After shopping the market in Sarlat, we stopped by the house to hang our wash on the line because the house doesn't have a clothes dryer, which didn't bother me at all. I love to hang my towels and sheets on the line back in Kentucky.
We then drove to Castle Puymartin, where the tour was in French. Since we didn't understand the guide, we just turned our heads to look where everyone else did. They handed us some poorly translated notes in English. We learned that the man of the house came home from war to find his wife with another man, whom he killed. He then locked his wife in a round room, where they passed food to her through a hole in the ceiling. When she died after 15 years, they buried her behind a stone wall in the room. The rumor is that she haunts the house. In the room that joined ours, the door started moving and creaking. We understood the tour guide when she said it must have been Lady Blanche.
Later as the group was going up a set of stairs with a rope handrail, Kurt was the last in line. He said that all of the sudden, the end of the rope started shaking so he turned to see who had done it but there was no one in sight! Ooh!
After the tour, we walked the incredible grounds, then made another quick trip to the house to take the clothes off the line before the rain came. Then we were back on the road again in search of new adventures.
We saw an ancient church on a hilltop near Cazenac and decided to see if it was open. The gate was closed but not locked. The church doors were shut but not locked so we went inside out of the rain. Inside was a quaint little chapel with high-backed wooden chairs with straw seats. There was also a wooden Rapunzel-like staircase. We walked around for a bit and took some pictures. I think I see an angel in one of them. Do you?
As we were leaving, the church bells started ringing loudly and beautifully. Kurt and I just stood there in the rain, overlooking the surrounding beautiful countryside and stared at each other in amazement. We were blessed with so many surreal experiences.
We had barely driven away from the church when a pretty little horse seemed to be watching us, so we pulled over. I got out of the car and the horse bolted toward me. I was so scared that it wasn't going to stop, but it did. She just really needed a nose rub, I guess. Just another strange and lovely experience.
Bordeaux
On the drive to Bordeaux, we watched the views outside our windows, turn from castle country to wine country.
Row after row of meticulously pruned grape vines lined both sides of the road. The pleasing palette of earthy brown and spring green set against the blue and white sky stretched as far as the eye could see.
We had left without a plan or a map and arrived in an area that didn't look like the Bordeaux that we imagined. After crossing the most ornate bridge, we arrived in the real Bordeaux.
Kurt and I have allowed ourselves to get what we call, wonderfully lost. It has been fun to happen upon one discovery after another. There is something magical and dreamlike about it. But it can have its downside. Not plan2ning has nearly left us on the side of the road because there aren't fueling stations every few miles as we are accustomed to in the states. We have had to eat ham sandwiches for three meals in a row because grocery stores aren't open around the clock in France. And, once again, forgetting that lunch is only served from 12 until 2, we nearly missed it. At just a couple of minutes until 2, we noticed the clock and dashed into a nearby boulangerie. We purchased the only sandwich they had left. It was just tuna. It wasn't mixed together in a salad. The tuna, lettuce, tomato, onion and pickle slices were layered so we tasted each ingredient. Of course, it was served on crunchy crusted, soft centered French bread. Delicious!
On our way home, we stopped at one of the many roadside family vineyards. It was another wonderful impromptu experience. We pulled off the main road onto a gravel lane which led to a large barn filled with oak barrels, accessories and, of course, it was stocked to the roof with their wines. We were welcomed over to a makeshift tasting table and encouraged to try them all.
We purchased a crate set and naively planned to ship them back to Kentucky. At the post office, they actually laughed out loud at us. Oh, well. We just had to drink them while we were there.
Back at home, Kurt made us pizza with goat cheese. I ate every crumb.
When I heard that the house didn't have air conditioning, I was a little worried about it being uncomfortably hot. But soon found that it got quite cold in the evenings, and I would have given anything for a Snuggie and footie pajamas.
Dinner with our American Neighbors
Later that night, we had a late dinner with an American family that was staying in the house next to us. What a wonderful coincidence.
We sat at our farmhouse table with the doors and windows opened. I appreciated every detail; the bird's serenade, the light breeze blowing through, the warm familiarity of English-speaking new friends, and, of course, the food. We had pork chops, cooked in a mushroom sauce, chicken with onion and garlic, buttered potatoes, and a fresh green salad with vegetable dressing. We had a toasted baguette with Thierry's vanilla fig jam, olives, grapes, cherve and camembert cheeses. We savored them all while we learned about each other's families. Mr. Stevens is a professor who takes his class to Europe each year. How lucky is he?
After dinner, we walked together to Monique's garden and stood there talking with our French neighbors until well after dark. While discussing the differences in the Stephen's northern accent and our southern accent, Jean Louis piped up and said, "Aah, rednecks!" in his French accent. After a good laugh, we came back to our house for extra dark hot chocolate and macaroons. It was such a great evening and were sorry that the Stephens had to leave for Paris the next day.
When I planned this trip, I could never have imagined all the extraordinary and dreamy things that we would get to experience. Here are just a few:
Our neighbors had invited us into their living room to use their WIFI (wee-fee, she calls it). They were in the next room, huddled over the radio they had placed on the kitchen table listening to a message from their president. They were hopeful about the changes he was going to make for France and her people. We felt privileged to get to witness that.
Before we left, Monique asked us if we knew about the special local church, Redon Espic, hidden so deep in the woods that it was one of the few churches to survive the revolution. She gave us vague directions through the woods, but told us that it would be well worth our efforts.
Then she told us (in broken English with her lovely French accent) of the legend of Jeanne Grave. In the early 1800's, at the age of just 14, Jeanne was shepherding her fold in a nearby field, when an apparition of the Virgin Mary appeared to her and told her to ask her parents to build a place of prayer by a nearby stream, close to Redon Espic Church. Her parents believed Jeanne and built the place called L'Oratoire. To this day, it is a special place of reflection and prayer to the local people.
She described to us the marble plaques hanging inside that are engraved in gold lettering with a single word, "Merci". She went on to explain that people write their prayers on tiny pieces of paper and hide them in the cracks of the stones. When their prayers are answered, they remove the paper and have plaques made in commemoration. Some of them include the date of the answered prayer. Isn't this the most beautiful thing?
The next day, Kurt and I decided we would try to find the church by walking through the woods in the general direction that she pointed. The paths were not clearly defined and sometimes we would come to a fork and have to decide which path to choose but that made the hunt that much more magical. After walking through the forest for about a mile, we came to a clearing beside a road but there was no church in sight. We assumed we must have chosen the wrong direction at the forks. Little did we know that in getting lost, we would find so much more.
Meeting Thierry
While we were standing there discussing what to do next, it just so happened, (or did it?) that the Mayor, whom we'd met on our first day, happened by. Of course, he pulled off the road to help us. We explained how we came to be standing there and he motioned for the car behind him to stop. In that car was Thierry, the president of the organization responsible for the restoration of the church. When the Mayor told him that we were looking for the church, he left his car on the side of the road and said, "Allez", (follow me).
He took us on a private tour and told us everything he knew about the church. He took the time to show us every detail, including the fact that the entire church was once painted red and white "like a formula car". He told us about the annual pilgrimage from the church down to L'Oratoire. I wish we'd been there to witness that. We felt honored to be the beneficiaries of his knowledge and hospitality.
L'Oratoire
After the tour, he asked us to hop into his car and he drove us down to L'Oratoire. In the middle of a weekday, there were several people there praying. The place was so still and quiet.
Then he asked us if we would like to go to his estate. His land, his home and the many buildings sprawled across the hilltop overlooking St. Cyprien. As we walked around listening to his stories, I noticed the prettiest fluffy chickens walking along with us. He showed us the building where he hosts cooking classes. We toured his many rose covered buildings, including the gites that he and his wife rent out. Then he took us into his underground wine cave and showed us his collection of wine.
All around the estate, there were fountains and rain barrels. He called it a paradise and we agreed. He, then, took us into his home. The French live moderatly but beautifully. Before we left, he gave us a jar of his homemade vanilla fig jelly. then kindly drove us home. What a wonderful unexpected morning!
Kurt and I enjoyed driving our little European car along the country roads while listening to classical music. We felt like we were driving fast but got honked at a lot. Whenever we would pass a cemetery, we would pull over and walk through them, looking for ancestors with the name Reneau. French cemeteries are lovely. Families are sometimes all buried in the same tomb.
Later in the day, while Kurt used the weefee, I helped Monique plant in her garden.
Kurt and I would return to Redon Espic, usually on Sundays. It became one of my favorite places on Earth. We always had the church to ourselves which created an intimacy and reverence that can not be described with words.
It was impossible to reconcile how I could love it there so much, yet truly ache for home.
