Notes from the Perigord 3
Apr 2nd, 2004, 10:40 AM
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Notes from the Perigord 3
I tried the Autocorrect thing - hope it worked.
I *sleep in* this morning, until 7:45, waking to a wall of fog. As I open the shutters, an enormous hawk sails right by my window, so close I can see the outlines of every feather on his burnished brown-red belly before the fog envelopes him again. A Medieval Moment and a strange start to the day.
I'm going to market today, but not until the fog lifts, so I dawdle around, make coffee, take a long shower, make the bed, select a yellow market basket. When I can see out my window down to the valley, and there are only patches of fog along the river, I set off for Le Buisson, a short ride away. I've never been to Le Buisson market before, but I recognize a lot of the vendors who make the usual rounds in these parts. *MY* Cheese Guy isn't there (I'll see him tomorrow), but there are two cheese vendors - the Dutch woman with the spikey-heeled boots, leather miniskirt, and Ab Fab Patsy updo with a black leather thong tied in it is there, but she sells only Gouda - Gouda with cumin, Gouda with caraway, Gouda with this and that - and I haven't traveled all the way to the Perigord for Gouda. I need me a demi-sec cabecou! I find one easily, then fall prey to a Maras strawberry attack and buy a barquette of those and two clementines. *MY* Spice Guy is there, and fresh from a trip to Madagascar, so I load up on pink peppercorns and dried ginger flakes, coriander seeds, teeny dried hot peppers, and a dozen little tins of saffron. A young girl has a stand with a sign saying "Canadian Cookies," which intrigues me, so I accept her offer to taste a morsel. "Dog biscuit" comes to mind, but she is sweet, and I pay her 1 euro for one cookie, which I do indeed feed to Nestou's dog later in the day. My last purchase is two pots of pop-in-your-face-purple Marguerites, which I will plant in the two big pots framing the staircase down to the terrace.
The clouds are lowering and spitting rain now, and I'm not eager to go home and sit indoors or do yardwork in a rainstorm, so I decide on the spur of the moment that I am going to go on a Romanesque Church Tour combined with a Roads I've Never Traveled Tour, just to make it challenging. And that is how I find myself in tiny Cussac, a picture-perfect Perigord oasis if there ever was one, trying to resist the urge to pull the huge bell-rope right inside the entrance to the church. Fortunately, as I stand there, the bell booms out all on its own, announcing that it's 11:30, and practically knocking me over. The church is a classically proportioned Romanesque beauty, well kept up and with fresh flowers on the altar and new candles for lighting. It has simple flower-shaped carvings on the floor that intrigue me. The stained glass appears modern, but is understated. Every house in Cussac is boarded up, and not a soul is about. One could make off with a truck full of antique chairs and other items from this church, but that's the observation of an American cynic, not something that would ever happen here.
In Allas, which is also strangely deserted, I find the twin to the church in Cussac, though minus the bell-rope. There is such a paucity of priests, and probably a paucity of parishioners, in the Perigord that Mass is held on a circuit, and every church has a schedule on the door. The local priest travels from Belves to Cussac to Allas to St-Genies to St-Cirq to Le Bugue and so on, so that Mass is held only in your own parish perhaps once every two months. Weddings and funerals, of course, are held when they need to be held wherever they need to be held.
For good measure, I drive through Cadouin to revisit the Abbey there, but it's under construction and closed. I wander into the only shop that's open, a specialty food store featuring both local and Basque products. The young patronne is very apologetic that the store isn't in order, but she's just had an operation (she's limping) and is way behind in getting the shelves stocked. She hands me a price list so I can see what things cost, and after some banal banter I leave with a tin of foie gras de canard, some Basque veal and pepper stew, some hot pepper sauce (Omigod it's hot!), and some walnut bonbons.
It's still raining and I'm famished, so I stop at the Cafe de Paris in Le Bugue. I'm about to indulge myself in the first bread I've had in four months, so this is a huge, huge moment. I order un Hot Dog - you know, those French Hot Dogs, the foot-long wiener inside a baguette smothered in mustard and Emmenthaler? Words cannot describe my bliss. I have to resist licking my fingers.
Back home, however, I determine that something strange must have happened to my digestive system in the past few months. Despite my iron stomach reputation, I'm not feeling so good. Was it a bad Hot Dog, or can I just not handle carbs anymore? I busy myself cleaning out armoires and closets to contribute to the vide-grenier on Sunday, and despite not feeling great am vastly amused at what I find. The renters' detritus includes: a brand new set of Tarot cards, a pair of blue Keds, flannel sheets, a gold-lame miniskirt, numerous airline giveaways, a package of Betty Crocker white cake mix, Russian mystery novels, a European computer keyboard, several baseball caps, a Princess Cruise t-shirt, eight boxes of playing cards, a blow-up pillow, and three pairs of boxers. That plus all the stuff we've hidden away here over the years that we don't need anymore fills 4 large garbage bags. I hope the local schools make some money from it.
Done with my chores and still feeling a little queasy. I contemplate the unthinkable, something I have never done in my entire adult life, something so shameful I can barely type the words - take a nap. Checking first that there is no one anywhere near the property who might catch me in this compromising position, I tiptoe up the stairs, close the shutters against the melancholy rain, and fall into bed. Two hours later I emerge re-energized and the sun is blazing over the valley.
It's so pristine and beautiful after the rain that I decide I must go take photos, so off I go on a circuit through Le Coux and St-Cyprien and St-Vincent-de-Cosse and Beynac and back through Les Eyzies. In Beynac, the moon is positioned right over the castle while the sun still shines in the background. The early evening sun and the glint of rain on everything makesfor beautiful compositions, though I have few photography skills, so we'll see what we end up with. I'm back home by 7:45. The Basque stew I bought in Cadouin is uninspiring, but it doesn't bother my digestion. By 9:15 night has fallen, with an almost full moon, and as I write the screech owls are calling to one another.
I *sleep in* this morning, until 7:45, waking to a wall of fog. As I open the shutters, an enormous hawk sails right by my window, so close I can see the outlines of every feather on his burnished brown-red belly before the fog envelopes him again. A Medieval Moment and a strange start to the day.
I'm going to market today, but not until the fog lifts, so I dawdle around, make coffee, take a long shower, make the bed, select a yellow market basket. When I can see out my window down to the valley, and there are only patches of fog along the river, I set off for Le Buisson, a short ride away. I've never been to Le Buisson market before, but I recognize a lot of the vendors who make the usual rounds in these parts. *MY* Cheese Guy isn't there (I'll see him tomorrow), but there are two cheese vendors - the Dutch woman with the spikey-heeled boots, leather miniskirt, and Ab Fab Patsy updo with a black leather thong tied in it is there, but she sells only Gouda - Gouda with cumin, Gouda with caraway, Gouda with this and that - and I haven't traveled all the way to the Perigord for Gouda. I need me a demi-sec cabecou! I find one easily, then fall prey to a Maras strawberry attack and buy a barquette of those and two clementines. *MY* Spice Guy is there, and fresh from a trip to Madagascar, so I load up on pink peppercorns and dried ginger flakes, coriander seeds, teeny dried hot peppers, and a dozen little tins of saffron. A young girl has a stand with a sign saying "Canadian Cookies," which intrigues me, so I accept her offer to taste a morsel. "Dog biscuit" comes to mind, but she is sweet, and I pay her 1 euro for one cookie, which I do indeed feed to Nestou's dog later in the day. My last purchase is two pots of pop-in-your-face-purple Marguerites, which I will plant in the two big pots framing the staircase down to the terrace.
The clouds are lowering and spitting rain now, and I'm not eager to go home and sit indoors or do yardwork in a rainstorm, so I decide on the spur of the moment that I am going to go on a Romanesque Church Tour combined with a Roads I've Never Traveled Tour, just to make it challenging. And that is how I find myself in tiny Cussac, a picture-perfect Perigord oasis if there ever was one, trying to resist the urge to pull the huge bell-rope right inside the entrance to the church. Fortunately, as I stand there, the bell booms out all on its own, announcing that it's 11:30, and practically knocking me over. The church is a classically proportioned Romanesque beauty, well kept up and with fresh flowers on the altar and new candles for lighting. It has simple flower-shaped carvings on the floor that intrigue me. The stained glass appears modern, but is understated. Every house in Cussac is boarded up, and not a soul is about. One could make off with a truck full of antique chairs and other items from this church, but that's the observation of an American cynic, not something that would ever happen here.
In Allas, which is also strangely deserted, I find the twin to the church in Cussac, though minus the bell-rope. There is such a paucity of priests, and probably a paucity of parishioners, in the Perigord that Mass is held on a circuit, and every church has a schedule on the door. The local priest travels from Belves to Cussac to Allas to St-Genies to St-Cirq to Le Bugue and so on, so that Mass is held only in your own parish perhaps once every two months. Weddings and funerals, of course, are held when they need to be held wherever they need to be held.
For good measure, I drive through Cadouin to revisit the Abbey there, but it's under construction and closed. I wander into the only shop that's open, a specialty food store featuring both local and Basque products. The young patronne is very apologetic that the store isn't in order, but she's just had an operation (she's limping) and is way behind in getting the shelves stocked. She hands me a price list so I can see what things cost, and after some banal banter I leave with a tin of foie gras de canard, some Basque veal and pepper stew, some hot pepper sauce (Omigod it's hot!), and some walnut bonbons.
It's still raining and I'm famished, so I stop at the Cafe de Paris in Le Bugue. I'm about to indulge myself in the first bread I've had in four months, so this is a huge, huge moment. I order un Hot Dog - you know, those French Hot Dogs, the foot-long wiener inside a baguette smothered in mustard and Emmenthaler? Words cannot describe my bliss. I have to resist licking my fingers.
Back home, however, I determine that something strange must have happened to my digestive system in the past few months. Despite my iron stomach reputation, I'm not feeling so good. Was it a bad Hot Dog, or can I just not handle carbs anymore? I busy myself cleaning out armoires and closets to contribute to the vide-grenier on Sunday, and despite not feeling great am vastly amused at what I find. The renters' detritus includes: a brand new set of Tarot cards, a pair of blue Keds, flannel sheets, a gold-lame miniskirt, numerous airline giveaways, a package of Betty Crocker white cake mix, Russian mystery novels, a European computer keyboard, several baseball caps, a Princess Cruise t-shirt, eight boxes of playing cards, a blow-up pillow, and three pairs of boxers. That plus all the stuff we've hidden away here over the years that we don't need anymore fills 4 large garbage bags. I hope the local schools make some money from it.
Done with my chores and still feeling a little queasy. I contemplate the unthinkable, something I have never done in my entire adult life, something so shameful I can barely type the words - take a nap. Checking first that there is no one anywhere near the property who might catch me in this compromising position, I tiptoe up the stairs, close the shutters against the melancholy rain, and fall into bed. Two hours later I emerge re-energized and the sun is blazing over the valley.
It's so pristine and beautiful after the rain that I decide I must go take photos, so off I go on a circuit through Le Coux and St-Cyprien and St-Vincent-de-Cosse and Beynac and back through Les Eyzies. In Beynac, the moon is positioned right over the castle while the sun still shines in the background. The early evening sun and the glint of rain on everything makesfor beautiful compositions, though I have few photography skills, so we'll see what we end up with. I'm back home by 7:45. The Basque stew I bought in Cadouin is uninspiring, but it doesn't bother my digestion. By 9:15 night has fallen, with an almost full moon, and as I write the screech owls are calling to one another.
Apr 2nd, 2004, 11:43 AM
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This is the earliest I've ever seen the Maras strawberries - they're probably grown in greenhouses in Vergt.I've never seen them in July, though. Strawberries are pretty much a May-June commodity.
Thanks again, Michael. I haven't seen that chapel yet - always something new to discover; that's one of the magical things of the region.
Thanks again, Michael. I haven't seen that chapel yet - always something new to discover; that's one of the magical things of the region.
Apr 2nd, 2004, 01:23 PM
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Thanks, Underhill. I've always been a writer, but the Perigord makes it so easy. There's inspiration at every turn. All I do is report on the mundane matters I do every day, and it seems magical to readers. Before I bought my house here, that is exactly what I was seeking, a place where the mundane became magical. And that's exactly what I have found.
Apr 2nd, 2004, 02:15 PM
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I think you wrote in your first installment that you didn't intend these as a trip report. I agree; they're not. Comparing most trip reports to your "notes" is analogous to comparing my photography to that of Ansel Adams. Thanks for sharing.
Apr 2nd, 2004, 02:35 PM
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StCirq: I agree that your notes about your trips to France are the best. Travel narratives are my favorite type of reading and I wish you would put your experiences in book form. My wife and I have been renting self catering cottages and gites in France and England for several years and we will be renting a gite in LaBussier Burgandy April 2005. We would also like to spend a week in the Dordogne
area and would like information on you property in St Circ. If you would prefer to send the information directly, you can e-mail me at [email protected].
area and would like information on you property in St Circ. If you would prefer to send the information directly, you can e-mail me at [email protected].
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