Breathless in Beynac
Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion. --Jane Austen
At the foot of Chateau Beynac, I watch the swallows soar as I dine on tourte quercynoise and wine from Cahors, alone on the terrace of the Hotel Bonnet. The birds wheel in circles, catching the thermals, gliding around and around over the River Dordogne below.
The Chateau crowns the steep cliffs above the hotel, looking not like a fairytale, but like war. It’s scary, forbidding, awe-inspiring, beautiful, as I gaze upward at it from my dinner table. The river, so peaceful, so feminine, flows below the hotel and the mighty Chateau, sternly immobile and minatory on its golden rock precipice. The village of the same golden stone and red tiled roofs connects and unites the Chateau and the river into one perfect whole. The masculine and feminine, the contrast, is what makes life so remarkable, beautiful, tense, and fulfilling. Here in the Valley of the Dordogne, castles are everywhere, on the peak of every hill, glaring at each other over the river, reminders of centuries of Englisand French wars for this beautiful country. The now serene Dordogne ran red with blood for hundreds of years. It was all about power, possession, might—la plus de choses changent, le plus qu'ils restent la même chose.
The weather is heavy tonight, expectant. Black clouds are gathering behind the castle, which is even more golden in the light from the setting sun. The warmth of the old stones against the sky’s cold blackness is dazzling.
When I toured the Chateau today, from inside it didn’t seem in any way sinister. The fortress’ threatening demeanor just does its job of frightening would be invaders, while being as comfortably homey within as possible for its privileged inhabitants of yesterday. Now pitchforks of lightening make Beynac look like a scene from a horror movie, and in reality, several movies have been filmed there. Huge raindrops begin to assault the hotel’s terrace, and so I move inside to the cozy half-timbered dining room for my dessert and coffee, watching the rain blur the magnificent views into Impressionist paintings.
The quiet river has turned dark and for the first time in my week’s stay appears to be visibly moving, westward. The bouquets of white flowers that grow like seaweed in the Dordogne are swiftly moving down stream in the sudden summer storm, glowing points of light in the dark water. What beauty, passion, history and drama there is tonight—as well as a glorious meal. Is there any doubt that I am in France!
When you say Le Périgord to the French, they don’t think about art or history, but about food. One eats well throughout France, but here the regional specialties are special even to the French: foie gras, truffles, duck, goose, mushrooms, fruit and nuts. And the wine!
I’d come to the Dordogne Valley, or Le Périgord as the French call it, to spend a week away from the hustle and bustle of Paris where I was visiting Jacques and Isabelle, Olivier’s friends we had stayed with near the end of our ill-fated romance.
I didn’t want Olivier to know I was in France as I was still afraid of his anger, and so while fearing running into him on the street and trying to be a good guest and follow all of the rules I remembered so well from my two-month stay with Jacques and Isabelle the year before, being alone in the country was a pleasant prospect.
The high-speed train from Paris had brought me to Sarlat where I rented a car and took off for the drive to Beynac and my hotel, reserved on the Internet. I was out of Sarlat in five minutes, and spent the next ten driving toward the golden castle I could see perched on the steep rock cliffs above the river. There is a lot to see in this region and no way in truth to see it without a car.
So I begin my stay with a good dinner at the hotel and my maps, planning my route for the next day, a habit I follow all week. It is May and night doesn’t fall until quite late, after ten, and sometimes it is difficult to wait until dark to go to bed, exhausted as I get from driving and walking up the steep hills of the bastides. Other than my back and legs hurting from all the hiking up and down, I feel well and never think of my cancer, just thankful to be back in France.
I do my best to do it all, flying around country roads with a joyous abandon and a new sense of independence and empowerment behind the wheel of my little car. I sing the names off the road signs: Monbazillac, Bergerac, Grotte du Grand Roc, Capdenac-le-Haut, Moissac, Les Eyzies-de-Tayac, Gouffre de Proumeyssac, Razac-de-Saussignac, La Roque-Gageac. My God, it was poetry!
I seem to be alone on the roads, never seeing another car until I get to the parking lots of my destinations. I stop at T intersections in the middle of golden grain fields and take photos of road signs: to the right, Toutes Directions; to the left, Autres Directions. I can’t get lost! It’s impossible, at least according to the signs, and so I drive faster, take dusty side roads that end up nowhere, make u-turns, cross and recross the river on quaint bridges, look up and see a castle and go for it, like a crow. Not for me to leave a road not taken. I dance over the Dordogne.
This was the most beautiful countryside I had ever seen. I understood why Cro-Magnon man had chosen this valley as the place to begin European civilization. I was totally unprepared for the majesty of Lascaux II, which, even though a reproduction, is a cathedral of art, emotional and eternal. The city carved into the cliffs 14,000 years ago by Magdalenians at the Grotte du Grand Roc, so much resembled our Indian cliff dwellings in all but geology that I felt a timeless connection, a one-ness of humanity and spirit.
The week was over too quickly, but it’s true that I was a little tired of my own conversation. Even though my French is passable, I never really found anyone to talk to at the castles and caves, and certainly, the only dancing was that of the birds in flight. When I begin to regard the young girl who served me my tissane every night at the hotel as my friend, I put the Chateau Beynac at my back and head off to the train station at Sarlat.
Flying to Paris through the Périgord on the TGV, it starts to rain, but the train is going so fast it doesn’t seem to get wet, no drops blur the windows. My assigned seat is backwards, the car is divided in half. I could change it, I suppose. It does have a psychological effect. Am I going back to my future? It’s so pleasant, I wish I could just continue on, not, Destination: Paris, but Destination: Happiness. Or Heaven. Or maybe Elysian Fields. I don’t know. Maybe back to Beynac.
Is this from your memoir or were you there recently?
ReplyDeleteOh what a wonderful post - about one of my favorite places in the world!
I've been meaning to write one too (we have the "same" photos - no seriously yours are lovely).