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A CHANGE OF PLANS
As we drove into Sarlat on a hot July afternoon, buying a house was not on the agenda. We were simply looking for a place to spend the night. Sarlat is the gem of Périgord, a golden maze of medieval streets and alley-ways, but it was not designed for modern traffic. In 1837, to ease congestion, the city fathers decided to cut a thoroughfare-they called it a traverse -through the center of town, splitting the city into two gnarled hemispheres. As a result, the street map of Sarlat looks like an open walnut shell. On one side of the traverse , now called la rue de la République, there are steep, twisting lanes with old limestone houses, adorned with hanging flower pots. On the other side lie the town's more public spaces: Saint Sacerdos Cathedral, with its strange onion-shaped belfry, the old cemetery and its mysterious tower known as the Lantern of the Dead, the stately Hôtel de Ville, and a cluster of Renaissance manoirs , with Gothic bays and mullioned windows. There are pruned public gardens and a broad cobblestone square, where a bustling open-air market is held on Saturdays. On either side of la rue de la République, the amber-colored buildings of the city gleam with pride.
But these delights are invisible from the traffic-clogged traverse . Cramped shops and cafés with cheap plastic chairs line both sides of the street. There isn't a leaf of shade, and in summer cars and trucks spouting diesel exhaust nudge along, baking in the heat. If your first introduction to Sarlat is a traffic jam on la rue de la République, you'll wonder why the Guide Michelin devotes five pages to the town. Yet that is just how we saw Sarlat on a scorching summer's day in 1984, and looking back on it, that is where our story begins.
We were nearing the end of a rambling automobile tour that began in Paris, led us south through the flat Loire Valley and the mountainous Auvergne, and in the last week had brought us to the rolling hills of the Dordogne. We had several days left to the trip before we were due in Nice to catch our returning charter flight to the States. The route was circuitous, but Michael had driven through the Dordogne years before and wanted me to see a little of the countryside before we linked up again with the autoroute to the Côte d'Azur.
A travel writer once observed that the Dordogne, with its picturesque byways and narrow country roads, is preeminently a land for dawdlers, but even on that blistering day, speeding through on our way to make a plane connection, with the car windows rolled down and the scenery going by in a warm blur, we caught its allure. What I remember are rows of poplars along a river bank leaning in the breeze, their feathery V-shaped branches like quills casting lean reflections in the water as we rounded a bend; newly mown hay rolled up like yellow carpets, with nearby farm buildings nestling companionably together like a litter of kittens; a ruined manor with pepper pot towers deserted in a meadow; sunlight gleaming on a village at the crest of a hill, its houses stacked almost on top of one another; shady passages through forests alternating with hot stretches of open road and the smell of tar; a sharp blue, cloudless sky.
Even the meanest farmhouse looked inviting, thanks to the cheerful cast of the local stone, which seemed so different from the gloomy gray of the row houses farther north. In the Dordogne the houses are built with limestone, often in uneven blocks that soften edges and give the rural buildings an affable air of nonchalance. Depending on the hour, the color of the stone can take on a variety of hues, from pinkish gold in the morning to blazing white in the afternoon, to yellow, amber, ocher, and dark rust as the sun goes down. I remember thinking to myself as we drove along that these must be the loveliest houses in the world.
For lunch we had stopped in Brantôme, a lazy old town at the fork of two branches of the river Dronne, the site of a massive Benedictine abbey founded by Charlemagne in 769. We picnicked in the park under a cool pavilion and gazed across the water at the stately monastery. Then in the afternoon, our luck changed. We became snarled in traffic as we tried to negotiate the regional capital, Périgueux, which can be a bottleneck in summer for trucks on the way south. Michael's temper grew shorter as the heat built up, and he was in no mood for more traffic when we finally reached Sarlat. We were looking forward to a shower and a good meal after a cramped afternoon in our rented Renault 5.
We were following a wonderful hotel guide called Les Logis de France , which features only small, family-run hotel-restaurants. At the typical logis , the husband serves as chef, the wife runs the hotel, and the older children wait on tables. Each logis has its own personality and appeal, unlike the newer motel chains, which try to imitate American efficiency. Once, after a blazing day on the road, we decided to splurge on one of those modern wonders in order to get an air-conditioned room-only to find that the system was turned off every night because the French guests found the air too cold. In the morning we were baffled by the automated breakfast buffet, which presented a row of glistening machines to dispense orange juice, coffee, and dry cereal. We watched as an elderly Frenchman came into the breakfast room wearing a béret and smoking a Gauloise . He tried the coffee machine, wagged his head back and forth in incomprehension, muttered, banged his cane on the floor to summon a human being, and demanded a glass of red wine and a baguette. We saluted him with our un-French glasses of orange juice and after that steered clear of the motels.
According to our Logis guide, there was a venerable family-run hotel in Sarlat called the Saint Albert, and that was where we were headed for the evening. It was now about five in the afternoon with the sun still almost directly overhead and beating down on the hood as we crept along Sarlat's rue de la République, inhaling exhaust fumes and looking for a turnoff to the little side street on which the hotel was located. The little street was easy to miss, and we had to circle round and come down the traverse a second time to find it. Then parking took a long time. When we finally found a space, Michael trotted up the block and then returned disconsolately with the news that the Saint Albert was fully booked.
Heat waves rose from the pavement, making me light-headed; tourists hustled by. Michael, impatient, was for pushing on. It would still be light for hours, he reasoned, and the breeze of a country road seemed preferable to walking the hot streets of the city, looking for a second-choice hotel. According to the guide, there was a rural logis at Labastide-Murat, about an hour or so's drive along back roads, and there was another at Cabrerets, which perhaps might take two hours. As a backup, there was still another listing in a place called Najac farther on to the south, although the village was not on our itinerary and did seem remote when we finally found it on the map. In all likelihood, though, we would be settled in an hour, enjoying a good dinner at a quiet country hotel.
We have a running argument when we travel. One of us believes in reservations; one of us does not. According to Michael, the advantage of traveling by car is that you can always find another hotel if your first choice isn't available, whereas if you book ahead sight unseen, you may regret your choice. I say that only a masochist would travel without reservations at the height of the tourist season and risk having to sleep in the car. We rehashed this discussion each morning as we reviewed the day's itinerary.
"What about booking ahead at the Hotel Saint Albert in Sarlat?" I had asked over breakfast.
"Sounds OK, but let's just go there. We'll get there early and see what it looks like."
Now we were there. It looked fine.
"Maybe we should call Labastide-Murat."
"It's early yet."
"If the Saint Albert is full, they may be full there too," I pointed out.
"This is the city. We're headed off the beaten track; we'll be fine."
Well, it was still early, and so far we had always ended the day with a roof over our heads. Michael was confident that our luck would hold at the next stop, and I didn't protest. In fact, as we edged back into traffic and out of the city, it felt good to be moving again.
Sarlat lies in a glen at the heart of Périgord Noir, or Black Périgord, so named for its dense forests of oak and walnut. A few miles south of town, beyond a series of ridges, the road dips and enters the broad basin of the Dordogne Valley. Green fields of leafy tobacco, corn, beans, and lettuce spread across the flats. Here the Dordogne is a queenly river with soft meanders, for it is tamed by controlling dams upstream. Elsewhere it is a powerful river, one of France's longest, originating high in the mountains of the massif Central and flowing westward for three hundred miles to Bordeaux, where it joins the Gironde and empties into the sea. But here the river takes its ease, flowing gracefully between tree-lined banks that afford open vistas, looping around cliffs topped by castles, and curving across the plain.
At the hamlet of Carsac we rested briefly and stopped to admire an exquisite twelfth-century country church built in the yellow stone that so attracted us. Rounded and low, it was gracefully placed on its green lawn by the side of the road. The porched doorway was simply carved with modest, bare columns, leading the eye into the dark of the interior. Inside, the church was small yet felt expansive. High above our heads, the stone roof arched comfortingly, while to the sides and beyond the altar, Gothic chapels multiplied space. Standing before the linen-draped altar with its one vigil candle, we were surrounded by a bubble of golden light. Only the need to find a room for the night prevented us from lingering.
Leaving the Sarladais (the old diocese of Sarlat), we crossed the river, and soon the landscape began to change from lush to rugged. Only twenty miles to the southeast, the contrast was striking. For this is the beginning of causse country, defined by dry, whitish limestone plateaus. Water drains through the porous stone, carving wind-swept, arid basins and escarpments. Sheep and goats graze on scrubby plots demarcated by gray stone walls. The tree cover is juniper, the vegetation thin, though near Cahors there are ancient vineyards from which a dark, tangy red wine is produced. Here the building stone, like the cliffs, is pinkish gray or white, and the châteaus look more foreboding than those made with the homey yellow stone of the Dordogne. The region is riddled with caves and ravines and is sparsely settled.
After a twisting, bumpy drive that took us longer than expected, we arrived at Labastide-Murat. This lonely village stands at a high point on the causse and boasts few attractions. One is a museum dedicated to Joachim Murat, one of Napoleon's best generals and a favorite son (in honor of whom the town was renamed). The other is a perfectly charming logis -which, like the Saint Albert, turned out to be booked full. As we pulled away from the hotel, I gazed with envy at a group of cheerful guests congregating on the terrace for their apéritifs and reading over the posted menus. There was no need to say anything. Michael threw up his hands. A good hour later we met a similar fate in Cabrerets: no rooms to be had. Now only Najac stood between us and the abyss. Capitulating, Michael pulled up at a roadside phone booth, rang the Hotel Belle Rive in Najac, and reported that the patron would hold his last remaining room for us, provided we arrived in time for dinner.
"Mais, oui, Monsieur, on arrive!" "We're on our way!"
We were expected by nine. It was already almost eight, and the drive ahead of us looked difficult. By now we had traversed the departments of the Dordogne and the Lot and were headed into the Aveyron, a semi-deserted region of wild gorges and cataracts. Here the road winds through dense thickets, up steep hills, and down the sides of ravines. As the shadows lengthened and the settlements grew farther apart, we seemed to be leaving the France of graceful living for the rough country of another era. The smaller roads felt no wider than paved trails. Below Villefranche-de-Rouergue, the main road branches off and twists through the Gorges de l'Aveyron above a roaring river, dipping up and down with dangerous switchbacks as it tracks the Aveyron through its canyon. The terrain is tortuous, the driving perilous and slow, so that by the time we approached Najac, it was pitch dark. In the last hour we had passed no other villages, no hotels. Just before entering the town, we crossed a bridge over a black ravine and followed signs to the Hotel Belle Rive. The thickly wooded road plunged lower and lower, finally dead-ending at the doorstep of a long, low-lying, white-stoned inn.
Without unpacking, and barely aware of our surroundings, we checked in and rushed straight to dinner.
It was nearly ten. Only a few guests still lingered in the rustic dining room. Two tired-looking waiters were clearing the tables of debris: empty wine bottles, crusty bread crumbs on the pink tablecloths, plates of cleanly picked bones piled on what remained of a dark sauce. We ordered what the other guests apparently had devoured, the plat du jour, a delectable rabbit ragout, and of course a bottle of local red wine to go with it. Perhaps it was the novelty of rabbit stew; perhaps it was the table set with crude oversized cutlery in front of a huge hearth straight out of the Middle Ages; or perhaps it was the late hour, the long drive, and the profound relief of having dinner at all after facing the prospect of a night without shelter-but we were enchanted.
Our spirits continued to rise as we wound through the stone halls hung with tapestries, found our room, used a five-inch-long iron key to spring the lock, and swung open the heavy door to see bright white linens turned down over a flowery duvet, dark furniture sized for a couple of woodland giants, and lace-curtained French windows that promised to give onto a romantic terrace. Too tired to peer out the windows, we notched them open a bit (an infraction of French protocol for healthy sleeping, we later found) and dropped asleep to the faint sound of water gurgling over pebbles.
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Excerpted from A CASTLE IN THE BACKYARD by Betsy Draine Michael Hinden Copyright © 2002 by The Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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