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Published: October 24th 2012
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Drifting down the Dordogne, the banks giving hints of Autumn colour. A yellowing green here, an orange tree there, flaming red bushes or cascading Boston ivy on the buildings as you pass under the bridge at Le Buisson.
Limeuil had been a great find. Calm and peaceful overlooking the incredible medieval buildings piled up the hill we sited the Bongo along the river bank.
The town itself was a bit disappointing, quiet beyond belief with doors and shutters barred. A few tourists wandered around looking for entertainment but mostly – there was none. A small cafe at the base of the cobbled street leading up to the gardens served basic takeaway food and endeavoured to serve the passing trade for coffee and cake on a terrace taking in the two arched bridges over the confluence of the Dordogne and La Vezere.
Peter, the Englishman who had lived here for 22 years took us up river to St Cyprien where we started our 18km paddle. He was wondering what this winter would bring. The past year had brought temperatures of minus 20, the coldest he had experienced.
But now
there was an indolence to the river, giant catfish mooching alongside the streams of water weed, people quietly walking dogs instead of the sound of splashing children. Summer was definitely over and we were lucky to find a warm day for our water adventure.
A gentle sussuration warned of impending slight rapids enough to cause bubbles and a few canoe bottom scrapes and an increase in blood pressure for me!
Pebbly banks beckoned. I could feel some 'wild swimming' coming on although in my case it was more 'wild standing'. The goose pimples on my knees set up a chain reaction and I retired to the stony beach to wrap myself in a towel.
So; a sniff of Autumn in the air, time to reflect on the past year, a warning of the few months left to us to enjoy our freedom. Freedom from the daily work grind, freedom from a routine. Our journey, like the kayak paddle, slow and stopping to spot the trout, in this case catfish. A total recharge until the next time we have a grown-up gap year.
****
A red
squirrel scampered across the little lane we were driving along in search of another campsite and then another. The second spotting this year; the first in the Lake District, me incredulous, never having seen one in my entire life as the grey had encroached upon their English territory years ago.
I sit and await a cremated dinner. Perhaps this is why I cook. I'm not sure that a barbeque is supposed to flame and burn all to buggery as my Fulham-born grandmother would have said. Still, I withheld judgement and kept my thoughts to paper until the mackerel was cooked. Such a doubting Thomas. The flesh was perfectly cooked and although the veggies were not the best I had ever tasted, Hugh FW espoused mackerel was the best eaten on our own in a scrubby campsite above the Lot valley.
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trish
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happy paddling..
Meryl is looks lovely and peaceful