Motorhome News from Europe 2

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Motorhome News from Europe 2.

France. 15th September 2004
A Week in the Dordogne





There will surely come a time when the concept of this three-year journey will turn from holiday-maker to traveller, but it will take a change in the weather to tilt the balance. With temperatures in the high 30’s since our arrival in France, the prospect seems a long way off.

The Dordogne has welcomed us with its terracotta fields, drilled like corduroy behind the plough, the autumn sun filtering through chestnut and oak tunnelled roads opening suddenly on to rolling wooded slopes, valleys of maize and tobacco, and mellow stone villages perched high on distant hillsides. Fields of sunflowers bow their dark heads in sorrow now for the passing of a summer of a million smiles.

Sarlat la Caneda, at The Dordogne's centre, is the sort of place that you could have an affair with, full of romance and a warmth that glows from every stone in every building and every cobble on every narrow passage. It is a special place now that the tourists have gone, sun soaked walls festooned with geraniums, primrose tablecloths and gentle chatter over lunch at a secluded cafe and the chink of cutlery on fine china, tiny shops in narrow alleys purveying the local specialities, foie gras, wine and truffles. Janice was caught with a smile on her face here over lunch and a second glass of wine in the lovely walled garden of Le Presidial restaurant. She told me she was thinking about school dinners. Now, why should that make her smile, I wonder? We dawdled over our lunch in typically French manner, making it last almost the requisite two hours.

A chance conversation with a French couple revealed a genuine concern for the rising local house prices induced by the invading Brits and Dutch, and, somewhat unexpected, the changing face of religion towards Protestantism. The takeover of north Norfolk by wealthy Londoners and the flow of immigrants into the UK from Iraq, Poland and Serbia, India, Pakistan etc in recent years, and locally of course, Portugal, puts this into perspective.

Long lost memories of history lessons and films came home this week, back to the 13th / 14th Century picture book images of knights in armour, maidens in distress, The Black Prince and the 100 years war, when English Kings fortified their domain with Bastide towns here on every hilltop bordering the challenged territory. A number of these small and charismatic towns remain, guarded by high walls and turreted gates, with arched arcades around the central market square. Montpazier and Montflanquin, where we had afternoon tea, are mirror images with their narrow cobbled streets in grid formation.

Our evening dip in the campsite pool all to ourselves was followed that night by a magnificent thunderstorm, lightning flashing across the sky and thunder reverberating through the valley. We were to have storms on the two following evenings as we travelled the Lot valley, but it rained only once, in torrents for just a few minutes, bringing a welcome cool breeze in its wake.

The Cele river heads northwards, leaving the Lot at St Cirq Lapopie and the high road passes by Belaye, with wonderful views over a meandering loop in the river, a whole community locked in on three sides, a huge patchwork of vines and maize stretching to forested hills and chalk buttresses beyond. It’s no wonder that my little brother, Mike, loves this area so. Finding a campsite that Saturday evening proved to be a bit of a trial. Our first choice in the book was open ‘off season’, only on weekdays and the second choice inaccessible as the local agricultural market had closed the square - there were farmers, sheep, pigs and cows and market stalls in the most shambolic fashion everywhere!

The locals were out shooting birds in their hard hats (the locals, not the birds) on Sunday. It’s not surprising there are so few birds about. Significantly though, there are lots of sparrows. Doubtless these are the ones that have left England for the better weather, the pan tiled roofs and the improved cultural environment. Every small town has its neat park with tennis courts, swimming pool and football facilities, and a Municipal campground with immaculate toilets and showers. Why are they not vandalised like ours would be at home? Don't get me going on the cost of culture.

Our fuel gauge started flashing at around 12 o’clock that day. That’s the time when garages shut for the day; not that there are many around these days to shut. The supermarket sign-posted 12km ahead was closed, but the 24/24 sign gave hope of diesel to get us to our destination. We should know better by now; they don’t accept English debit or credit cards. So, it was camping locally for a restful afternoon catching up on reading, writing and photo editing, to await opening time the next morning, Monday. It did us both good to take light relief from the constant brain bombardment of new places and images for a while.

Full to the brim with diesel we headed next morning for Lascaux to see the cave paintings. Now, we would need cash of course to pay the small entrance fee, but, this is France and banks don’t open on Mondays! God bless the ATM.

Lascaux amazed us as we knew it would - after all, we’re lovers of art - and history, an explosive mixture. Sadly tourism has taken its toll on the actual Lascaux cave, but they have built a remarkable replica Lascaux 11, on an adjoining site for us all to goggle at. Whilst it is indeed a reproduction of the original cave, it is stunning for its sheer scale and artistic authenticity, taking us back across 17,000 years. Truly a touching experience in realistic surroundings, though the French guide’s English accent was unintelligible and a lot of information was lost. Two out of every three tours (in groups of 40) are in English they tell us, but then, this is France.

My daughter, Sonia, was due in Limoges the following day and we took the easy option of driving the free motorway north once again to meet her at the airport, camping for the night at Aixe-sur-Vienne. Sonia arrived early the following morning on a cheap flight from Stansted, bringing with her some light rain and her usual broad smile. It was good to see her and travel with her to meet her friends with whom she would be staying, who have bought a new home at Massignac, Charente, just west of Limoges. We learned that 25% of the children at the local village school are from England which raises the question of who is paying for their education and will they stay long enough to repay the debt. Were it not for the Brits here the village might soon become deserted and degenerate beyond repair, for the youth of today demands more from life than a tiny village can ever hope to provide.

If today’s break in the weather marks the transition from holiday-maker to grey haired nomad, we shall celebrate with a drink to your health and good fortune tomorrow, in St Emilion.





David and Janice
The Grey Haired Nomads

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Photos

Atlantic coast
A little relaxing golf

Atlantic coast
We'll wait for the wine!