Base Camp Monpazier

Wednesday, November 23, 2011 Eva 0 Comments



What do you call a 14 kilometre paddle downstream in a two-man canoe?  Answer – a relationship test!  It’s a skills test on the art of teamwork and we’ve failed.  Out on the Dordogne River in France’s south-west on a warm sunny day, a leisurely canoe trip seemed like an idyllic pastime. The picturesque villages of La Roque Gageac, Beynac and Castelnaud line the banks of the river, overlooked by historic imposing fortress chateaux, limestone-coloured facades glowing in the sunshine.  They sit proudly up high, enticing photographers.  In the wide shallow waters riverweeds, like lurid long green wigs of mermaids’ hair, wave underwater with the downstream current. Numerous fish can be seen clearly through the water and swans, ducks and kingfishers glide and dive about.


La Roque Gageac

Canoe pitstop, Dordogne River


The romance of it is shattered, however. Two captains in one vessel is a surefire recipe for disaster.  We bicker over strategy. He says I’m paddling too much, too little, not enough.  I say he’s paddling too hard, too soon, too late.  We watch others pass us effortlessly in their canoes and kayaks through the slow-moving waters.  Meantimes, our canoe gracefully pirouettes in circles as it pulls out of patches of small currents.

After the first 10 km we’re too tired to argue as fatigue sets in.  We pull over to a spot of gravelly beach on the riverbank for a snack, a stretch and a truce then continue zigzagging in almost blissful silence for the remaining 4 km, taking in the serene landscape until we reach the canoe company’s base. Okay, so we’ve proved to ourselves that after a few attempts over the years at various aquatic activities we’re hopeless together on water. Relationship test over, this experience has finally sealed the deal for the end of any future couple’s watersports.

View of Dordogne River

We are in France’s Aquitaine region, between the Pyrenees in the south and Brittany and the Loire Valley to the north.  Our base is the small village of Monpazier in the Aquitaine’s province of Dordogne.  Also referred to as the Perigord, this area is divided into four counties – Perigord Blanc (white because of its limestone), Perigord Noir (Black Perigord because of the dark oak and pine forests), Perigord Pourpre (purple to represent the vineyard region) and Perigord Vert (Green Perigord due to the area’s verdant forests and valleys).  Monpazier lies to the south in Perigord Pourpre where we’ve been sampling the fine red wines of Bergerac (of Cyrano Bergerac fame).  We have rented a lovely two-storey renovated 13th century home in the centre of town that comes with a peaceful garden.  


Entry into town

Different building styles around the town square


Rue Notre Dame, Monpazier

Within the medieval village, a narrow cobblestoned carreyrou (tiny alley) leads past a garden to the left, growing wild behind a stone wall with its tantalising smell of ripening figs.  To the right, passing under a small stone arch we step across the gravel path to the house with its roses and wisteria vines clinging to the neighbours’ stone walls. Four bedrooms decorated with country-style furniture and two bathrooms are upstairs.  From two of the bedrooms, views to the gardens below and out past the boundary walls of Monpazier to the gentle countryside beyond. The other two bedrooms overlook the street and a little restaurant opposite.  Downstairs, French doors from the kitchen and living areas lead out to the courtyard garden, which is the perfect setting for a late afternoon glass of wine.  It is one of the few properties in the village with a garden, a rarity.  This is home to us for three weeks – the longest period we’d have stayed put on our 6 month journey.  

The laneway to our house


Our retreat

The caretaker, Amelia, shows us through the house and where to find things.  She speaks not a word of English and we get along fine between my limited command of French and lots of gesturing and hands waving about.  Max watches and tries to interpret the body language between us two ladies to make sense of how things work.  The beds are typically French-sized – Napoleonic – and we’re lucky that either of us aren’t tall or big-framed.  In bed we’re snug as two bugs in a rug.  Treading the wooden floorboards in the dead of night creates a cacophony of little creaks and squeaks ensuring that both of us awake to hear the other’s nocturnal trip to the bathroom. 

So the house is antique and creaky, but we’re loving it!  We’re steps away from the main square. The things that a traveller appreciates are all here - a washing machine (no more hand scrubbing of socks and undies in a hotel basin for a while), a fully equipped kitchen for stay-at-home meals (hard to believe, I know, but one does get tired of dining out every day) and taking out freshly laundered and ironed clothes hanging in a cupboard rather than shaking out the creases from stale clothes folded in a backpack.


Town square and market hall

Interesting photographic exhibition of local villagers
displayed in large scale on public buildings around town

Dinner of tinned cassoulet from Carrefour one of France’s largest supermarket chains, a good Bergerac red to wash it down (in other words, Draino to clear the fatty palate) and crisp French bread to sop up the juices is one of our first in-house meals.  Cassoulet is a thick hearty stew from the Languedoc region in the south of France and is usually made with white beans, goose and/or duck fat, duck pieces, pork sausage and sometimes bacon.  You get the idea -  this is not a Weight Watcher’s meal. Very enjoyable but be warned - tinned cassoulet does not burp up very well.

Cheap French meal

Monpazier’s history stretches back to the 1200’s when it was founded by King Edward I.  It is considered one of the best preserved bastide towns in France, that is, a medieval fortified village with its strong walls and arched gateways still standing.  In the arcaded town square ancient timbers hold up the open market hall that is still used to this day for markets.  Just like its range of historic buildings, some things haven’t changed over time.  Every Thursday is market day as it has been for centuries, when the town comes out of its inert state and livens up.  We’ve bought good quality fresh produce such as luscious French cheeses, locally-made dry sausages of pork, bull or duck, honey, excellently priced wines and fruits and vegetables that stretch across outdoor trestles alongside arts and crafts stalls.  We’ve even enjoyed some tasty Asian foods by a Vietnamese couple who load up their car and go from village market to village market in the area selling their freshly cooked products.


Three boulangeries in town (which incidentally take it in turn to close on alternate days - how thoughtful), ensure that we have ready access to freshly-baked delicious bread and croissants that come with a sing-song “bonjour, madame” and a smile from charming shop assistants each morning.  I have fallen in love with warm pain au chocolat (a chocolate-embedded pastry similar to a croissant) here in Monpazier.  In recent weeks we have eaten loads of European bread (ie, Greece, Italy & France) and not felt the ill-effects of it, like back home. 

Flea market, Monpazier

Each time we take a walk around the village we discover more of its hidden surprises.  Like being on a treasure hunt, we notice little architectural details and unearth interesting historical facts and figures that are subtly presented on plaques down alleyways and on old stone facades.  For instance, the width of the few main roads through the gateways were designed to be wide enough to allow two carts to pass side by side to allow trade in and out of the community. 
Narrow laneways waiting to be explored


On non-market days Monpazier falls into a kind of fairytale slumber.  Like many rural places in France, the village opens for 3 hours in the morning and 3 hours in the afternoon. It means having to plan ahead and be organised before the supermarkets, bakeries, post office, library (for internet access) and shops close. On Wednesdays much of the village closes up for a day off. To an outsider the French 35-hour working week, whilst frustrating for tourists, presents as an envious condition of employment. 

Arcades around  town square

Locals are puzzled as to why Monpazier attracts many Australians throughout the year.  Tourists come here from many European destinations, including French nationals, but there seems to be a disproportionate number of Aussies visiting.  Maybe it has something to do with the village highlighted in Lonely Planet guidebooks.  Who knows? It certainly oozes romantic historical charm in its rustic setting which is what attracted us here to this part of the Dordogne.

Our shadows fall across a country lane


Maybe it's the relaxed lifestyle that's so appealing around these parts.  Sitting in the town square soaking up the warmth of the sun over a café au lait or creamy hot chocolate at one of several cafes, depending on where the autumn sunshine falls, has to be one of Monpazier’s best pastimes. Outside the village periphery, we explore the quiet country laneways and the surrounding farmsides on foot.  By car, driving out of the village walls, we notice the same 4 men sitting on the same bench in front of the same street most mornings.  Life in the fast lane, a la Monpazier style. Stress and speed don't seem to be a way of life here.

Minutes away by car is the lovely fortified medieval town of Belves where we’ve gone underground into fascinating troglodyte limestone caves that still exist below the town’s marketplace and streets.  These were used for dwellings by the poorest of poor since the Middle Ages and earlier.  Permanently etched in my mind is the horror of learning that in these dark, dank places some families were smart enough to suspend their babies’ cradles from hooks set into the stone ceiling to protect their young ones from rats that would eat away at babies’ ears and noses.  In fact, a number of babies would have grown up with those body parts missing, thanks to hungry scavenging rodents. How gruesomely ghastly!
Troglodyte caves lie directly below this street in Belves' market square.

The Dordogne is heaving with chateaux yearning to be explored.  One of our favourites in the area is Chateau des Milandes, once owned by the famous Afro-American 1920’s dancer, Josephine Baker. This castle is now a tribute to her and her life with many of her costumes, photographs and posters on display.  In between scandalising and tantalising Paris in her skirt of bananas as a Les Folies dancer and adopting 12 children of different nationalities (Brangelina aren’t doing anything new) she campaigned for black civil rights and worked secretly for the French Resistance in WWII.  Josephine Baker’s songs are played in the background as you stroll from room to room, and it was actually rather delightful to hear little old French ladies in tour groups walking by singing along to her music.

Chateau des Milandes
Our impressions to date – goodness gracious, coming from Australia we’re bowled over by how cheap the food and top quality wines are.  The small grower is king here.  High quality produce over quantity, and quality over profit is evident.  A big thumbs up to small local French producers who are out there selling their products.  The cost of living is infinitely cheaper than back home.  My local village haircut, colour and style was an unbelievable 40 euros (about AUD$55) and I was very happy with it.

We’ve dined on the most amazing meals.  A local restaurant, Bistrot 2, serves up the most incredible, almost orgasmic TO--DIE--FOR foie gras (we are in goose county after all) garnished with merlot-marinated sea salt and red wine onion relish washed down with a very enjoyable French champagne.  Don't want to think about cholesterol levels till the party's over. Fine dining quality at West Australian café prices.  Our money is certainly stretching further than anticipated. 

Divine flavours of foie gras

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A Stopover in Toulouse

Wednesday, November 09, 2011 Eva 0 Comments

Leaving the southern region of Provence, we were making our way towards our base in the village of Monpazier with two days up our sleeves before we were due there.  We chose Toulouse as a short stopover, a halfway point between Arles in Provence and the house that we were going to be renting in the Dordogne in the south-west region of Aquitaine.


Canal locks, Beziers



Along the way to Toulouse we stopped in at the town of Beziers, in the Languedoc region, renowned for the Canal du Midi that passes by, a brilliant engineering marvel and World Heritage attraction. People gather along the stairway of canal locks and over little bridges to watch holidaymakers in house boats make the journey down Fontseranes, a series of nine locks.  Picnicking by the side of the canal we could only but smile as boaties heave-hoed on mooring ropes as each lock slowly drained of water and released the boats into the next lock.  Having tried our hand at house-boating several years prior down the Canal du Midi during a very wet windy spring week, we realised that we weren’t cut out for this watery pastime.  In two days we had managed to get the boat through more than 30 locks and there were 30 more to go. Max valiantly trying to steer a wayward boat (after a 5 minute training session that came with the hire boat) and me jumping on and off through pouring rain to either haul the boat in for mooring or to unleash the ropes, was far too arduous for only the two of us.  But we were more than happy to watch others doing it this time and I offered to photograph the Aussie boaties for them as they posed while working the ropes.

Once more, lack of research on our part before arriving in Toulouse meant that we wouldn’t be popping into a museum of any kind associated with the French Impressionist painter Toulouse-Lautrec, the man of the Moulin Rouge and dancing hall poster-fame.  Oops, wrong city.  No, his museum was located in his birthplace, the town of Albi an hour’s drive out of Toulouse.  Nor could we visit what Toulouse was famous for – its aeronautic industry, aka the Airbus factory. For security reasons tours require bookings two weeks in advance.  As consolation it was lucky for us that the hotel had a pool, a good way to pass the time in warm weather, and Space City, an aerospace museum that was nearby and AVAILABLE.  Here, a large landscaped park is filled with space rockets and a replica of the Russian Mir Space Station (how the heck did those astronauts live in such a small cramped capsule for so long?).  There’s also a planetarium, various theatres and interactive displays.  Aeronautical paraphernalia, we figured, were a nice change from architectural and historical sights-fatigue.
Practising my Russian Euro-pose
in front of the Mir Space Station, Toulouse

Space City, below

Leaving Toulouse two days later for the village of Monpazier, in the Dordogne, we set out via Albi to finally see the works of the talented, height-challenged painter.  It was well worth the detour.  In the town's centre, Albi is graced with half-timbered buildings that are dwarfed by the huge Cathedrale Sainte Cecile that towers majestically over the town.  Le Musee Toulouse-Lautrec is in a stunning historical setting.  The pinkish-red bricked Palais de la Berbie, once upon a time housing the bishops of Albi from the 13th century onwards, now houses many of Lautrec’s prints and artworks.  Outside, beautiful manicured gardens overlook the Tarn River way below.


Palais de la Berbie now houses the Toulouse-Lautrec museum
So, onward then to the Dordogne’s southern gourmet epicentre we went.  We drove a long time, even though distance-wise it wasn’t really that far away.  Miss Moneypenny, our GPS system, turned our 2 ½ drive from Albi into a 4 hour long distance marathon.  Over hill, dell and dale our little black Peugeot rolled on.  She knows where she’s going and we don’t so we’ll put our full trust in her, we reasoned.
Cathedrale Sainte Cecile, Albi

Just as we neared large autoroutes the digital voice would steer us parallel to these highways then whisk us down winding country roads where we’d sit fuming on the tail of hay-laden tractors that were impossible to overtake on the bends.  Had I programmed the GPS to select France’s most scenically smallest roads? A re-check of the system - fastest time, shortest distance or eco-route - confirmed that I’d selected shortest distance.  Changing the GPS to fastest time to get there took us further down smaller and tighter roads.  Under the sunroof of our car, exasperation levels peaked when Max refused to cross a farm property down a gravel road that Moneypenny had directed the car to go. That put her into another one of her hissy fits - then a short silence as she recalculated more of her dastardly routes all the way to our destination.

View of Albi and the River Tarn

Okay, so we got to see some pretty villages and bucolic pastures along the way but on arrival here at Monpazier I made the decision to put her into temporary retirement during our three week stay in the Perigord.  In other words, she was fired and I forged an intimate alliance with our Michelin road atlas.  A much more trustworthy partnership.

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Arles and Provence - A Land of Contrasts

Friday, November 04, 2011 Eva 0 Comments


Arles in Provence is all about the bull - big black bulls that paw the earth and lower their golden-knobbed horns before charging around the Roman amphitheatre after athletic young bodies in a game of tag.  Others find themselves on restaurant menus in the form of toro sausages and bull steak. 
Were we really in France?  We were hearing French but drinking sangria and eating paella and tareau casserole. Arles in the southern French region of Provence is a couple of hours’ drive from the border of France and Italy.  And yet despite its proximity to Italy, to immerse oneself in this town feels as though one foot is straddling Spain and just the big toe of the other foot is in France. We had arrived from Genoa in Italy, giving the French Riviera a wide berth.  After spending time on the Italian Riviera and the beaches of Naxos it was time for a change of scenery.

Arles' Roman amphitheatre
Having naturally acquired many Italian words to our limited repertoire whilst in Italy, we automatically responded with ‘si’ and ‘gratzie’ against this new backdrop, then quickly replaced them with “oui” and “merci”.  So, it was no wonder that we were continually mistaken for tanned Italian tourists.  However, unlike Italy where places are buzzing with people at night time, evenings on the old Roman streets of Arles were relatively quiet.

Arles street with amphitheatre in background

Vincent Van Gogh is a big name here in Arles, where he spent time living with Paul Gaugin and painting before committing himself to an asylum.  The central Place du Forum, which houses the café that Van Gogh famously painted in ‘Starry Night’, has the tourists flocking to its many eateries including these two little black ducks for very average, moderately priced meals with a roving Spanish guitarist thrown in for ambience.  But we weren’t here for the art or the artists this time, our second visit after 17 years. What attracted us were the Camargue area to the south of Arles and the Provencal scenery to the north.
The Camarguaise area, flat and filled with swamps and salty marshes along the coast, is home to a wide range of birdlife including flocks of pink flamingos that we observed picking for food through wetlands at the large regional nature park.  Beware the mosquitoes!  We passed black bull farms and stables of white Camargue horses. This is cowboy country with a Spanish-French twist.  There are white-washed, blue-shuttered houses some with horned bull skulls proudly on show on walls and some with thatched roofs. In the nearby coastal town of Saintes-Maries De La Mer, cowboy boots are for sale, along with horse saddles and belt buckles that would appeal to the Marlborough man within you. Shops display names such as El Rio Grande and Sitting Bull, and stuffed toy bulls are popular souvenirs.

Flamingos in the Camargue

In Sts-Maries De La Mer we visited a large church dedicated to the two Maries (Marie-Salome and Marie-Jacobe) who apparently were shipwrecked here.  The church and the surrounding area attract Roma gypsies (called gitans) whose patron saint is the black Sara, whose relics are here along with relics of the Maries. We found an underground church crypt that had a fascinating gypsy shrine devoted to Sara.  

Siesta time.
Side street, Saintes-Maries de la Mer

Okay, so the French in these parts, unlike the rest of their countrymen, are into bull games.  The Camarguaise bull games that we witnessed in Arles’ Roman amphitheatre involved young lads dressed in white (Max likened their outfits to cricket whites) running across the arena and taunting bulls to encourage them to take chase.  The runner’s task is to run in front of the bull and snatch the ribbon tied between the bull’s brass-capped horns using a claw-like comb held in the hand.  To escape a charging bull, runners leap high over the arena boundary with incredible energy and athleticism.  The bulls don’t get hurt in the process but the team of 14 able-bodied men was reduced to 11 by the end of the show. Bulls win!
Charge!

Time out, guys!

Everyone takes cover as this smart bull jumps the barrier.

We organised a stay at a French country-style house B&B a few kilometres out of Arles where we met up with two Italian families travelling together.  This jovial, friendly bunch of four adults and four children invited us to join their family gatherings where we shared food, laughs and conversations. Carla and her husband work for the Senate in Rome and their English was very good which meant, having them as translators, we could all communicate.

To the north of Arles lies the Provencal region of Luberon.  We managed to squish in a lot of places along a 100km route (plus return) into one scenic sunny daytrip that also included small hikes.  Up in the pretty light coloured village of Gordes perched on its hilltop location, it was market day where trestles of local products, including colourful Provencal-designed linens, cheeses, sausages, nuts, olive oils, crafts and flowers, filled the small streets and town square. Bunches of deep purple highly-fragrant Provencal lavender were too irresistible to pass by.  We bought a bunch to take with us along our trip.

Gordes

Nearby is a tiny village of historic bories (huts made of stones) that have sat amongst hilltop farmlands for centuries.  The dry stone huts reminded us of Irish ones we’d seen, such as the Gallarus Oratory on the Dingle Peninsula, only that these ones were set against a backdrop of a limestoney Mediterranean landscape with fig, olive and cypress trees. To reach the village meant driving very carefully along tight country laneways lined with high stone walls with an occasional little widening of the road to allow for passing traffic.  As we were in a brand new lease car, Max was mindful of the paintwork and the side mirrors which on occasion had needed tucking in to get through tight spots, so we were hoping that we wouldn’t meet oncoming traffic. The bories were very impressive - stone housing, workshops and animal pens were grouped together like a small commune.  Considering that no mortar was used to build the roofs and walls, they were an amazing feat of architectural engineering.


Village of bories


The salmon pink-coloured clifftop town of Roussillon with its terracotta roofs lit up under a sunny sky was an absolute delight.  Roussillon is renowned for its ochre canyons and quarries. We hiked through the Sentier des Ocres, the ochre trail that led downhill through a veritable colour chart of deep yellow and red ochres, apricots and melons interspersed with streaks of russets, maroons and burnt umber. Tall trees of chestnuts and cypresses shaded the canyon floor providing cool respite from the glare of the sun.  By the time we’d finished hiking the ochre trail, our walking boots and socks were coated yellow by the fine pigments underfoot.

Hikers on the Ochre Trail

Further past Roussillon is the Colorado du Provencal near a tiny village called Rustrel.  This is a strange rock landscape that rises suddenly from surrounding forests and was once an ochre quarry.  We followed the marked trails, hiking around and over ochre formations that looked like mini-me versions of Uluru (Ayers Rock) and others with names such as the Sahara.  Driving through the Luberon’s fields and rolling hills, lavender bushes neatly trimmed of their summer flowers sat looking like silvery grey pincushions lined up in orderly rows. 
Cafe life, Roussillon

Surveying the lay of the land, Colorado du Provencal


Max on top, Colorado du Provencal


The Camargue and Luberon areas of Provence are so vastly different from each other in terrain, sights and customs, and yet surprisingly a short distance from each other within the same country.  Black bulls, white horses and pink flamingos around wetland coastal plains and then the inland colours of limestone, ochres and terracottas amid green pastoral scenes at the other.  What a colourful, intriguing glimpse of contrasts it has been for us.




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