Month: September 2017

I had tossed and turned all night.

Not all night… I had struggled to fall asleep, part savoring every last moment and part stressing at my impending return to the real world.  At about two, I had snapped awake and, once I realized I would not nod off, had finished packing away all but the essentials I would need in the morning.  Then out came my book and the inevitable falling asleep with my glasses on.  I was awake again before dawn, snapping pics of the fields as the sun rose.

And then it was here: Sunday, my last day in Dordogne.

I got one last dip in the well: after breakfast we returned to Fajoles for a second helping of the marché we’d visited my first morning.  Diana was there with her watercolors of local birds and fields, next to huge bouquets of sunflowers, dahlias, and foxglove (among others) grown by another of her daughters, the proprietress of the local organic nursery*.  I considered spending my last Euros on walnut oil to take home, but in the end selected a small vial of (export-approved) propolis.  All too soon it was time to catch the train.

With the lunch Zia had composed for me the night before tucked safely in my backpack, we pointed the car towards Sarlat.  Along the way we stopped at Leclerc for some last minute items.  In the store’s foyer, tucked amongst photos of historic local structures was one of a relative newcomer: the original station building at the gare from which I was about to depart.  Our next stop was said station, the original building still intact.  We had a bit of time so we explored the station while my train warmed up at the end of the line a short distance away (literally, if a runaway train blew off the end of the tracks it would land in the Leclerc we’d just left).

All too soon the train pulled forward.  Zia walked me to my car, and a porter helped me heave my large bag onto the train.  We hugged, and hugged, and hugged some more; once on the train, I waved and waved and waved some more.  The doors closed, and tears stung my eyes as it began to move.

And then…

If you have spent any time driving with me (or on a certain Manhattan Harrier run**), you know I have an aversion to bridges.  It is an extension of my general aversion to heights, or, more precisely, this strange fear I have of being drawn over the edge.  On long bridges and high overpasses I can be found mildly hyperventilating as I stare at the bumper of the car ahead; on trail it is eyes closed holding someone’s hand.  As we pulled away from the station, I noticed the houses get shorter and shorter… no… we were on a bridge, that huge viaduct that loomed over a main roundabout in town… and there I was… taking photos of the intersection without a worry in the world.

Maybe, just maybe, I thought to myself, something had shifted during retreat after all.

* Photos of her gardens and bouquets are available here: https://www.facebook.com/LesFleursDuFourquet

** The Summit Harrier group holds an annual run on the second Monday of September that involves crossing first the Brooklyn then Manhattan Bridges.  The one and only time I did the full route, I almost broke the hand of the poor gent who escorted me.

It was my last full day in the French countryside, and I was determined to savor any moment of it.

The relaxation that flowed over me in Paris had continued throughout the week; but as my time grew short, a gnawing unease began to hover in the background.  On this, my last day, I woke filled with the bittersweet knowledge I would soon have to return to ‘real life’ in the States.  I was determined not to let this spoil my last hours in France.

After breakfast (the peaches and plums so sweet) headed to a town with a long history on a nearby hilltop.  Deeded to the Gourdon family in 961, after it survived (just barely) an encounter with Richard the Lionhearted it was rebuilt as a castrum, a fortified city with circular ramparts. While the fortress is gone and the ramparts reduced a low wall, you can still visit a 12th century water mill, a 13th century church, 14th, 15th, and 16th century homes, a 17th century cathedral (which remains surprisingly cool in the summer heat), as well as the architecture, traffic and hubbub of the modern age.

Everything seemed slightly more vivid than on previous days: a sprout of a succulent tucked in a honey-colored wall; the orange, yellow, and greens of paella simmering at the marché; the seemingly boneless cat sagging between a stone balcony and filigreed iron railing during our walk back to the car.  At the farm store I snapped a shot of their lambie, a stylized plastic rendering placed atop the meats cooler, who (like Lambie in our back yard) I had grown fond of during the week.  Back at the house I clung to the earthy flavor of the lettuce, creaminess of the cheese, salt of the smoked trout, and tang of the capers that made up our noontime meal.

After lunch Z and I retired to our respective rooms.  Though I was tired I found it hard to nap, not wanting to miss a moment; in the end, I got up and started to pack.  But what was this, in a carefully folded Lidl bag?  The chocolate kir I had bought some days before.  I carefully opened the paper and gold foil, broke off a piece and took a bite.  But what was this?  I had expected cherry creme, but there seemed to be some sort of liquid instead… What an amazing gift, I thought to myself, as the nip warmed my tongue, chocolate-covered kirsch.  Packing was quickly abandoned, and I returned to bed, savoring piece after piece as I listened to the sounds around me.

After a while Zia began to stir, and once her movement had localized in the kitchen, I joined her. Together we rummaged the frigo and composed a lunch for me to take on the train the following day.    Plan in mind, we then headed to the yard to water the flowers and vegetables wilting in the summer sun, and (for me) foraging plums fallen from the tree which, thankfully, had started to subside over the week.  It was a nice, lazy, afternoon, the thunk of the plums in my bucket peppered with exclamations of “OH!” as Zia found new heat damage in the garden.

As the afternoon grew long we retreated back to the house for aperitifs (both of us), coffee (for me), and conversation.  Once the sun was low, I slipped on my trainers, grabbed my camera, and went for one last evening exploration.  I turned right and headed up the hill, past the house with the barking dogs, another landscaped with fruit trees, to the main road.  From there I turned right and, after a short jog, turned back onto the country road that formed the back border of the surrounding pastures.  I snapped more pics along the way: budding thistles, bright colors in a neighbor’s garden, les vaches in the field bordered by a blackberry bramble, the tobacco sheds further down the lane.  The sun dipped below the horizon as I rounded the corner by the travelers’ caravans. At the marché that morning, Zia (ever the charmer) had been gifted a peach tart by the paella vendor.  We had set it aside, planning to share it as an after-walk snack, and that and the encroaching darkness quickened my pace.  I arrived back at the house to find Zia opening the shutters, windows, and doors to let in the slightly cooler evening air.

Perhaps now is a good time to mention the neighbor chat that would visit from time to time. I first sighted him sauntering through the garden my first afternoon, and by mid-week he had been leaving me gifts (a vole and a small bird) on the front porch.  (Okay, they were probably for Zia, but her first response was to shriek for me….)  You can see where this is going…. Zia led the way to the kitchen and before I could join her she let out a sharp “Out!  Out!”  The chat zipped past me and out the front door, and Z emerged from the kitchen holding the torn, stained, bag that had previously held the tart.

After a good laugh (okay, I thought it was funny), we called it a night and headed to bed.

More soon!

“Those caves, that’s where Roger’s father lived when he was with the Resistance.”

One of the things I love about spending time in this area of France is the local history.  In addition to living structures and towns that date to medieval times, the area was a hotbed of the Resistance during World War Two.  Drives with Zia, to marchés or cafés, were peppered with historical anecdotes: the source of a recent roof on an older building or scorch marks on a wall, or the significance of a hamlet we were passing through.  Today we were back at the source, re-filling out water jugs, and her enthusiasm was palpable.  I followed her pointed finger to rectangular cuts in the granite cliff as she explained this was where local resisters had plotted against (and sought refuge from) from the Nazis.  (In the waning days of the war, the Nazis repaid their efforts by rounding the locals in to churches and setting the church roofs on fire.)  This first-hand and familial knowledge of war, I finally understood, was why the French were reluctant to follow the US into Iraq, and why the locals had such sympathy for me during my first visit.

It had been during the summer of 1999, ten months after losing my husband.  I was lost, and the visit would provide respite from familiar reminders of my sorrows.  Zia’s friends would query whether I was married and her explanation (Il était dans la Air Force, il y avait un accident…) would be met with sincere condolences (Je suis trés désolé…).  She had told me that Roger’s father had been part of the local résistance, a group of men who had banded together, plotted and took action against the Nazis during the darkest hour of the war.  Many had been killed defending the area, as had their sons serving with the formal armée, and all had suffered under the harsh regime.  These stories had been passed along with reverence, with the families of those who gave their lives treated with the highest respect.  Because of my loss, this respect was extended to me.

This experience may explain the series of photos I did not realize I had taken until well after the fact:  the marker found in each village square that commemorates local sons killed in battle.  Le 1ene Guerre Mondiale, le 2eme Guerre Mondiale, Indochine, l’Algerie, Maroc-Tunisie, they were all there, in bold letters, along with the names and ages of les enfants qui morts pour la France.  Each year the names are read aloud during Remembrance Day ceremonies.  It is a refreshing contrast to the US, where most citizens seem to have forgotten we are in our 16th year of active war (with no end in sight).

I gazed up at the cuts as we filled our bottles, careful to not become so distracted I dropped one on the stones below.  Soon they were full, and we were back in our little white car, zipping across the French countryside to our next adventure.

The tuba set the tone.

We had spent the morning in Souillac, a medieval mill town with quirky modern touches.  After picking up some cerices (cherries), we hiked up a hill to Le Book Store where I picked up some new notebooks and refills for my Parker pen.  (I love Claire Fontaine notebooks; they are slightly oversize and have options with graph lines rather than rows.)  On the way home we passed through the town of Le Roc and its pastures of sunflowers and hillside of sculptured shrubs.  After a light lunch we napped and, as the sun grew low… it was time for fête!

It is tradition in French farming towns for the village to take a long weekend during the mid-summer to come together and celebrate.  The adverts for this annual village festival had been in shop windows and on fence poles since I’d arrived: black letters over fluorescent background announcing Fête (in our small town) 3, 4, 5 Julliet (July). Tonight, the first night, would be a community dinner (paella) spritzed with soft drinks (for the little ones) and local wines (for the adults). Early evening found us parking the Peugeot along an alley by the church, a spot carefully selected to provide easy exit during or following the festivities.

The grass in the park behind the school had been cut short earlier in the week and the groomed field was now filled with long, white party tents.  Two contained rows of tables and folding chairs, and the third housed the (at this hour the more popular) refreshment stand.  Zia and I claimed some seats in one of the tents, then set out to mingle.  She got some wine, and I got some water; she fell in to conversation with friends (in French) and I began to explore the park.  I met up with Diana (the artist from Fajoles market mentioned in Part Deux) at a bench by the swings and we began chatting (in English) as well.  It turns out this mild-mannered British grandmother was a fascinating woman: her husband, an engineer and architect, had commissions all over the world and she had followed (rather than stay home as is the British tradition) raising and educating her children in countries across Africa.  Soon we were joined by her daughter (born in Tanzania) and her three children. Diana and her daughter caught up on recent events while the three youngsters took turns on the swings and slide.  After a bit the children’s attention turned to the four-horse merry-go-round and arcade games set up for the occasion nearby, and I took the opportunity to explore.

The hamlet was smaller than I expected: the école (school), the shuttered storefront of a former boulangerie; and further down (past some homes), two cafés and the church.  I snapped some pics: the war memorial, a fence ornament, overgrown flowers in the yard of the former rectory. I passed some children playing cops and robbers and the ornamented van belonging to local anarchists.  My circle complete, I was back at the tents.

By this time the local band, an all-ages group of horns, guitars, and woodwinds, had begun it’s first set: local folk songs (and the occasional 80’s dance hit) played with enthusiasm on a stage near the head of the park.  Zia was seated with Diana and her family; the children were deep in rounds of the ‘would you rather’ decision game with their father while the ladies talked the ex-pat life.  They had saved me a seat so I joined them, switching between girl talk and fantastical scenarios.  The tent was filled with voices: cheerful, earnest, laughing, French with the occasional English or Catalan and the occasional jovial boom boom of the tuba.

Time passed, courses came in waves: bowls of nuts; rolls; a salad of fresh lettuce, tomatoes sweet from the vine, and sliced and salted cukes with a deep, earthy flavor; and then the main, rice with veg richly flavored with local herbs, garnished with a trio of prawns.

We ate, we drank, we smoked (okay, not me on that last one); the sun set, the sky darkened, and the stars emerged.  The band began their second set, folks young and old filed out and began to dance.  Children played off to the side: down by the slides, tag at the far end of the park, or napped curled on pairs of chairs.  I grew sleepy, and it turns out Zia did too.  We were soon back at the allée by the church, in the Peugeot, and on our way back to the abode, the warm air mixed with warm memories.