It’s walled and gated with arches of ivory limestone. And stepping under the entry, I hold my breath, I feel like I’m walking into a living, breathing entity. The stones are crumpled and paled like wrinkly skin, and it feels close. The lanes are small – too small for cars, and so we walk like ants over this massive being, in search of vistas and food.
We find the eyes – both at restaurants – one at La Table Comtat, and the other on the terrace of the wonderful Le Mesclun where we linger for lunch and a stunning Champagne I will later forget the name of. We stare out for hours out at the sloping views as if we too are made of stone.
We find the heart – beating and gushing – a fountain bringing life from the deep waters under the Dentelles de Montmirail (literally, lace of the admirable mountain), and guarded by fearsome mascaron, spewing up a watery gift for the good, and keeping evil spirits at bay. People fill water bottles, they use it as a meeting point. A dog laps from the basin. We rest beside it in the shade and eat salted caramel ice-cream.
When the heat defeats even the shady arches, galleries and degustation rooms, we take refuge in the chapels, the old soul of this being. Deep stone caverns, chocked into the hill like a set from Lord of the Rings, but prettier, less menacing in nature. The walls are cool to the touch. The floors are so worn by the feet of many ages that they appear like sheets drooping between the grids of a drying rack. Stone, worn soft. The light that shines through the simple stained glass windows is etherial, a gift from God in itself, and even the agnostics say a prayer of thanks.
We take a final stroll up the hill as the sun begins its path down it. Soon, the lanes become so narrow and stepped that we begin to feel like we are inside someone's property, and we decide that is enough for today. But I know for certain we will be back.
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I love architecture. For me, it’s a free art gallery. I can happily walk streets of beautiful cities and villages and look. I don’t need to do much else. And France has a plethora of beautiful villages, all the same, and yet all different. I never tire of them.
Castelnaud-la-Chapelle
Beynac et Cazenac
Castelnou
Lagrasse
Vezelay
Carennac
Domme
La Roque Gageac
Gordes
Saint Suliac
I love love love:
The town of the Cathars, haunted and hauntingly beautiful, and isolated in the midst of incredible landscape
Seillans
I think (after Seguret) the second most beautiful I have seen. A spectacular circular plaza, and wonderful artists, views, roses in fountains, everything.
Some others not on the official list but on mine:
Rocamadour
- why this pilgrim town doesn't make the cut, I have no idea. It is built into a cliff on the edge of Lot and the Dordogne, and is a vertical rather than horizontal religious wonder. It's super touristy, but worth it.
Grimaud - Has an arty feel, singing cicadas and dubious connection with the Knights Templar. We dined at lovely Le Cafe de France on Place Nueve. It also has a tourist train link to the kooky Port Grimaud
Martel - It's not just the town, which is gorgeously in-tact, and choc-a-block with gourmet eateries and wine stores, but the scenic train ride around the edge of the hill, and looking down over the green-blanketed area.
St Emilion - It's not just the wine that's worth the journey for. This is a perfect village, very neat and tidy, with a macabre tower that can be climbed for a rooftop view, and quaint little wineshops and gourmet food stores that all require visits.
Les Eyzies - A lovely market, picture perfect houses, prehistoric museum and troglodite homes make this a full day's work. Luckily you can relax by the Vezere River with an aperitif to recharge.
Sarlat - already blogged.
Druyes Les Belles Fontaines - already blogged.
happy travels...