a lovely drive.

The meditative mood that had settled upon me earlier that morning when we were drifting off course still affected my thoughts as we stared down upon Rocamadour embedded in the belly of the cliff. The light was soft and cool, perfect for pictures, but I longed for other perspectives. Even the best view is limited by one's fixed position. The ancient pilgrimage site seemed so small and far away. From up here, I felt like a giant. Reaching into the valley, I could cup the rock in my hand. An optical illusion like those tacky photos of tourists holding up the tower of Pisa. I had the urge to pluck Rocamadour out of the earth and turn it in my hand to examine each facet from every angle. The church, the castle, the penitents' 216 knee-worn steps. What did they look like from the other side?

Rocamadour. Of the rock. In the rock. Body and blood to stone. A sort of transmogrification. The mummified body of a hermit was found here in 1166. The legend is that it was Zaccheus of Jericho, the inn keeper whose wife, Veronica, had wiped the face of the cross-carrying Jesus. God only knows how or why the Palestinian could have found his way to the middle of France, but the story is that he built a sanctuary in the rock and lived as a hermit. The locals called him "Amator" due to his loving devotion. He died in about 70 AD. Tradition has it that Zaccheus/Amator had brought a black statue of the Virgin Mary with him and built a shrine to her in the rock, but the Black Virgin there today dates to the 9th century.

When medieval miracles were reported in connection with Amator's tomb and the Black Virgin's shrine, the site gained notice. The Benedectine monks designed a complex of churches around the Cult of Mary, conveniently on a pilgrimage path to Santiago de Compostela, the Way of St. James ending in the Field of Stars. The tale was that the dust rising from the pilgrims' trail created the Milky Way. The medieval pilgrims themselves were perhaps the one's being milked en route by hoaxes, forgeries, falsifications and scams. "Scoopfuls of cream for a christian brother." Welcome all! Come see Our Lady of Martyrs, the beacon of hope lighting the way for progressive pilgrims on the Son's perpetual quest for the Father, seeking solace and salvation. Minds washed clean through the Blood of the Lamb.

For Fenelon's mother, the Black Madonna was indeed the Lady of Hope. Frustrated in her attempts to conceive, she paid a visit to the shrine at Rocamadour and, so it is told, her beloved Fenelon was a result of those prayers. Another story has it that she again visited the Madonna with the infant Fenelon to have him healed when he was ill.

Hundreds of years later, the village of 600 still sees 1.5 million visitors each year. We didn't go down there this time. It was nearing mid-morning and the tour buses would be arriving in force. We would be swallowed by crowds sacrificing their wallets to souvenir vendors and postcard pushers. Modern day cannibals. Nope - no sanctuary there at this hour, but the orange roofs clinging to the rocky spine looked peaceful from this safe distance.

It was time now to journey into the underworld. Gouffre de Padirac was well-signed, easy to find, like Hell itself. They don't take reservations, but we lucked out with no lines at the ticket booth at 10:00 a.m. (9.40€ each). There is no guide at ground level. One simply follows the human flow. A narrow silver column of elevators and stairs takes visitors down the 325-foot-wide chasm some 338 feet below. After the first elevator landed, we climbed down the rest of the way on the clattering metal switchback steps, feeling like we were descending in Dantesque stages through the bowels of the earth.

Until the 19th century, the locals truly did think this was a hell hole. The legend is that St. Martin was traveling along, minding his own business, when his mule stopped dead in its tracks. Suddenly, Satan appeared with a sack of souls that he was taking to Hell. Apparently, St. Martin agreed to a deal with the devil. If the mule and his monk could surmount any obstacle the devil put in their path, the souls could be saved. Satan then stomped the ground with his foot. The earth cracked and the ground opened into a wide chasm, but the beast and his saintly burden cleared the gap. The enraged devil jumped in the hole, presumably leaving the souls behind.

Through most of known history, the chasm was actually an empty well where locals sought refuge during times of war (apparently willing to risk a meeting with Satan over the real, live devils raging and waging above). In the late 19th century, a torrential flood in the underground river broke through a wall in the chasm, revealing the cave's underground galleries. Explorations began in 1892 and tourists were welcomed by 1898. Nearly 14 miles of passages and rooms have been revealed and it is now known that the river emerges above ground seven miles away.

We followed a path at the bottom of the stairs leading under the rock overhang into the cave. Still no guide. No Virgil to lead the way. Just a line of bleating sheeple to blindly follow. As the passage became darker, everyone grew quiet. There was only the sound of a hundred echoing footsteps. And water - at first dripping and then gurgling in a steady flow as the stony path followed a widening stream. The passage opened into a room where we divided into groups of eight or so and climbed into flat-bottomed punts, each manned by a guide who talked as he poled. This was the River Plane; but, as Phil whispered, "It's just like the River Styx."

Our Charon ferried us through a narrow passage lit by recessed lights embedded just above the water's surface. Everything had a strange, blue glow. We were sitting in the front row and could barely hear or understand the flow of disembodied French coming from the back of the boat. I wondered if Joe and Phil felt the same sense of social isolation as the laughter echoed off the limestone walls in response to our punter's unknown jokes.

It didn't matter. It was a fascinating ride. No language needed. The narrow channel opened up into the Lac de la Plui (Rain Lake). Straight ahead was an enormous stalactite, the Grande Pendeloque, hanging 197 meters from an arched vault of rock. Our guide poled past the formation through the arch as water drops sprinkled down on our heads. Joe giggled and gasped. "Wow, Mom! This is so cool!" Yes, so beautiful. The Elysian Fields, Land of Joy, the Fortunate Wood. The surrounding columns did look like a forest of creamy orange-gold trunks with vertical, swirling lines of bark.

We embarked at another dock and waited in line for someone else to take us further into the cave on foot. We lucked out again with a great guide, who moved the handful of English-speakers to the front of his large group so that he could talk to us separately in English throughout the tour. Our first stop was the Lac des Gours (Crater Lake), a series of terraced pools, dammed by snaking limestone rims. It looked almost man made, like the wacky concept of some avante-garde celebrity landscape designer. From the pools, we entered the incredible Grand Dome and crossed a bridge over the Lac Superieur. The cave ceiling in this great chamber is over 300 feet high. Water flowed past us from the glowing lake down a steep, wide waterfall as the river continued into the unlit recesses of a tunnel to our right. How many miles of passages lay beyond? We were not allowed beyond this point. I wondered what was down there and thought of Tartarus. The deepest region of Hades. The Titans' prison.

We climbed steep stairs to the top of the dome and the upper level of the lake, surrounded by walls of lace and undulating folds of swirling limestone like the chiseled pleats of a hundred fallen Roman statues whose bodies had dissolved inside their clothes. Phil was entranced and I had to admit that it was really some of the most unusual formations I had ever seen, too. I half expected to see poor Yorick's skull tucked into one of the recesses. The guide pointed out the strange "stacks of plates" perched precariously at the edge of the lake. They looked more like stacks of dripping jellyfish to me.

We then climbed yet another flight of steps and the walls again closed around us like flowing stone curtains at the back of a subterranean stage. Down another flight of stairs, I heard lapping water and distant voices again. We rounded the corner and found ourselves back at the 2nd dock, where the same punter took us back down the watery alley toward the entrance. I wondered if the polemen liked their sisyphean job. Pushing back and forth. Back and forth for hours. . I imagined being stuck on the boat in this tunnel if the lights suddenly went out. Screams instead of laughter would be echoing against these walls. A claustrophobic's nightmare. I glanced over at Phil, who usually hates closed spaces. He had a big smile on his face. Clearly not a problem for him. In fact, Padirac was not only a highlight of the day, but of the entire trip.

Nearby Autoire was the planned lunch stop, but the Auberge de la Fontaine was closed for one of those random Gallic reasons. We wandered down a street west of the fountain toward the river. Ah-hah. Another restaurant: Creperie de la Cascade. We halted in front of the menu posted outside and stared at the possibilities. Crepes and galettes, sweet and savory. An incredible list of what they could do with those things. Smacking his lips, Phil noted that there was of course the ubiquitous duck salad. A man came out to tell us that they were running late and wouldn't open until 12:15. A matter of minutes. Pas de probleme.

We strolled the streets while we waited; peeked inside the dark, silent Romanesque church smelling faintly of incense. The facade was decorated with carved stonework depicting human faces. Were they portraits of former residents? The hollow, staring eyes and gaping mouths were more than a little creepy. Hypnotized? Surprised? Struck dumb in a blind frozen scream for 500 years.

We then walked back east up the hill to the back of the tiny town. The population was just over 300, but only a smattering of residents could be seen beyond the windows - a hint of shadows moving behind the walls. We were soon joined by a creamy white dog with ginger spots. His floppy ears hung down like flat, orange-yellow flower petals. Greeting us with a silent sniff, he immediately moved to the front of the pack and took charge. Our friendly escort tramped silently on his fat, padded feet as we meandered through the sleepy town. He would look back from time to time to make sure we were still following. Such strangely intelligent eyes, almost human. We passed those sweet, half-timbered houses that I like so much, the dark caves of shuttered shops and brown toasted roofs under the peaceful shadows of the towers. There were a lot of pretty fairytale turrets. Hitting the edge of the postage stamp town, we turned and walked back down the path along a curving stone wall. It was a beautiful day, the kind that seems almost luxurious under the narcotic sunlight. A perfect temperature, lukewarm like bath water. And the softest, breathy breeze. Effleurage on bare skin.

I caught a whiff of some delicious honey smell, slightly intoxicating and growing closer. My stomach rumbled. The dog plopped down on the sidewalk in front of an open door, smiling the way dogs do. Satisfied but secret. Wait, the mysterious scent was coming from that house. Flowers? Fruit? No it was heavier, oily and waxy like a candle. I noticed a fat man in shirtsleeves framed in the doorway, squatting on a rusty chair. Straw fedora. Beeswax polish in an orange tin under his seat labeled "Abeille." That was it. The tin was covered with a damp rag, a working man's perfumed handkerchief. It was odd how the man did not move; did not speak; didn't even look at the dog. He was staring straight ahead at something, someone in the darkened room. The dog, too, stared straight ahead, right past us into the empty street. This was another twilight zone kind of place a la Francaise in the middle of the day.

As we approached the restaurant, I could smell the sizzling butter, such a soothing connection to comfort. We were seated on a covered upper terrace overlooking the river and valley. The food was deeply delicious in a simple, but decadent kind of way. The fragrant purple moutarde violette that enhanced my salad had been steeped in grape must. It made the baby lettuce bloom. The galettes were warm and soft, delicate and velvety. The wine we ordered was smoky and floral with good mouthfeel. It was a long and languid lunch, the idle, pleasant kind of escapism that had been in short supply on this energy-intense trip. As we ate, we watched a toddler at another table with gold curls and a wide, happy mouth. She kept cooing and reaching for more crepe with eager eyes. I could relate to that.

Suddenly finding it hard to keep my own eyes open, I stared dreamily across the valley that had once contained vineyards. I knew that they had been destroyed by phylloxera and the fields were now planted with groves of plum trees. The dark, meaty fruits would be growing ripe and ready for market and festival by the second week of July. After a three-course meal, I was feeling rather plump and heavy myself and had to force myself to sit up straight. If I didn't summon the willpower, I could spend all afternoon sinking like a stone into the bottom of my glass.

Ahh, but even lotus eaters must eventually shake off their lethargic reverie. With yawns and long sighs, we tore ourselves away from the utopic lunch in Autoire, mentally slapped our cheeks and hit the road.

Making a left onto the D135, we passed in and out of Loubressac on the edge of a rocky spur. Below the village is a steep, breathtaking view down to the River Bave and, beyond that, the whole valley stretching to the east. Two sister castles are practically a catapult throw from each other down there: Castelnau-Bretenoux and Montal. I think Montal has the better story. A crazy-proud mother built a palace/mansion for her favorite son while he was away on crusade in the 16th century. When every stone was in place, every flower planted and fountain gurgling in anticipation, she began to wait. And wait. Watching from her window, she was finally met with only a messenger carrying a parent's worst news. She ordered the window blocked and had carved beneath it the epitaph to unfulfilled patience: "Hope is No More." Meanwhile, her second son, presumably the less favored, was relieved of his sentence to the church and ordered to carry on the family name instead. I imagine this change of events alleviated his own grief somewhat. The proof in that pudding is that he reportedly had nine children.

Eventually, the cruel winds of fortune blew Chateau Montal into the hands of a man with the sinister name of Macaire. After the Revolution, he gutted the palace and sold it piecemeal at auction. In 1908, a dedicated new owner made it his magnificent mission to find and restore all of Montal's treasures, though he was forced to do so at exorbitant prices. More amazing still, he then donated the castle to the state in 1913. What a guy.

Seven miles northwest, we reached Carennac along the Dordogne River. We parked off the D20 on the edge of the village. Affected by the somnolent nature of the day and a crepe-filled belly, Joe decided to stay in the car to take a nap.

Fenelon's uncle was the prior of Carennac and he later succeeded in the role. Word is that the village has barely changed since his day, beautiful and forever young. Like so many villages in the region, it was practically deserted. The 15th and 16th century houses of ivory stone, many half-timbered and featuring balconies, form roughly concentric semicircles around the Church of St. Pierre and its pretty courtyard. Before we found the church, we stopped at a small park with some sort of memorial cross. Another block down was the river and the tree-covered Calypso Island, named for a chapter in Fenelon's story.

On our left was the medieval chateau with attractive corner turrets, but it appeared to be undergoing some serious restoration work. I guess being forever young means having a little facelift now and then. On the other side of the castle, we passed through an arched portal into the priory courtyard and were immediately struck by the beauty of the 12th century carved tympanum over the church's porch depicting Christ blessing the 12 Apostles. The Gothic portions of the church may date as far back as the 10th century, but much of it was supplemented and restored in later periods in the Romanesque style, particularly the lovely columns and capitals supporting the porch.

Further down the little road that hugs the river is the unusual, multi-windowed Telemachus Tower overlooking Calypso Island. Here, Fenelon wrote his mystical morality tale emphasizing serenity as a means to perfection.

I just loved this magical spot and didn't want to leave. If sleepy Joe hadn't been waiting back at the car, I think we could have wandered under Carennac's spell for a good hour more.

The last day's stop on the circuit home was Martel with its seven towers about half an hour west. Phil was a bit dubious about visiting yet another village. We really were pushing the pleasure envelope and breaking the travel formula, but I argued that it was "on the way, anyway."

Between Carennac and Martel is the Puy d'Issolud, a high point on the plateau which historians argue was the site of Uxellodunum, a hill fort that hosted the last resistance of the Gauls against Caesar. The Romans ultimately succeeded in their siege by diverting the water supply, causing the Gauls to think that the gods had forsaken them.

Martel is another yummy French town with yet more creamy stone houses and cinnamon roofs. With a population over 1,000, this popular place is certainly no village. We were lucky to find parking and the afternoon tourists were elbow-to-elbow in full swing.
The town was named for Charles the Hammer. The fictionalized tradition has it that the town sprang up around a church that Martel himself had built on the spot where he at last defeated the Saracens. The town's heraldic shield does in fact depict three hammers, but its founding was more likely related to its favorable position along the east-west trade route. Even Martel's own website admits that the legend has now been "totally discredited." It was the seat of the powerful Viscounts of Turenne and the local court of appeal, reaching its zenith by the end of the 13th century. Along with the machicolated towers and ramparts, many of Martel's best features are the townhouses built by wealthy merchants and magistrates.

We parked in the large lot along the D840 and entered la cite medievale between the post office and the Tournemire Tower, a former prison. A left on rue du Four-Bas took us to the 13th-16th century St-Maur Gothic/Romanesque church, which looks more like a defensive castle. In fact, its bell tower once served as one of the town's watchtowers. The Eglise St-Maur features another one of those lovely carved tympanums -- almost Byzantine - and some really nice stained glass.

Looping back to the city center on rue Droite, we passed several nice townhouses, more towers and the Maison Fabri where the eldest son of Henry II of England supposedly died in 1183. (This bugs me: I have found several references to that oldest surviving son as Henry "Short Coat" or "Curtmantle", including on Martel's own website. In point of fact, Curtmantle was the nickname for the father, Henry II, and the eldest son was called Henry the Younger King as Henry II had named his eldest son co-regent before their 10 years of bitter estrangement.)

The history of Henry II and his namesake is a tragic, but classic tale of Daddy Issues. The king's plan had long been to divide the inheritance of his territories among his three oldest sons, Henry, Richard and Geoffrey. (Only John was excluded, hence his nickname, "Lackland.") Apparently, the trio just couldn't wait for daddy to die and spent years chomping at the bit. Their frustration was encouraged by Henry's frenemies, including his own wife, Eleanor, who had apparently grown to despise him. Ah-h-h, what's bred in the bone. Nothing like a dysfunctional family with political power.

Henry the Younger's conflict with his father really began 10 years before his death when the three oldest boys joined in a rebellion against Henry II in 1173. They were egged on by the Kings of Scotland and France, as well as several English barons. One must keep in mind that Henry, Jr. was reportedly a charming and talented man, if a bit arrogant. There seems to be no doubt that he was well-loved in his time and many were eager for a changing of the guard. The eternal conflict between past and future. (I suppose people were still a little bitter over that Thomas Becket thing, too.) At any rate, the family battle was an ugly scene that lasted 18 months. The king's vulnerability was exposed; he was losing support right and left; and his own family had turned against him. The tough old brute kicked butt anyway.

Whether out of parental love and regret, or to quell another uprising from the spoiled royal brats, Henry subsequently increased the boys' allowances. Alas, the seeds of mistrust were sown nonetheless. If Henry's plans had been a tad secretive before this had happened, one can imagine how close he held the cards for the remainder of the game.

The Revolt had also affected Henry the Younger. He had tasted the possibility of greater power. Surely, he was seeking something separate and distinct in his struggle with authority and his own identity. Being a prince waiting in the wings must have given him one heck of an inferiority complex, a brooding lack of purpose. To be or not to be passive. . . active? By 1183, he was in debt from his extravagant medieval playboy lifestyle and had reached some sort of breaking point. An impatient bitterness had superseded his grip on reality. He demanded that his father give him control of Normandy. When daddy said no, he courted the barons in Aquitaine, ticking off his brother Richard in the process since he had crossed the lines of inheritance. Henry II evidently tried to appease the unruly youth to no avail. Junior actually tried to attack his father in Limoges. Oops.

The King of France and Brother Geoffrey joined Henry the Younger, but their cause failed again. Yes, it was weakness and pride, so often the source of undoing. Where was Fenelonian when you needed him? His tale of Telemachus' lessons in patient humility came 500 years too late for our boy. Of course, Handsome Henry didn't just want to follow in his father's footsteps. He wanted to knock him down and run on ahead.

And here is where history and legend overlap in a fascinating way. Henry the Younger threw a royal temper tantrum and went on a plunder-fest to pay his troops. He wreaked havoc against several local monasteries, including Rocamadour. After robbing the shrines, he fell into a fever. One can just imagine how the medieval mind construed that as punishment, but pretty boy in fact had dysentery. He sought refuge in Martel and had a message sent to the king, requesting a truce and asking him to come for a final visit. For some reason, his father was a bit hesitant and didn't believe his wily son was actually on his deathbed, so he sent the Bishop of Cahors instead. Clinging to life, the prodigal one gave a penultimate confession, a last prayer for forgiveness. The Son's quest for the Father. For salvation. This time, Henry evidently started to wonder if something really might be wrong. He agreed to come and sent a messenger ahead with the news, but the king did not arrive in time. He was apparently overcome with grief when reports of his son's death arrived. Some sources report that he fainted three times. Until the end, he must have wondered if it was a ruse. What a ghastly way to learn you're wrong. Last but not least, amor matris played its own classic role in this sad scene. The legend is that Henry the Young King died with Eleanor's name on his lips. He was 29.

Just up the street from the legendary site of this story, we entered the Place des Consuls where a shady 18th century market hall sits atop big stone pillars. We sat down to rest in front of the Hotel de la Raymondie, first built in 1280, but renovated to a Gothic mansion a couple of hundred years later. This was the fortress of those Viscounts of Turenne. The town's coat of arms decorates the attractive facade. It now contains the Museum of Uxellodunum from the excavations of Puy d'Issolud. Layers of history upon history. The dust of countless footprints. Now, that's what I find humbling.

Later that night, I lay awake thinking over the day. The wake of passing days. We were nearing the end of the voyage. The month of hours that had at first seemed like a sea of possibility now only existed in ever-bleaching, leaching memory, pixels, ink. The reality had drained out of our cupped hands faster than we could drink it. To roughly paraphrase the inimitable James Joyce, the act of being was becoming a mere collection of scattered experiences recorded on green oval leaves. Swept and swirling, fading. Only for the briefest of moments are we ever able to “hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.” It is useless to clutch at something so fluid. Time is wind and waves. Some push against it, some float awhile on their inflated egos. Others stand passive and wait. Still it flows under, above, around us, on its way to somewhere else.

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sap

P.S.: Just a hint at Phil’s suggestion, but one’s perception of my little story for Dordogne Day 6 might be enhanced like my moutarde violette salad if you’ve ever had the dubious pleasure of reading Joyce’s odd ugly duckling, “Ulysses.” The sub-references, like a mirror in a mirror in a mirror, of course include Hamlet and Homer. (I threw in the Fenelon and Dante part to add to the confusion because the historical, literary and geographical tradition fits.)

Perhaps I’m weird, but it makes it more interesting for me personally to wade through these memories and record them as something above the daily fray, yet true to our actual experience. Everything everywhere ultimately connects in this world and it’s sometimes cool to draw the lines between dots. With that in mind, if some of it seems too subtle, stretched and attenuated in this particular part of the story, I can say with a straight face that it’s part of the Jocyean tribute and it’s okay. More fun that way. (Note that I may use sentence fragments, but I refuse to stoop to his total stream-of-consciousness lack of punctuation!)

You’ll probably notice that every one of the 24 trip days so far has its own little lighthearted theme. Admittedly, Fodor’s is an odd forum for this kind of thing. . . but hang with me. We’re almost done.

Upcoming (but hesitate to promise when): The last day in Dordogne on the river and probably a combo entry for the two final schizophrenic trip days in Toulouse. Thanks, all! I love this place.

Michael

<i>A crazy-proud mother built a palace/mansion for her favorite son while he was away on crusade in the 16th century.</i>

It sounds like the son was desperate to get away from his mother, because the last crusade took place in the 13th century.

sap

Good morning, Michael. So nice to see you again. Were you waiting under the bridge for me to cross?

You are correct and that was a good catch. My use of the term "crusades" was absolutely wrong and must have come from my brain's left field. (The pre-travel notes I was culling don't even say anything about crusades.) Mama's boy was supposedly fighting for the Renaissance warrior Francis I in Italy at the time, circa 1534.