| Tom Shroder |
WHEN our children were 11 and nine, young enough to still be entirely inside the family circle but old enough to remember, we splurged on a “once in a lifetime vacation” and rented a small farmhouse in Southwestern France outside the village of Saint-Cyprien.
Each day, our son and daughter would say goodbye to the donkey that hung around our patio and we’d climb in the tiny rented Renault and drive somewhere in the fairy-tale beautiful Dordogne River region. On one of these excursions, we stumbled on the provincial city of Sarlat.
An accident of history and several centuries of stagnant economy had left Sarlat’s centre virtually unchanged architecturally since the days of siege engines and knights galloping over drawbridges. City fathers had wakened one morning in the late 1950s to realise that, leaning above narrow and winding cobblestone streets and alleys, they had one of the largest collections of intact medieval architecture in Europe.
The French government subsidised restoration of the dilapidated ancient structures, and the tastefully restored apartments (which half a millennium ago were the residences of wealthy noble families) began, slowly at first, to attract tourists.
Back in 2000, we wandered the town centre feeling like time travellers. We bought wooden crusader swords for the kids and hand-spun earthenware pottery that my wife and I still treasure. For dinner, we found a traditional French restaurant whose dining room, to our delight, extended into a natural cavern. Our children, now far-flung and embarked on lives of their own, still remember that day 17 years later.
And so did my wife and I. Searching for a vacation destination suitably celebratory of our 30th anniversary, we thought of the magical moments on that long-ago day trip and put “apartments to rent in Sarlat” into Google. On our first click, we scored: a recently renovated apartment in a 500-year-old building dead in the centre of the old town.
We instantly booked it, then reverse engineered the rest of the trip, beginning with a flight to Paris and a boutique apartment near the Place de la Republique for that first jet-lagged night.
The next morning, after a glorious buffet breakfast that I would estimate at about 4,000 calories, we Ubered to the Austerlitz train station and hopped on a TGV express train to Brive, a relaxing four-hour sprint (average speed: 75mph) through the unrelentingly interesting industrial and agricultural landscapes south of the capital. In Brive, we picked up a car a block from the train station and drove the final hour to Sarlat.
As soon as we crossed into the department of Dordogne, the landscape took on stunning beauty even fond memory hadn’t done justice. Fields undulated in a green so intense it vibrated. Hilltops provided vistas of sunburst-yellow rapeseed blossoms stretching to the horizon. Every structure, from manor house to farm outbuilding, was made of native golden limestone blocks that seemed to glow in the sunshine.
Castles, both ruined and restored, appeared around every curve. Chateaus astraddle vertiginous, cave-pocked limestone cliffs attempted to outdo one another in the beauty and extent of their gardens. It didn’t hurt that the local specialties are foie gras, Bergerac wine and farm-fresh produce, all available in an abundance of roadside markets.
Our apartment, up two flights of winding stone steps, had been stripped to the half-timbered walls, modernised and decorated in restrained Pottery Barn. Large windows looked out over the ancient moss-covered rooftops of layered slate. Just out the front door, a narrow alley opened on a Gothic cathedral and the main plaza, ringed by cafes and restaurants.
On Wednesdays and Saturdays, the plaza and the main streets of the town sprouted stalls and became the town market. In the old town, and the typical small French provincial city surrounding it, restaurants were abundant, though somewhat limited in variety. Most provided variations on the theme of classic French cuisine with a local accent.
On the outskirts of town (still easily walkable from the centre), we discovered a place with absolutely authentic Dutch pannekoeken (a hearty, low-country take on crepes) and a cosy neighbourhood pizzeria.
Though it was stimulating to be in the middle of such history, the smallness of the town – its photo-ready back streets could be explored in an afternoon – made us wonder at first about our decision to spend two weeks there. But as we quickly realised, the best thing about locating in Sarlat was leaving it.
A 30- to 45-minute drive in any direction brought us to destinations that were each more stunning than the last. Any one of them could have been the highlight of a trip. And forget the destinations – the drives themselves were breathtaking.
This part of France apparently has no strip malls, gated housing developments or major highways. All roads are winding, rolling two-lane forays through the pages of a fairy tale. I felt daring driving at 45mph on these byways while the locals lined up behind me, impatiently waiting to pass.
But more often than not, we had the roads to ourselves as they narrowed into single-lane tracks (more than once we had to back up to let another car squeeze past) through increasingly tiny villages and wooded hills. We often found it hard to believe these rustic tracks were leading to major tourist destinations, but we were never disappointed. Thank goodness we had GPS.
To the south, built into the almost vertical cliffs rising from the lazily curving Dordogne River, is Roque de Gageac, another town of medieval origin whose roads were more like mountain goat tracks. If you have the respiratory fortitude to climb them, you are rewarded with views of birds gliding on currents along the soaring cliffs above and the pastoral river valley unwinding between peaked turrets below.
A line of restaurants runs along the river’s bank, and during spring and summer you can buy passage on an hour-long guided sightseeing trip in a traditional riverboat called a gabarre. The adventurous can rent canoes to paddle down one of the more spectacular river passages in the world, with a half-dozen castles looming on hilltops high above and caves inhabited since prehistory poking into the cliffs cantilevered over the water.
Or you can drive another few minutes upriver to the phenomenal town of Domme, a naturally fortified village (bastide) built in the 13th century on a steep-sided hilltop nearly 800 feet above the river. Domme was fought over repeatedly during the Hundred Years’ War between the French and English, and it’s easy to see why when you consider the view.
The main part of the village lies at the very top of the hill along the edge of a sheer cliff commanding sightlines along the entire valley. We stopped for lunch at a small cafe across from the town hall on the market square where locals once gathered to watch public executions. A modest-looking tourism office in the middle of the square is built above the entrance to a large cave system where residents hid during the frequent invasions. – Text & photos: WP-BLOOM