Built ingeniously into the hillside cliffs along the river, the village meandered up the cliffs along narrow streets, the structures like the carved-out cave dwellings of nearby Cro-Magnon man yet capped with traditional Périgord roofs and yellow-bricked facades.įarther down the river we came to the impressive Beynac, another once-heavily fortified bastide town. Glad to stretch our legs, we strolled the cobbled streets and found a quiet café nestled among the ochre-colored sandstone buildings and elegant church steeples.Īfter lunch and stocking up on tins of foie gras, we were back on the country roads toward the winding Dordogne and one of many adjacent towns, La Roque-Gageac. The old cité was well preserved and car-free, the once-fortified stone walls, now softened in appearance, gracing the town in an effortless ambiance of natural charm. Our beacon was the bastide (fortress) town of Sarlat, world renowned for such gastronomic staples as foie gras, duck confit and succulent black truffles. It felt like we’d entered a world vastly different from that of the Bordeaux region. We took in the perfection of the moment, the start of a long and happy day on the road.Īs we entered the province of Périgord, we found ourselves driving through a dense canopy of tall trees along the steep, dark banks of the Dordogne River. We hit the road early the next morning, traveling the deserted country roads among the vineyards, wildflowers, low rustic fences and sun-dappled trees, dew glistening from the branches and leaves like tiny clusters of diamonds. Inside, we were afforded a view of the Gothic bell tower of the Monolithic Church of Saint-Émilion, backlit by the moon and framed between the thick stone cutouts that served as our bedroom window. Built from old Roman walls, the hotel felt organic to this historic town. Our room ( E130, or $143, per night, double, including breakfast) at the 3-star Au Logis des Remparts (phone +33557247043, was an easy stroll from the center of town. That night we walked the empty cobblestone streets, the limestone buildings bathed in moonlight eliciting a golden hue. Below was a charming scene of al fresco dining amongst an old, solitary shade tree and elegant 13th-century limestone ruins. The peaceful route offered green foothills and wide-open pastures dotted with cows, windmills and the occasional long and winding dirt road leading to a stately wine château.Īrriving in Saint-Émilion, we parked on the outskirts of town and came to a rise overlooking the village square. With only a vague notion of an itinerary, my wife opened the guidebook and read about a picturesque village northeast of Bordeaux called Saint-Émilion. We began with a drive south along the Atlantic seaboard from Mont Saint-Michel. “Turn here!” “Didn’t you see the sign?” “Are you sure we go this way?” But we would meet the challenge, get back on track and eventually reach our destination. There were times we literally went ’round and ’round in circles. Our travels took us down many back roads, with their endless successions of roundabouts and the resulting confusion about which direction we were heading. Carolyn imposed a ban on GPS and smartphones, which meant relying on instinct and our wits without the comforting aid of technology. We had little in the way to guide us: a foldout map provided by the rental-car company and the small city illustrations in our Rick Steves guidebook. W hen my wife, Carolyn, and I reflect on our April 2015 trip to France, we inevitably focus on our love of Saint-Émilion, the Dordogne region, the castle within a castle of Carcassonne, the wines of Burgundy and all the expressways, country roads and medieval streets undertaken in our little white Peugeot.
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