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smokingbootGreeted by rain.
To keep my memories clear, I'll make this my list.
Edinburgh to Folkestone, Folkestone via Calais to Rouen: Leaving the wet and grey for more wet and grey.
Tours: Cheerful, lots of elegant architecture plus good shopping and that sense of a student city at its best. Pride was on that day, excellent benign vibe on the streets. We were seriously tempted to cancel the rest of our travels and just stay there.
St Emilion: Of which I have written elsewhere.
Bordeaux: Hmm, too hot for us to give this place a proper chance. But the beer/food was great!
Boulazac: In the 70s when I was a kidling, many aspired to owning a gite in the Perigord, which sounded like some kind of bladder problem. I never knew or cared what a gite was, and if anyone had mentioned Boulazac in our neighbourhood the jokes about ballsacks would have been endless. But this was a great base. The Perigord is heart-sweetening country.
Perigueux: A lovely old town with its industrial estates wisely kept on the outskirts. There's a charming museum and cute cafes, the central squares smell delectable because of what I think may be linden trees. Wandering the old streets to the church, we found little metal cockleshells pressed into the pavements, and followed them to the Cathedral of St Front, where pilgrims often stopped on their way along the Camino. They still do. It's part of the Voie de Vézelay, through France down into Spain to Santiago de Compostela.
Beynac-et-Cazenac: Home of the Bat and Castle described elsewhere.
Lascaux: Described elsewhere, definitely my personal highlight.
Bergerac: Down at heel. I get why Brits may flock here, cheap, amenities, plus the historical centre, real Cyrano country etc but not for me. I had no idea Cyrano de Bergerac was an actual person! All that stuff about his unrequited love for the fair Roxanne may be fiction, but he certainly liked to drink and duel, and he takes his place among the fore-runners of sci-fi, being supposedly the first writer to suggest travels to the moon via the use of rockets. And yes he had a huge hooter.
Eymet: The whole area of the Dordogne often gets called Dordogneshire because of the numbers of Brits escaping to it. Couldn't be more evident than here, where some 30% of the residents are from the UK. Looked like they had all turned out that day, sat in the picturesque village square, red shouldered slightly tiddled rosbifs smiling alongside their genial hosts, everybody together drinking white wine in the sun. What could be better?
Brantôme: Maybe this could be better. It's as gorgeous as rumour says, and cooler than Eymet. It too has a cheerful and lovely market. I think it is more to R's taste and I certainly wouldn't say no to a return. Easy to fall in love here.
Poitiers: Perhaps a bit ordinary by comparison, still the city has its gems, including Le Palais, where I could dreamsee the presence of Eleanor of Aquitaine walking through the great hall, however bare it seems now. Then there was the Cathedral of St Pierre which had, not only an alarming collection of saintly stone golems, but an archangel Michael finishing off the devil who bore a disturbing resemblance to a Great Dane of TV fame. We left whispering in awed tones: 'They killed Scooby!'
Back to Rouen: Only now the city smiled in sunshine and welcome, so delightful I don't know which bit was my favourite. The Palais du Justice is covered in gargoyles and no ordinary gargoyles, oh no. These are all snaky, dragons and wyrmlings and wyverns. I never saw a place warning you so clearly that the law is basically Smaug. Then there was the cathedral. Among those present when this place was consecrated was William of Normandy, one day to be William the Conqueror of England, from whom all monarchs of that land should be able to prove descent or have no claim at all. His ancestor, Rollo the Viking, is buried here. But there was one whose presence mattered more to my romantic heart than any of these. What it was to see these words on the side of a tomb: HIC IACET COR RICARDI REGIS ANGLORUM. Here lies the heart of Richard, King of the English. Lionheart! Oh I know, he was doubtless a thug like the rest of them, and he left his country in the hands of his rubbish brother, John Lackland, while gallivanting off to holy wars. But my childish self still thrilled. He will always represent to me the chivalry his mother inspired, with her love of books and bards and the rules of courtly love. Dust and stories perhaps, but if there's going to be stories, might as well be fun ones.
Then from Rouen to Calais, across the channel and up to Birmingham to enjoy the hospitality of old friends. Then Brum to home.
And here I am. For now.
To keep my memories clear, I'll make this my list.
Edinburgh to Folkestone, Folkestone via Calais to Rouen: Leaving the wet and grey for more wet and grey.
Tours: Cheerful, lots of elegant architecture plus good shopping and that sense of a student city at its best. Pride was on that day, excellent benign vibe on the streets. We were seriously tempted to cancel the rest of our travels and just stay there.
St Emilion: Of which I have written elsewhere.
Bordeaux: Hmm, too hot for us to give this place a proper chance. But the beer/food was great!
Boulazac: In the 70s when I was a kidling, many aspired to owning a gite in the Perigord, which sounded like some kind of bladder problem. I never knew or cared what a gite was, and if anyone had mentioned Boulazac in our neighbourhood the jokes about ballsacks would have been endless. But this was a great base. The Perigord is heart-sweetening country.
Perigueux: A lovely old town with its industrial estates wisely kept on the outskirts. There's a charming museum and cute cafes, the central squares smell delectable because of what I think may be linden trees. Wandering the old streets to the church, we found little metal cockleshells pressed into the pavements, and followed them to the Cathedral of St Front, where pilgrims often stopped on their way along the Camino. They still do. It's part of the Voie de Vézelay, through France down into Spain to Santiago de Compostela.
Beynac-et-Cazenac: Home of the Bat and Castle described elsewhere.
Lascaux: Described elsewhere, definitely my personal highlight.
Bergerac: Down at heel. I get why Brits may flock here, cheap, amenities, plus the historical centre, real Cyrano country etc but not for me. I had no idea Cyrano de Bergerac was an actual person! All that stuff about his unrequited love for the fair Roxanne may be fiction, but he certainly liked to drink and duel, and he takes his place among the fore-runners of sci-fi, being supposedly the first writer to suggest travels to the moon via the use of rockets. And yes he had a huge hooter.
Eymet: The whole area of the Dordogne often gets called Dordogneshire because of the numbers of Brits escaping to it. Couldn't be more evident than here, where some 30% of the residents are from the UK. Looked like they had all turned out that day, sat in the picturesque village square, red shouldered slightly tiddled rosbifs smiling alongside their genial hosts, everybody together drinking white wine in the sun. What could be better?
Brantôme: Maybe this could be better. It's as gorgeous as rumour says, and cooler than Eymet. It too has a cheerful and lovely market. I think it is more to R's taste and I certainly wouldn't say no to a return. Easy to fall in love here.
Poitiers: Perhaps a bit ordinary by comparison, still the city has its gems, including Le Palais, where I could dreamsee the presence of Eleanor of Aquitaine walking through the great hall, however bare it seems now. Then there was the Cathedral of St Pierre which had, not only an alarming collection of saintly stone golems, but an archangel Michael finishing off the devil who bore a disturbing resemblance to a Great Dane of TV fame. We left whispering in awed tones: 'They killed Scooby!'
Back to Rouen: Only now the city smiled in sunshine and welcome, so delightful I don't know which bit was my favourite. The Palais du Justice is covered in gargoyles and no ordinary gargoyles, oh no. These are all snaky, dragons and wyrmlings and wyverns. I never saw a place warning you so clearly that the law is basically Smaug. Then there was the cathedral. Among those present when this place was consecrated was William of Normandy, one day to be William the Conqueror of England, from whom all monarchs of that land should be able to prove descent or have no claim at all. His ancestor, Rollo the Viking, is buried here. But there was one whose presence mattered more to my romantic heart than any of these. What it was to see these words on the side of a tomb: HIC IACET COR RICARDI REGIS ANGLORUM. Here lies the heart of Richard, King of the English. Lionheart! Oh I know, he was doubtless a thug like the rest of them, and he left his country in the hands of his rubbish brother, John Lackland, while gallivanting off to holy wars. But my childish self still thrilled. He will always represent to me the chivalry his mother inspired, with her love of books and bards and the rules of courtly love. Dust and stories perhaps, but if there's going to be stories, might as well be fun ones.
Then from Rouen to Calais, across the channel and up to Birmingham to enjoy the hospitality of old friends. Then Brum to home.
And here I am. For now.
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