water music

I'm drying myself after a long soak in the bathtub at a rural hotel in northern Spain. When was the last time that I had taken a bath? Ten years ago? Longer?

Why is it that at times water is so pleasurable? Has there been even a day this past month when we haven’t searched for it, thought about it, played in and around it? Canoeing around the lake in the Languedoc. The sea – that, of course. Then on the river – oh, the drama of it all! And now we’ve moved on to the canal. And after, in our final moments on this side of the ocean, we’ll be back, fleetingly, to the sea, only on the Spanish side. By the sea, the sea, the beautiful sea, you and me, you and me, of how happy we’ll be...

But let me pause by the Canal du Midi for a while, because that’s really all that we did all day Saturday.

We're spending the week-end in an interesting place: it’s ever so close to the Canal du Midi, that most serene and alluring stretch of water that extends over 240 kilometers from the Mediterranean Sea to the Garonne River, ultimately providing a waterway that connects the Mediterranean with the Atlantic. (A feat for 1681!) And not only are we close to the Canal, but we’re also close to the intersection of a small feeder canal and the rushing waters of a river, so that you can walk to a point where the Canal is above the river and the little canal is off to the side and if this is just too much detail for you, follow along with the photos and you’ll understand.

And so in the morning, we leave our little hamlet...





...and stroll along the small canal that feeds the larger Canal du Midi. It’s a mesmerizing walk: the Platain trees line both canal and tow path, the breeze plays with the grasses and reeds, and the ducks squawk at each other in the way that ducks do. I actually make a small film clip of it, because at the moment, I think that no other set of sounds and movements could be as soothing as this. (Even as I know I will never watch it because the fact is, pleasing sounds can be found in all corners of the farmette back home.)






We walk to the place where the river flows under the canal...






... and then along the grand Canal du Midi, first one way, then the other...













...until we reach the little village of Le Somail.













There’s a grocery barge there, and I buy Languedoc acacia honey (a small jar... really super small, tucked in anywhere). And melon jam. Random, perhaps, but in the end, so oddly appropriate. We had the idea of lingering over an ice cream “boule” (scoop) in the village, but the café-restaurant was full of serious lunch eaters. It seemed unfair to use a table for lingering over an ice cream. A few steps further, we pass a shed where a young man is selling regional fruits – peaches, melons – and wines. Ed suggests we buy peaches, but the melons look tempting as well. We buy both.





We take our fruits and find a spot on the banks of the Canal. Ed whips out his Leatherman knife and cuts open the melon and we eat the sweet pulp, letting the juice dribble down freely, not caring really, because, after all, who would even notice.






Though there are others who inhabit the river bank.

A goose family approaches us and I wonder if they’re after a handout, but no, they continue to slowly eat their way towards us (fresh green shoots of grasses or flowers? Bugs? Don’t know...) until a dog saunters over, sending the whole flock hissing and scampering into the water.





You could spend many hours just watching boats drift by and ducks and geese go about their daily chores. (The scene where the mother duck is teaching her babies to scramble up the bank is perhaps the most heartwarming.)

Ed wonders if we should go back for a second melon – it is that delicious. I return to the shed and tell the young man there that we’ve been enjoying all his great fruits by the Canal and he asks if I have ever eaten this melon – picked just this morning! – along with a Muscat wine? He smacks his lips in that quintessentially French manner that we think is only done in movies. He pours me a glass of it and I tell him I am only sorry that I cannot purchase any. I have, by last count, seven wines, two olive oils, some mustards and honeys and now jams – to fit into a suitcase that is thin and is already overstuffed with camping gear.

The fruit seller asks me where I am traveling back to. The United States. United States? I adore the United States! Even though I have never been there...

The lure of the new, the wildly energetic, the incredible great hunk of a country across the ocean. To a young person whose life is moving at the slow pace that I find so endearing, America surely seems like an escape into a better, richer, kaleidoscopic future.

Or maybe he just wants to surf on the beaches of California – who knows. (French people seem to love California best of all the states. Especially northern California. They think it feels most like home.)

(I confess to also buying an olive oil from him: it’s a cold press of luque olives, done in the old fashioned way! Surely there will be room for this treasure. Maybe in the folds of the canoe?)

The fruits were to be our lunch. Ed asks – does this mean we shouldn’t stop for ice cream? It does not. Almond milk for Ed, and fig/honey nut and also rose petal (both made of sheep’s milk) for me.






We walk back toward home again along the canal.


 








Barges move across this water road, ducks use it for whatever it is that ducks do, but are there fish in it? I pass a young boy who has, indeed just caught one.





As I take the photo, he says – oh, but this is nothing! You should see the size of the one I caught several hours ago! He reaches proudly into his case and pulls out the impressively large fish. But as he does this, the fish makes one last effort to set herself free and she succeeds! She slips from his hands even as he struggles to hold on and she falls right back into the Canal. Sorry, young boy! You’re welcome, fish!

We continue.






Past the vineyards... I stop to take a photo. Ed rests by the Canal.












And back along the smaller canal. No less pretty though. Boys are building dams where the water streams by, two girls sit to the side talking, looking at each others phone screens.















A day along the canal. And it doesn’t end there. In the late afternoon, we set out to look at the canal locks. There six in a row, just a few kilometers from our hamlet. There isn’t much traffic here now, but we do stumble upon the passage of one yacht with a multigenerational crew that hadn’t yet gotten the hang of things, offering for the onlookers some amusing moments of dropped lines, missed opportunities and general mishaps. Only the grandfather chuckled through it all.





We stroll through the village that abuts the locks, just to see what’s there.


 


And perhaps you’ll have predicted that we find a bakery. No, no mille feuille this time. Just biscuits to munch on.





Madame tells me I should take photos in the morning, when her shelves are bursting with baked goods!

In the morning... where will be the next morning? In Spain already?

This village is quieter, undisturbed by the flow of tourism. Ed stops to pet a cat. A dog looks at me as if to ask -- why does he prefer cats?













In the evening we eat at a restaurant just two kilometers outside the village. It is a good choice for a last Languedoc dinner. I eat tiny shrimp in avocado sauce and then once more the cuttle fish – bigger this time and prepared with a pesto sauce. Delicious.





Ed drives us back to the village. I say a silent evening goodbye to France.

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.