I quickly slipped into the rhythm of an American ex-pat living in France. Mornings began with that bright orb in the sky, quickly chased with coffee, fruit, morning chores, and the local marché-du-jour. After quiet time (for me) and a spell in the ‘art room’ (Zia) we would dine, then repose, read, crossword, or nap until it was cool enough to go outside. Evening was light yard work (and a light snack) followed by a walk and some tele before turning in.
Tuesday marché is in Sarlat. Located on a hill above the Dordogne River, the city sprung up in medieval times around a Benedictine stronghold, and records indicate that both Pepin the Short and his son Charlemagne went there on pilgrimage, the latter honoring the monks with a piece of the True Cross. Following the Hundred-Years War noblemen settled the area, and many of the mansions (and much of the city-center architecture) date to that time. Due to limited road infrastructure prior to the 1960s (until then the city had been serviced primarily by the river and on rail), its architecture remained relatively untouched and the city has been nominated as a UNESCO World Heritage site. In addition to tourism, the area is known for its foie gras, tobacco, wild mushrooms and truffles.
We arrived early enough to stash our little white car under some trees in the lot across from the high school, and made our way to city center. As we approached the former stronghold, the streets narrowed from modern-sized roads to narrow lanes in both directions to a single lane in one direction, all bordered with comfortable spaces for walking on each side. After a quick stop at a housewares shop to pick up an extra US-to-EU electrical adapter (okay, I lingered in the front of the store with its well-crafted, cleanly designed items in cheerful colors) we turned down a narrow allée towards the medieval part of town. In the horse-cart wide space the grey and buff stone buildings towered above us.
Here the streets were cobblestone. As we walked, the thin space weaved down a hill, past a shop featuring local wines, another with hand-crafted toys, and filled with African textiles, and I wondered what businesses had filled these spaces over the centuries. We turned right, the walkway leveled, and the space opened into a plaza. To our right was an old church, the Elise Sainte-Marie, whose space had been used to produce ammunition during the Revolution and now housed a local craft cooperative. Ahead of us were lanes of vendors selling produce and farm products, and on the far side the Cathedral with its ninth-century spire reigned over us. We picked up some Spanish Ham and cheeses from the cheerful lady in the cheese truck (picture a food truck but fronted with a refrigerated cheese section, all local and exquisitely crafted) before making our way back to our car. My shirt was damp with heat already, and I was looking forward to the cool enclave of the house. But our travels were not over yet.
The night before I had been lightly chastised for filling my drinking glass with water from the faucet. “We have spring water from the source,” Zia shared, and I was directed to the three large jugs under the bread table. But when observed, these vessels were almost empty. So once home from Sarlat, we stashed our treasures in the frigo, loaded the empty jugs into the boot of the car, and were on our way. Our route led us through the next hamlet, turn onto a long dirt driveway, pass through the courtyard of a family farm, and continue to where the track ended in a small clearing at the base of a granite cliff. “Huh?” I thought as Zia encouraged me to carry one of the bottles to a handmade bench near a wall of shrubbery. There I found a yellow hose with a constant trickle of water. This was it, she explained as the bottles slowly filled, a spring cherished by locals that their families had drunk from for centuries. And as the aquifer was healthy and Neanderthal paintings had been discovered in the caves above us, she continued, we may be drinking the same water as early man, the same minerals that had made their bones so strong. We hefted the full bottles back to the car and, once back home, back to the kitchen.
Lunch was slices of Spanish ham, cheese (a delightful sheeps-milk camembert from a local farm), bread, and greens out on the porch. Warm from the summer sun and worn from the day’s adventures, once the table and kitchen were clean I retreated to my room for yet another warm summer nap.