rosé days

Leaving the Perigord. Our kind restaurant with rooms hosts do give us a ride to the bus stop and we leave our bags there by the stand and amble over to a café for the wait. I throw a glance at the bags and see that the café owner’s dog is sauntering over to sniff them out. Oh God, I know what’s next. Ed! He’s doing un petit pee pee on the dry sacks! Thanks, pooch.

Eventually the bus comes, we get on it and a half hour later we are in the connecting town of Sarlat.

The layover hours in Sarlat are pleasant enough. The medieval streets, buildings – all of it quite picturesque.














We walk up one street, down the next...












...trying to avoid the commercial heart, because all the foie gras stores eventually get to you. There is so much of the stuff here that you have to wonder – maybe we ought to ease up for a while on the geese and ducks and clear the shelves for a year or so. (I write this even as I admit to loving the taste of especially the cheaper one -- duck foie gras.)

The Perigord walnut makes an appearance as well, though less frequently. In ice cream or salads, on pastries.






We stop at the café that boasts great ice cream and spend a good hour there, reading, watching. A woman comes in with her dog. Not unusual. Lots of dogs are café regulars. But this dog is more than just French mollycoddled. She folds up a blanket and places is on the ground next to her. The dog steps onto it, stretches a little. The owner sips rosé wine and the dog dozes off in the warm, summer air.

It's getting close to noon -- our departure time. A few more steps through the old streets...












...and we turn back toward the train station where – gasp! – our bags are exactly as we had left them on the bench.

Our American English is overheard by two other travelers – from Oregon as well, only the real one – the state (my Post Office is in Oregon, Wisconsin). The coincidental similarities are reviewed and properly acknowledged. Similar ages. She teaches, he’s retired. He rode his old BMW motorbike to Central America, as did Ed. And so we continue in this friendly fashion for a while and I am reminded that if you ride public transportation, your chances of being closed off from the world are next to zero.

In Souillac, we find our car, equally unscathed, undisturbed. We buy bread for the road and I stop in at the pottery store I had admired before and talk myself into buying wee gifts for daughters back home.








We drive out and away from the Perigord (pausing for a roadside picnic lunch of the bread and a cheese -- made warm by the hot breezes that zip through our little car as we speed along with windows rolled all the way down).






And now we're back in the region of Languedoc.





But a bit north of Sorede and several dozen kilometers inland. I find a very lovely bed and breakfast, La Souqueto -- a double can be had here for 50 Euros (approximately $70) a night and the breakfast is so copious that you may as well count it as lunch, too. We're here for a two night layover. It’s a short walk from La Souqueto to the Canal du Midi and ever since my Pierrerue days five years ago, I’ve wanted to come back and take a look at the canal again, with my boat-oriented traveling companion.

No time to look on this day though. We get so lost and so turned around in local detours and small roads that it’s suppertime by the time we roll in to the small village of Mirepeisset.

We eat at the village tavern (called La Taverne) where on this night the mayor is hosting a small party. Mind you, the village itself is tiny. I have to think that everyone gets to be mayor at some point.

The food is wonderful. Sorry, but I am running low on adjectives for meals eaten on this trip. We both take the fixed price menu and my vegetable appetizer and seiche (cuttlefish) main course are dazzling.





As is the apricot clafoutis.





And the rosé... ah, the rosé ... Here, in the Languedoc, is where I first fell in love with this gentle wine. Because it is too pricey for me to have on a regular basis back home, I rarely drink it there. And so a glass of rosé will forever recall, for me, a way of life where pleasure isn’t spoken of in hushed tones. Where an afternoon break – a long one – is essential. Where an evening meal starts late and when it’s done, there’s nothing left to do but walk home in the faint glow of streetlamps, pull down the cool sheets and roll into delicious sleep.

the mighty Dordogne, continued

We’re in Sarlat now – a medieval town, large, plenty crowded compared to the villages in the Languedoc or even along the Dordogne. But, the day is sunny and quite pleasant and we are eating nut ice cream (the Perigord walnut!) and caramel and salt ice cream at a café facing the square, feeling quite content, in the way that one does when the more adventurous segment of the season is still vividly in one's mind.


 



We have a three hour layover here and we've left our camping gear on a bench at the train station – a good two kilometers away from Sarlat proper. That’s chancy. Someone may take these duffle bags packed with the boat and camping gear. But, we’re riding on luck this trip and besides, Ed tells me – if we're lucky maybe somebody will take it. Fewer bags to carry. Except for the tent (one that we love, but it is the cheapest one possible from REI and we’ve had it for a while now), there is absolutely nothing of value in our bags. I guess I’d miss my t-shirt with the swallows. It has accompanied me on every single camping trip since I met Ed. (See last photo from yesterday’s post).

It is almost always jarring to be in a civilized place after paddling and camping, except this time, we never quite left a civilized circuit. Though we would often paddle for an hour at a time and not see a single person or habitation (especially the first day, when it was cloudy), it wouldn’t take long to reach a point where we could disembark and order a viennois pastry (anything made of croissant dough) along with a strong and delicious espresso.

Nonetheless, there was a delicious dip into ruggedness. Our second day on the river began with misty waters and a lazy idling in sleeping bags. You go wash up first. No you. Maybe I wont. You should.  Okay okay okay...






Being well trained in the etiquette of mountain stream bathing, we lather up and rinse away from the water, but after, when I’m rid of soaps and such, I plunge my head into the river and watched the hair imitate the flow of the lily flowers we have encountered here. These:






By ten (yes, that late!) we paddle on.


 



But just a smidgen. Maybe a half hour. We reach La Roque, the very La Roque that appears to be the navel of all our comings and goings, separately and now together...






...and we step out of the boat so that I can enjoy that very espresso and Ed can have his “mille fleurs” (Ed, it’s mille feuilles!).





Back in the canoe. We pass the most noted medieval villages in this next stretch.


 



You’ll think these views would become ho hum after a while.







Not so. Not at all.







Because it is a sunny day, this is the stretch where we encounter other canoists. I, of course reach my competitive zenith and paddle hard to get beyond the dawdlers. And we do pass them, one after the next, but it is perhaps because they don’t want to paddle hard. They are in it for the joy of being on the Dordogne.

And here’s the thing: the delightfulness of life is never more apparent, more felt than when you are watching the water speed over multi colored pebbles of a river bed. I know that Ed is not just doing me a favor by repeating the trip along the Dordogne. The thrill of being on the river is his and mine, for as many times as we get in the boat and push off from the banks.






In the late afternoon, we pass three young adults paddling upriver in blown-up rafts.





If I remember anything twenty years from now, it will surely be this small scene: the two in front are paddling lightly, the one in back is leaning back, reading a book. What could be better than that? A serene handful of minutes, with  family, or a friend, drifting past the lush colors of early summer... if you do not live for these gentle, humbling moments, then maybe now’s the time to push off with a paddle and watch the river world unfold before you.

We pause for lunch on a river bank. Yesterday’s cheese and bread, delicious as ever. Ed sits in the shade and reads, I sit in the sun and read and then we swim across the river together. And back again.

And then we paddle again. Through blazes of green and dark blue, quiet waters, choppy waters, all that, and sometimes I complain that we get too close to threatening branches and sometimes Ed reminds me that the river is warm and all things in our odd little boat are securely fastened to it, and so life continues.











We arrive at the Coux beach at 5:20. Ten minutes early. A shame, really. Ten fewer minutes among swans and ripples of clear water.






The “life is good” feeling gets put to the wayside as we lift the canoe and gear and carry it all the kilometer back to the rooms with restaurant (no, sorry, restaurant with rooms). If the canoe itself weighed little packed up and ready to cross the Atlantic, with camping gear and paddling paraphernalia it weighs many times that.  At least it is a pretty walk -- past fields of asparagus, corn and wildflowers.


 


But I know I’ll be begging our proprietors for a ride the next day to the bus stop. That’s a hefty 2.5 kilometers of canoe carrying.

We finish our day at the restaurant, of course. We should have ordered what we loved best from the previous meals, but we’re feeling a tad experimental still and so we try this and that and it’s all good, sure, but sometimes repeating that which is best is not such a terrible idea.

Except that desserts in life are always most entertaining when they're fresh and distinct. Funny how that works.

the mighty Dordogne

We are done. Twelve hours of ferocious paddling down the Dordogne River, from Souillac to Coux-et-Bigaroque, split between two days.

The canoe is drying in the courtyard of our restaurant with rooms in Coux. Tomorrow morning, we have some early buses to catch so that we can reunite with our car – up river in Souillac. We’ll then drive four hours back into the Languedoc region, for a final two nights in France, slowly, slowly moving closer to Barcelona, where, right after the Fourth of July weekend, we’ll fly home, to be at the farmhouse Tuesday.

Time now is precious and posting is far harder than in the days in Sorede where we easily could take two hours to mull over and decide if we should move from one side of the room .to the other.

Let me say in a word that the river journey was, indeed, fantastic. Let me also say that in many many ways we were extraordinarily lucky.

I knew that when we left yesterday morning. The skies remained gray and the weather forecast indicated showers at least until noon. Not optimal paddling weather. We leave our lovely little restaurant with rooms...





... fortified with a hearty, bready breakfast indoors...



 



(It’s that cool: of the sixty or so breakfasts, lunches and dinners we’ve had this month in France, I’d say no more than five have been indoors) ...and drive to Souillac. As the crow flies, it can’t be more than forty miles. As the river winds – that’s another thing.

In Souillac we buy several baguettes, cheese, tomatoes and a tiny bottle of wine. Those kinds of supplies can go far.

If we had wanted to set out early – forget it. By noon, we are still putting together the canoe and puffing air into its bladders. Ed chooses this time to say to me – you know, I really do not like this canoe. Back on Craigslist it goes when we return. Too wobbly? Too dainty! Fragile. And one of the bladders has a leak. As does his cushion, it turns out. By the end of the first half hour of paddling, he is sitting at the base, in a puddle of water. At each stop, I use spare underwear to bail out as much as I can.

Should we patch anything? I ask. There is, after all, a patch kit. Ed reads the instructions. Needs to dry for 24 hours. Worthless patch kit. We leave it in the car.

12:10 pm and we are on the Dordogne. I keep my rain jacket on. There is a threat of rain and indeed we go through a period of rain. Here’s the first lucky break: it lasts for less than two minutes.







After, the skies stay cloudy, but the air is warm. No need for a jacket.

I am, of course, a terrible boating companion. Ed, shouldn’t we go that way? Careful now! I see boulders to the left. It’s his fault. He tells me he can’t see as well with me in the front and so I have to take some responsibility for the routing. I take this job seriously. Too seriously perhaps.

But you know how these rivers flow: sandbars, boulders, fallen branches – they shift the current in mysterious ways and if you do not find the optimal place to direct your boat, you’re either going to get stuck in midriver, where getting out is no fun, or you’re going to bump around rocks until your bottom blisters. Or, in our case, the canoe trips, rips or does some other nasty thing.


Since it is cloudy and a weekday, there aren’t too many others on the river. Things are quiet. Subdued.










But then, even at peak times in the most popular spots, things are pleasantly quiet anyway. No radios, boom boxes, none of that. And, in the total of four days we (more Ed than me, but me as well) have spent on the river, we never encountered a single motorboat or jet ski or anything at all that would disturb the peace of the river. If a fisherman had a motor on his boat, he did not use it: a standing paddle, oars yes; never, not once a motor.

By three, my arms are feeling the strain. Why are you working so hard ? – Ed asks. Well that’s easy – he fires up my competitive streak. If Ed can do it in two days, so can I. Preferably in 1.95 days.

Sometimes, my paddling speeds things up (Ed has marked the time he passed any bridge and so we are able to compare). At other times, the wind hits us in the face and our boat drags, loaded down now with another person and her camping gear.

We pause for lunch. On an island, with water rushing over beautiful pebbles on both sides. But it’s too cool for swimming. By four, we’re paddling again.






It is helpful to know where the good stops are. Where Ed had his beer, for instance. You could lose time figuring out which village has what, and most often, you have to walk some before you reach a place serving food or drinks. And so at 7 we stop where Ed paused and we examine the eating possibilities and decide that actually, his bar-restaurant looks quite good for food. For instance, a cup of onion soup followed by an omelet with fresh chanterelle mushrooms and homemade fries.





The skies clear while we are eating dinner. The forecast told me they would, but the fact that they followed the sage prophecy of the weather person is insanely wonderful for us.

I’m not sure where the time flew, but it is nine by the time we are on the river again. I’m okay about violating a rule not many seem to be able to articulate for us with any precision – the one about not being on the water in the evenings or early mornings – but I’m not okay about navigating rapids when the sun is just approaching the horizon and the river is flowing west and you can’t see a damn thing out there. It is that bright.






Ed says – it’s just for a few minutes. I left a stick marking a good campsite. Just after the first rapids. Look for a stick.

A stick.






We never find it, and still we are lucky, because we do land in a space that is even better (by Ed's account): a spot that is on a easy flat surface, behind enough branches that we are not seen from the water, far from roads so that perhaps we are even (sort of) in compliance with the camping rule that permits you to pitch a tent if you are far from roads. A spot next to another set of rapids that gurgles and splashes and lulls you into heavenly dreamland in no time flat.





Except for the froggie conversation and the bird warbles which go an all night long. I wake up to a chortle, fall back asleep, wake up again to some frog or bird noise and so it goes.

It is, in fact, a wonderful way to sleep.

Let me pause now and continue with the next day later. But I want to end with this thought: Ed would say that any camping is good camping. Not so, I want to say.  Looking down the river the next day, I can see that there are long stretches with no good places to pitch a tent. We had the benefit of Ed's past experience and again, luck.

And here's something else: we’ve had many, many camping days and nights in our travels when the bugs were so ferocious that you could not venture out of your tent to eat a meal, or even brush your teeth or splash water on your face. Not so here. We have no bugs. The sky at night is ablaze with stars and we keep the rain fly off the tent. We know we wont need it. Such great luck.

Still, isn’t it the case that when you learn not to be bothered by an absence of luck, life is far far less stressful?



The air is cool in the evenings here, even on sunny days. I wake up (thanks, frogs!) just before sunrise, I walk over to the river and wade the shallow waters. The mist is bouncing off the river, the light turns pink, then golden...






A perfect sunrise.






...oh, undoubtedly it is for these mornings that I continue to take that chance and hope for luck, in the anticipation of those better camping moments...



(photo by Ed)


...when the air is cool, and the mosquitoes have gone elsewhere and there is a fresh scent that reminds you that this planet is one hell of a beautiful place.

ducks and roosters

As the cool winds push away the Sahara heatwave, bringing in clouds and plummeting temps (seventies, daytime), I’m placing things with greater care now into a suitcase and separately into my dry sack for the canoe trip tomorrow. There will be a brief lull in posting, but not for long: I want to paddle hard and long because it would be terribly embarrassing to do the trip (with two of us working the paddles) in a stretch of time over and beyond what Ed put in to get from Souillac to Coux.

And what about this day? A good part was spent zigzagging between villages, trying to get the scoop on bus and train schedules. Much as I love public transport in France, when I search for information on connections between the tiny villages, I am often stumped. And I’m not the only one. We go to the village two kilometers from Coux (Siorac-en-Perigord: a train passes through it!) to learn about buses or trains back to Souillac. No train. The tracks are being serviced until July 1st (a day too late for us!). There is substitute bus transport in the interim. To Sarlat. From there, another bus will take us to Souillac. And the schedule? At the train station, the train station, they don’t know the schedule. Can’t sell you tickets either. For that, you have to go to the next, larger village.

Ah. So, excuse me for asking this, but I am truly curious: here you are at the ticket office of the train station at Siorac-en-Perigors and you cannot say where the substitute bus stops?  And you can't sell tickets either? Why do they make you sit here then? Oh, we make sure that the train passes through this village safely. If you want, I can call the station people at the next village. Please do. No answer. We drive on.


But, there is pleasure in tracking this phantom train/bus down. We’re seeing villages that would otherwise not draw us. They are without a “reputation.” We detour, for instance, over hills, fields and forests...





...to the more northern town of La Bugue. It’s market day there Tuesdays and though the town itself is rather severe at first glance (or, is it that gray skies bring out the Noir (black) in Perigord Noir?), strategically planted flowers and, of course, the market add warmth and color.















At the market, I get a bit caught up in the frenzy of selling and buying. But, with Ed's gentle coaching (Let's go...do not purchase that... you don't need a table cloth with roosters... it doesn't matter that it's cheap...) I emerge lightly enough: we buy two peaches and a pillow cover. That’s all. Well no, not completely – also a box of Bergerac rosé. Boxes do not splinter into glass particles when packed. Surely there’ll be room for a five liter box somewhere.


 


















We follow now the more northerly Vezere River as it flows into the Dordogne – right here, in the tiny village of Limeuil.





It’s a beautiful sight – two mighty rivers joining as one.

Then, back along the Dordogne, we stop at Le Buisson-de-Cadouin – the larger town with the more “ept” station people who tells us exactly where to find the bus stop in Siorac come Friday and sell us the tickets needed for it.

There isn’t much to Buisson, except that it offers good connections to places in the Dordogne Valley and wise women at the station office who tell us about them. We stop for lunch here anyway. Ed tells me – I like this place. It’s sort of down and out, probably wondering why all the tourist traffic went elsewhere.

We find an interesting more contemporary café-bar and Ed orders the formule lunch – three courses for 11.50 Euros. (A lovely salad with tomatoes and mozzarella, a duck confit, and chocolate cake.) That’s a lot of food, so I opt instead for the wonderful salad Perigord: with duck foie gras and duck gizzards and the Perigord nuts, along with lettuce and tomatoes and a sprinkling of the precious corn kernels. And I steal bites of Ed's cake.












The gray skies are only suggestive of rain. We stroll back to the car, admiring along the way old houses and weather vanes. Ed swears he can make one for the farmhouse back home. Fantastic: here, Ed, this is how it should look:






Wise people would go for a long walk now, but we are not wise. We return to the room with the little balcony. I read, Ed sleeps.

And then it is dinner! More snails, more duck, this time with potatoes and cepe mushrooms -- mmm...





... more ice cream, with chantilly cream – I am remembering the words of the wiser than us woman in the village next to Souillac who tells me to watch my foods here, in the Perigord. I will. Tomorrow, as we paddle down. They say it may rain in the morning. Isn’t it good that somehow we always manage to get a late start on things.