Larry Zuckerman

Getting Creatively Lost: A Ramble Through France

Final Post: Heading Back to Paris

April 8, 2015

Tags: Dordogne, France, hiking, village-to-village, walking

From Loubressac to Autoire.
The next morning, I got up early to catch a taxi to the train station across the river, in Bretenoux, where I’d catch a train back to Paris. I was sorry to leave the valley, and I felt a tightening in my chest at the approach of my time to go home. But it was time to go home.

I’d walked a hundred miles in ten days, about my speed. I’d seen beautiful countryside; smelled the fresh, fragrant air; got a closer sense of the people than I’d had before; poked around ancient castles and churches; eaten spectacular meals; drunk wine I wish were more available in the states (in the nearby Cahors, they have a way with malbec); and tested myself physically, a little. I was lonely, often, but often not. And when I was by myself, with no one to talk to, I thought about life, my family, and how I could be a better husband and father.

I couldn’t have asked for more.


Like this blog? I invite you to visit my other one, Novelhistorian, in which I review historical fiction and history.

Causse de Lauriol

April 7, 2015

Tags: hiking, France, walking, village-to-village, Dordogne, St.-Céré

Climbing the Causse de Lauriol.
My last neighborhood ramble was up the Causse de Lauriol, a limestone plateau past the outskirts of St.-Céré. It was the most heavily wooded walk, and, not surprisingly, as unlike the Pacific Northwest as could be. I saw few conifers, but many more bushes and low-lying trees, the most common being a type of small oak I’d come across throughout the valley. The top of the plateau gave splendid views for miles around. What I liked most, though, was a sense of peace and quiet, as if everything that could possibly make noise were far, far away. I did some deep thinking in that place, one of the most refreshing, reviving walks in ten days.

On the way up, I passed a small, well-tended vineyard, where the grapes looked rich and ripe. I noticed shiny materials hanging from the vines every row or two. I couldn’t tell whether they were DVD disks, aluminum pie tins, or strips of metal. I asked the owner, who happened to be chopping wood, and he said–predictably–that the shiny material deterred birds. I asked him more questions, as with what type of grapes, but he pretended not to know, the first and only time on my wanderings that anybody stonewalled me.

Conversely, while en route through the Causse de Lauriol, I encountered two guys and their dog running in the opposite direction. We wished each other bonne route. Later, when I passed the café where they were having a drink, one looked up, waved, and alerted his companion so he could wave too. That cheered me and took the sting out of my interaction with the surly grape farmer.

Like this blog? I invite you to visit my other one, Novelhistorian, in which I review historical fiction and history.


Jean Lurçat

April 3, 2015

Tags: hiking, France, Dordogne, village-to-village, St.-Céré, Jean Lurçat

Jean Lurçat's tapestry titled Chicago.
My first afternoon in St.-Céré, I walked up a long, hot, steep hill to a museum dedicated to Jean Lurçat, an artist little known across the Atlantic. He worked mostly in tapestries, and, many years ago, I’d stumbled across one in Angers called Le Chant du Monde (Song of the World). I like his whimsy, the power of his understatement, and his colors. His work reminds me of Chagall and Mirò, though for different reasons.

Lurçat lived in St.-Céré for much of his life, and the converted castle atop the steep hill served as his studio and residence. I was practically melting when I arrived and had to mop my forehead and fan myself a good fifteen minutes. The museum has an excellent collection of his work; not just tapestries, but paintings, in which he tested out many styles, including Cubism, and ceramics. But the studio and house itself are works of art, because Lurçat painted and/or carved designs into the walls and ceilings, and he painted and fired the dishes in the dining room.

The artist was quite a story himself, apparently. He was wounded twice in World War I and was active in the Resistance in the second war. It’s said that French Communists (there were many in the Resistance) helped him buy his castle. I asked someone at the museum whether that really happened, and he only smiled and shrugged.

Like this blog? I invite you to visit my other one, Novelhistorian, in which I review historical fiction and history.

French Teenagers

April 1, 2015

Tags: France, hiking, Dordogne, St.-Céré, village-to-village, obesity, adolescents

Fish ladder and dam, St.-Céré.
The park near my hotel had many benches, perfect for writing in my travel diary, eating rich pastries, and watching the kids from the Lycée Jean Lurçat gossip, flirt, preen, laugh, and let off steam, like teenagers anywhere. Mostly, the boys and girls eyed each other from separate groups, but when they mixed, there was horseplay. The boys never tired of swiping a girl’s handbag, shinnying up a metal trellis structure, and hanging the bag there just out of reach. The girl thus chosen acted flustered but enjoyed the attention, and the boys drew out the drama, knowing just when to retrieve the bag–before putting it, or another one, back up there.

Having seen so many overweight adults, more than I remembered on previous trips to France, I wondered how these kids looked so thin–most did, anyway. Later, I looked up national obesity rates and saw that they’ve been climbing, showing a marked increase among the young. Smoking rates have shot up too. The next day at the park, coincidentally, I saw where the kids had left two enormous bags of potato chips and a pile of spilled tobacco.


Like this blog? I invite you to visit my other one, Novelhistorian, in which I review historical fiction and history.

Saint-Céré

March 31, 2015

Tags: hiking, France, Dordogne, village-to-village, pastry, Saint-Céré

Saint-Céré from above.
The center of town in St.-Céré confused me, for no apparent reason. I must not have been used to a metropolis that boasted not one but three pharmacies (where I stocked up on those hip, slick, and cool blister remedies to bring home), and a half-dozen or more hotels. I went into the tourist bureau to ask where mine was and found it no more than a hundred yards away, though slightly obscured by a park. At least, that was my excuse.

My hotel, the Victor-Hugo, was a pleasant place run by two people born to be in the hospitality business. My room overlooked a small stream, remnants of a river-turned-creek, where a heron fished. Behind that was a park where the kids from a nearby lycée hung out during breaks and after school.

Being a good-sized village, St.-Céré also had three pastry shops. I was looking for a mille feuille (a Napoléon), but they only sold those in family sizes. So I settled for a puit d’amour (well of love), pastry cream inside a soft shell whose makeup I couldn’t define, topped with caramel cream. And yes, it was love at first bite.


Like this blog? I invite you to visit my other one, Novelhistorian, in which I review historical fiction and history.

Simple Pleasures

March 27, 2015

Tags: hiking, France, Autoire, Saint-Céré, laundromat, village-to-village, Dordogne

The road to Saint-Céré.
The next day, I took my last village-to-village walk, to Saint-Céré, and the shortest, only about an hour and a half. I spent almost the entire route along a highway, unpleasant and nerve-wracking, but the simplest, most direct way to town. At the chambres d’hôte in St.-Sozy, I’d heard a few Israeli visitors complaining that St.-Céré wasn’t worth the trip, but that depends on your point of view.

It won’t make anyone’s list of the most beautiful towns in France, but beauty isn’t everything. For starters, St.-Céré has a laundromat, and I can’t tell you how thrilled I was to have discovered this in the tourist brochures in Autoire. Since I hadn’t washed anything since St.-Sozy, and since that last night there, I could smell my wardrobe from my hotel bed, I made that laundromat my first stop in St.-Céré. Trouble was, I had no place to change out of what I was wearing; the supermarket around the corner had no bathroom.

So I persuaded the woman who ran the hairdressing salon next door to allow me to use hers for a quick change. It took some doing, since she was at first dead set against it, and she resented having to remove everything valuable from that tiny room before I went into it–as if I would load up on her spare shampoo and stuff it into my backpack–but she did it. I thanked her profusely and offered her money, but she refused.


Like this blog? I invite you to visit my other one, Novelhistorian, in which I review historical fiction and history.

Friendliness

March 25, 2015

Tags: hiking, France, friendliness, Dordogne, Autoire, village-to-village

A curious onlooker.
On the way back from the grotto, walking a back road, a guy pulled up in a small car. He looked familiar from my jaunt to the grotto, and turned out, he was. He said he’d seen me walk that same road in the other direction, asked where I’d gone, and expressed admiration for my spirit of adventure. Encounters like that made me feel less lonely.

That back lane also confirmed what I’d noticed before, a lovely perfume in the breeze. It wasn’t honeysuckle, though I saw it from time to time, but another plant, with white flowers. The scent was subtle, understated, but noticeable–very French. I also heard a woodpecker, for the first time in France.



Like this blog? I invite you to visit my other one, Novelhistorian, in which I review historical fiction and history.

Grottes de Presque

March 24, 2015

Tags: hiking, France, grotto, inn-to-inn, village-to-village, Autoire

A formation inside the Grottes de Presque.
Shortly afterward, I headed out to the Grottes de Presque, a grotto about four miles away. Part of the route involved a highway, one lane in each direction, which I disliked. But French drivers are generally very respectful of hikers (saving their aggression for each other), and even semis crossed the center line to give me plenty of room when they could, which they didn’t really have to do. And for the first time since the start of my trip, my feet didn’t hurt at all.

I liked the grotto itself, though it wasn’t worth forty-five minutes, during which the guide talked constantly, rat-a-tat-tat. But the grotto was gorgeous, with formations of calcium, iron, and manganese, often in forms that resembled whatever a French person would see in them: rabbits, a nun, a dog, intestines, or a crèche. The guide referred to the Christian symbols as if they were universal, whereas I wouldn’t have recognized the nun, for instance. I had to laugh to myself when the guide, who knew I was American–the only foreigner on that tour–asked me privately what the English word for crèche was.


Like this blog? I invite you to visit my other one, Novelhistorian, in which I review historical fiction and history.

In Autoire

March 20, 2015

Tags: hiking, France, Dordogne, village-to-village, Autoire, Carennac

Above Autoire.
After the castle, I made a steep descent on a rocky, twisting path, unkind to a bad toe, and was rewarded again, coming on a lovely, shaded path through the woods, past a waterfall and a brook.

Another half-mile brought me to the village of Autoire, where there’s not much to do except admire the few houses, drink on the hotel terrace, or buy mushrooms from the shop down the street. However, it’s gorgeous, especially at night. As the light falls, the silhouette of the surrounding hills (and the English castle) fades, and the village towers etch themselves against the darkening sky. My hotel room even had a balcony, from which, the next morning, I watched the mist gradually lift from the same view under the brightening sun.


Like this blog? I invite you to visit my other one, Novelhistorian, in which I review historical fiction and history.

To Autoire

March 18, 2015

Tags: hiking, France, Autoire, Carennac, village-to-village, English castle, Hundred Years War

A path between Loubressac and Autoire.
The path to Autoire impressed me more than any I took between villages. It had everything a hiker could want–views, an antiquity, a waterfall and brook, and a pretty destination where a cold Leffe was waiting to be drunk.

Much of my route went through woods, for once, with low stone walls on either side, and climbing a back road brought me to a lookout to end all lookouts. Farther on, I came to “the English castle,” doubtless a relic from the Hundred Years War, which ended in the fifteenth century. Built into a hillside, the masonry, still in excellent shape, had a light, tawny color, and the crossbow slits offered marvelous views. As with Taillefer, I think it must have been a guardhouse/lookout.


Like this blog? I invite you to visit my other one, Novelhistorian, in which I review historical fiction and history.

Books
The potato: a labor-saver, a fast food, a budget stretcher, a loan bank, a delicacy, a hedge against famine--and a crucial ingredient in the social changes that swept through Europe and the United States in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries
In August 1914, the German Army invaded neutral Belgium and burned scores of towns and villages, executing about five thousand civilians. The Belgians cried murder; the Germans insisted that the civilians had fired on them. But the controversy, fanned by propaganda on both sides, obscured a greater crime, the military occupation of Belgium over the next four years, which presaged Nazi Europe.
Magazine Article
A visit to Hebron, where seven hundred soldiers of the Israeli Defense Forces keep an uneasy peace.