* * *

Joël de Ronay pushes me from behind by the pool at the Hôtel du Palais in Biarritz.

“You’re goofy-footed,” he says when I fall forward on my right foot.

“Is that good or bad for my future as a surfer?” I ask.

“That depends on you. You’ll see tomorrow,” he says.

But I suspect that time is not on my side, not just because I’m over 50 but because I’ve only signed up for a 90-minute surfing lesson the following morning.

Joel de Rosnay by GLK.

Mr. de Rosnay, on the other hand, has been surfing since before I was born. He is a celebrity in surfing circles, one of the pioneers of the sport in France—indeed in Europe. He first took board to wave in the summer of ’57 when surfing first took off on the shores of the continent, starting right here at Biarritz. Now in his 70s, Mr. de Rosnay still looks as though he could as confidently ride the waves as he can address an audience about the relationship between man and the ocean and between technology and the environment. We’d been discussing those relationships (the real reason for my visit to Biarritz) before I mentioned tomorrow’s surfing class (the reason for this text).

A brief history of surfing on the Basque coast

Surfing was well on its way to becoming a pop culture phenomenon in California when, in 1956, a couple of Californians recognized the potential of the waves along the Basque coast while here to make the film adaptation of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, which was being partially shot along the beaches of Biarritz. Peter Viertel, the screenwriter, and Darryl Zanuck, the film’s director, could largely only admire the waves from the beach since there were no suitable surfboards to be had. Returning in 1957, Viertel brought over his own boards, one of which he lent to Joel de Rosnay, a young man from Paris then on vacation in Biarritz. They were soon joined by others and news began to spread that a new sensational sport had arrived.

The first French championship took place here in September 1960, with Mr. de Rosnay crowned as champion. The following year the first European championship was held on these bikini-clad shores. Mr. de Rosnay placed fourth, but more significantly, that event affirmed Biarritz’s place as the European capital of surfing and, when wind of the championships reached California, put the town on the map for American surfers seeking thrills in Europe.

La Grande Plage facing the Hotel du Palais and the lighthouse, Biarritz. Photo GLK.

Biarritz had had a British connection ever since British aristocracy learned in 1854 that Emperor Napoleon III and Empress Eugenia were building a palace (eventually transformed into the Hotel du Palais) overlooking the beach. Now, a century later, it had an American connection beyond the Hollywood set. (Just as it took over 40 years from the creation of the imperial palace before Queen Victoria visited in 1899, it took over 40 years from the initiation of surfing in Biarritz for the Beach Boys—well, at least Mike Love an Bruce Johnston—to play here in 2001.)

In 1963, an international championship, won by Australia’s Peter Troy, was held a few miles north of Biarritz at the mouth of the Adour River.

By the end of the decade, T-shirts, Bermuda shorts, Frisbees, skateboards and shortboards had arrived along with Flower Power and Volkswagen buses. Within another decade the business of surfing had taken firm hold in Biarritz and the sport was claiming waves all along France’s Basque coast and north along the coast of the Landes (Hossegor, Lacanau). Meanwhile, kamikaze surfers began to gather round the campfire to tell stories of monster waves at Le Furoncle, just north of Biarritz, at Vanthrax, near the Spanish border, and about rare 30-foot swells 1½ mile from the coast at Belharra, just south of Biarritz.

Surf school

For my part, I head out the following day to confront the waves at the Plage de la Côte des Basques, where it all began.

Waves, however, may not be the word for what I confront this exceeding calm morning: 12-inch swells tumbling over to form a line of foam not even high enough to knock over a 3-year-old. In fact, the 3-year-olds are already surfing.

The baby of our group of five newbies is in her late 30s. You’re never too old to learn, I suppose, but you can be too claustrophobic to zip up a wetsuit. I’m nearly prepared to call the whole thing off, but a couple passing by on the beach just then gives me the up-and-down with a smile that makes me think maybe that I look ménage-à-trois sexy in the tight suit.

The author goes surfing.

I then reread their up-and-down and realized that it goes from the words on my chest (Biarritz Surf Training) to the height of my surfboard, longboard that looms over my head, and that their smile is at best one of pity. Anyway, I forget the strangling wetsuit and carry my board to join the others on the sand.

The Bay of Biscay as it washes against portions of the coasts of France and Spain can be too moody in some parts to be associated with smooth sailing, backstroking and first-time surfing. But Biarritz’s coastline is known for the consistency of its surf, making it a fine place for beginner and intermediate surfers, especially from May to early October when the water temperature is sufficiently warm. There are often also plenty of more unruly waves for experienced surfers both at Biarritz and north and south along the Basque coast.

The town’s historic focal point, however, is less the beach than the rocky outcrop at the center of the town’s coastline, where the striking Art Deco aquarium and the old port are. The outcrop is surrounded by tremendous boulders, possibly hurled by the gods to instill fear in the hearts of inhabitants tempted to search for Atlantis, which is somewhere out there.

In 1864, on one of the rocks resembling an overturned boat, locals sought to assuage that fear by planting a statue of the goddess Mary. An iron foot bridge, built by Gustave Eiffel’s company to replace an earlier wooden bridge, leads out to the Rock of the Virgin and no promenade in Biarritz is complete without crossing it.

That rocky outcrop separates the two central stretches of beaches: la Plage de la Côte des Basques to the south and la Grande Plage and la Plage Miramar to the north. The Hotel du Palais overlooks the central portion of the northern stretch, between la Grande Plage and la Plage Miramar. (Here’s a webcam view of the Grande Plage.)

My surfing lesson on the Plage de la Côte des Basques is with Philippe Beudin, director of Biarritz Surf Training, one of nine surfing schools in Biarritz.

It’s a beautiful morning, already 80 degrees and on its way to being a springtime scorcher.

“A perfect day for a first lesson,” Mr. Beudin announces to the five of us in the class.

We are all excited. The class looks longing toward the water but Mr. Beudin keeps us on the sand, where we practice standing up on boards, trying to memorize steps that undoubtedly come naturally to kids.

Born in 1962 and a native of Biarritz, a Biarrot, Mr. Beudin grew up at a time when surfing was finding firm footing as a sport of freedom on this coast. But he didn’t seriously take up the sport until his late teens, meaning in the early 1980s, the period in which surfing grabbed hold as a mass market sport in these parts. He has since traveled far and wide with his board, naturally including Hawaii, before returning home to create his surfing school.

Philippe Beudin, director of Biarritz Surf Training. Photo GLK.

We eventually take our longboards into the water until we are about waist deep, where the waves don’t break so much as push a pile of foam toward the shore. Mr. Beudin’s instructions are clear, patient and encouraging, yet none of us manages to stand up on our boards. I try not to feel past my prime when a six-year-old glides by and waves. But little by little we all make progress. My hour in the water goes something like this:

Foot forward, fall… foot forward, fall… foot forward, fall… push up, fall… foot forward, fall… push up, fall… push up, fall… half-stand, fall… foot forward, fall… push up, fall… half-stand, fall, drink seawater… half-stand, fall… stand, fall… stand, fall… half-stand, fall… stand one second, fall… stand two seconds, fall… and finally: stand one, two, three, four, five, si-, fall—a magnificent ride on a foot-high wave. Cowabunga!

Several hours later I cross paths with Joël de Rosnay again while having lunch at Le Sin, the restaurant at the Cité de l’Océan (described in the next article in this series to be posted this week), a museum dedicated to the ocean. Seated with a group of well-dressed lunch companions, this is clearly not an aging beach bum but rather a successful consultant and entrepreneur.

Indeed, for Mr. de Rosnay surfing wasn’t so much a lifestyle as a trampoline from which he followed his interests and opportunities in a varied career that has led him to make his name in the various fields of sports, technology, food and the environment. Surfing may have been his early attraction to visiting the United States but it was far from his last, as his CV includes a stint as research associate at MIT in the field of biology and computer graphics and Scientific Attaché to the French Embassy in the U.S. He currently serves as the president of Biotics International, a consulting company specialized in the impact of new technologies on industries. He is the author of books on his various fields of interest and expertise and has most recently published Surfer la vie: comment sur-vivre dans la société fluide (Surfing through Life: How to sur-vive in Fluid Society).

Joël de Rosnay by GLK.

I reintroduce myself as the fellow he pushed by the pool yesterday. I tell him briefly about my first surfing experience, a story he’s certainly heard a thousand times.

“It’s a start,” he says.

He asks how I like the museum.

I say the same thing.

I ask to take his picture and he obliges.

That afternoon I decide to stay in Biarritz an entire week to learn how to surf.

I imagine the days ahead: morning lessons with Philippe Beudin, a chat with my favorite Basque merchants at the daily morning food market,

Jean-Marie Pariset at his stand Chailla in Les Halles Centrales, Biarritz’s indoor food market. Photo GLK.

… an excursion to Saint Jean de Luz, then back to Biarritz to meet new-found surfing buddies for dinner at La Plancha or for a sunset picnic on the beach,

Sunset over the Bay of Biscay from Biarritz. GLK.

… and eventually attacking three- and four-foot walls by the end of the week.

It isn’t actually a decision. It’s a traveling fantasy before flying back to Paris at the end of the day.

© 2013, Gary Lee Kraut

For more information about Biarritz on France Revisited read: Biarritz Ocean: The Brand Between Bilbao and Bordeaux and Biarritz Hotels.

Official site of the Biarritz Tourist Office: http://tourisme.biarritz.fr/en

Biarritz Surf Training, 102 rue de Pierre Chevigné, 64200 Biarritz. Tel. 05 59 23 15 31. www.surftraining.com. Open April to November. See website for pricing for 1-10 lessons and for intensive or leisure weekend or week-long lessons/training. Surfboard (or bodyboard) and wetsuit included. Philippe Beudin, director.

Reservations of several weeks in advance are recommended for surfing lessons in July and August, but for much of the rest of the surfing season little advance planning is necessary. The seasons runs April to early November, with ideal time being the long spring days from mid-May (when the water has warmed a bit) through June and in the often very pleasant back season of September and October.

Philippe Beudin has teamed up with the local Alliance Francaise for a combined surfing and language vacation, with French language lessons in the morning and surfing in the afternoon, so that on returning home you can impress your friends not only with your surfing skills but also with your Basque accent.

A list of all of the surfing schools of Biarritz can be found here.

Other sports in Biarritz

Surfing isn’t the only sport for which Biarritz and the French Basque coast are known. Long before the Californians arrived with surfboards the British were coming with golf clubs. The Golf de Biarritz Le Phare dates to 1888, making it old enough that it’s now surrounded by city. The International Training Center at the Golf d’Ilbiarritz is south of the city. There are also nine other greens within a 20-mile radius. As a sign of the importance of golf here, Biarritz has been linked as a sister city with Augusta, Georgia since 1992.

More indigenous is Basque pelota (pelote basque), played in a variety of ways, whether barehanded, with racket/paddle or with a basket-type racket.

Finally, southwest France is rugby country and Biarritz’s team, Biarritz Olympique Pays Basque (BOPB or simply BO) is a premier league team. The season runs mid-August to early May, followed by three weeks of playoffs.

Then there’s the great sport of spa treatments and seawater cures (thalassothérapie) for which Biarritz is also well know. Thalassotherapie is practiced at two centers: Thalassa Biarritz at the Sofitel Biarritz Le Miramar and Thalmar, directly accessible from the Hotel de Biarritz. Hotel du Palais, the town’s most luxurious hotel, has a beautiful spa called The Imperial Spa (with Guerlain).

Getting to Biarritz

There are direct flights to Biarritz from Paris and other French cities as well as from various northern European capitals (London, Dublin, Copenhagen, Brussels, Rotterdam, Stockholm). By train, Biarritz is 5:20 from Paris and 2:00 from Bordeaux.

* * *

The horizon shot upwards as my horse and I sank into the ground.  Suddenly, I was seeing the trees and sky of southern France from a different perspective. Like an elevator that had suddenly broken free of its cable, I had taken a quick trip down. Although still mounted, my feet were resting on the earth–and under the earth–muddy, swampy earth. My horse, Iadj, a plucky, pure white Arabian horse, in one easy, carefree step, had sunk up to his lovely shoulder into a bog.

“Get off, get off!” I heard my husband shout.

Stunned, I had remained frozen in place. I leaped off, pulling the reins over the horse’s head.

Now on solid ground, I could see my mount was half buried. I tried to clear the way in front of him with my hands, but I was only swirling around a thick, slimy stew. Not liquid enough to swim in, and too deep for the horse to touch bottom.

Iadj, the white Arabian, heaved forward, rising up a little.

Judy Kashoff riding Iadj before the bog accident. Photo Dave Kashoff

“Yes,” I thought, he’ll grab solid ground!” But his effort just took him forward–farther from shore and even deeper. Fear gripped me–now his hind quarters were solidly entrenched. This reservoir was not a pond to quench my horse’s thirst; it appeared, rather, that it was to be his grave.

Dave and I were riding alone in a remote area in the huge stretch of parkland in the Languedoc-Rousillon region of France. Earlier in the day and yesterday we had exchanged greetings with people hiking the same trails we followed, often an older couple, usually French but sometimes English or German. They carried walking sticks and wore zip-off khakis. But today we hadn’t seen another person for hours. Up until the moment Iadj lifted his hoof off a solid bank to place it into a daylit nightmare, this solitude had been part of the pleasure of our explorations in the region.

Charly and Nicole from the Ferme Equestre, where we’d rented our horses for the week, had provided us with two well-mannered and willing mounts, a series of maps, and reservations at an assortment of inns, farms, and lodges. This was our third day of leaning forward over our horses’ withers as they carried us to mountain-top vistas and down again on steep rocky tracks. We hiked alongside our steeds when the trail was too difficult. Dark narrow paths through woodland opened up into sunny fields of cerulean flowers where we dismounted to open and then close behind us pasture gates. Footpaths along clear quiet streams led us to 17th-century mountainside villages where church bells rang over the steady beat of our horse’s hooves. On this day we had looked forward to tying our horses in the courtyard of the ruins of the 10th-century Castle of Puylaurens, where they would rest while we walked under still-standing stone archways to view the valley below through ancient windows built into a wall fused to a cliff.

Our biggest problem to date had been getting lost for almost two hours on our first day out. Being lost was something we’d done quite a bit the year before, when we took this trip for the first time. And although the trail was to deviate a bit this year, it hadn’t yet, and we had no real excuse for losing our way. Instead of concentrating on the trail, our attention was on the countryside, where cows grazed contentedly in clover covered pastures and dogs looked after recalcitrant sheep on steep hillsides. The forest pathways were green and cool, but also a bit confusing: getting lost then finding our way took time. We neglected to anticipate the concern yesterday evening’s host and hostess would have for us as sunset approached. Worried, they had called Charly, who then became worried himself because of course, we should not be lost—he knew we’d been here before and must know our way.

Judy and Iadg descending into a village on the edge of the Pyrenees. Photo Dave Kashoff

We should have known our way today also, but a small stream, not much more than a trickle, crossed the path ahead and Dave and I differed in our recollections. He did not remember crossing water here, so we pulled off the trail to discuss it. There was a sign that was perfect for tying the horse’s reins while we examined our map. The sign was next to a small pond. My horse, unbeknownst me, was expecting a drink, because he knew very well where the path went: it did cross the stream and that brook was one of the places the horses quenched their thirst while carrying tourists like ourselves over the mountain trail. So while Dave was tying his horse to the wooden sign, my horse was eyeing the pond. I dropped the reins on his neck and allowed him to mosey over for a drink. He lowered his head and took a few steps forward. One step too many took us right off the solid edge of land and into the mire. “Baignade Interdite” is what the sign said: NO SWIMMING”.

Now Charly would really have something to worry about. Calling his wife was the only sensible call we could make. Nicole spoke English fairly well, and she could call some kind of emergency crew. Would we have cell phone signal on this mountain top, will Nicole be home, and would she understand the English word for “bog”? I tried to remember the French word for “mud.” My mind raced as the horse thrashed in the muck. What should I do? What if Nicole doesn’t answer. Should I call someone else? Who? Years ago I’d seen on television a horse stuck in a bog. They pulled it out with an enormous crane. Would someone have a crane? Neither one of us knew the French equivalent of 911*.

I doubted if there was a road or village nearby, but if I reached someone, what would we say? “Vin rouge, s’il vous plaît?” My French is basic. How could I express this situation? “Uh, excuse me, but my horse is at this very moment drowning in a bog—can you send a winch or something?—Well, actually, no, I don’t have any idea where I am….lots trees, and oh, yeah—muddy water.” How does one say “drowning” in French? I wished desperately for someone to come by. Where were the trekkers? It seemed clear that this lovely Arabian horse, mine for a week, was in great danger.

My hand reached for the cell phone as Iadj surged forward again. I could see the horse gather his strength. He rose above the mire, moving forward several feet, but when he landed he was on his side, almost his back—his legs kicking in the air. He twisted and then he was back in the original vertical position. His hindquarters didn’t look right—it appeared as if his legs were twisted beneath the muck. All that struggling made me fear a broken leg. One hip looked bad, pushed up. I could only hope this leg was safe, but resting on higher ground, while the rest of him was deeper into the muck.

He now stayed still for what seemed a very long time, his head and neck stretched along the top of the surface. I’d never seen a horse in such an awkward position. His body was so deep in the ground that his chin was cradled by the earth. Was he resting again, or had he given up? Each advance had taken a great deal of energy. He was closer to the far shore now. Perhaps he could make it. Only six years old, he was very fit from traveling five or six hours a day on steep, challenging terrain. But this was taking a great deal out of him; he appeared spent.

His next effort took him closer to the far edge of the pool. And the leg that had seemed strangely poised must have been well positioned, not broken, giving him something to push off with. Now when he lurched forward again he almost reached the shore.

He rested again. If he could raise himself enough, he could touch the edge. But the side here was steep. I had the reins; I had to do something. I could guide him to the best spot. He was very close to the steep, rocky side. I had never seen a horse scramble up something so vertical. If I guided him to the left a bit, it seemed to be a more gradual climb. But was the ground firm or more swamp?

I guided him hesitantly towards the more gradual climb and he followed, but he, too, was uncertain. One forefoot reached forward, only to drop down into the morass. It would have to be the steep side.

Ruins of the Castle of Puylaurens seen on the previous trek in the region. Photo Dave Kashoff

Neither Dave nor I could imagine how much longer he could struggle before exhaustion took over, or his heart gave out. I moved the reins to the right, and I don’t know whether he took my cue or just saw for himself he wasn’t going to make it the other way, but he changed his course in mid-leap.

Suddenly, his front feet were touching the solid ground of the bank. Scrambling, a hind leg gained purchase. He was almost vertical now, his legs moving furiously; climbing, sliding—a leg would land, only to slip after dislodging a rock. For a few moments he seemed to be scrambling in the air and it didn’t seem possible he’d reach the top. I thought he would slide back into the quagmire, maybe this time forever. But providence was with me and this horse because suddenly he seemed to gain a strong foothold.

“He’s OK!” my husband shouted.

I wasn’t so certain. This horse had been thrashing about—he seemed twisted beneath the surface. I feared the vision of him rising from the soup of the bog with a dangling leg, broken, the end for this lovely horse who tried so hard, bursting out of one deadly dilemma only to meet another.

He stood. He took a step. He shook himself and mud flew everywhere, but he seemed to be alright.

Happy to be slapped with showering sludge, relief washed over me like a river. And it was going to take a fairly deep river to clean this horse. This pretty white horse was now completely brown. The small patch of white on the side of his head and neck that hadn’t been enveloped in the bog were now splashed with muck from when he had shaken his body.

I threw off his saddle and saddlebags—everything was coated with a thick layer of gritty loam. He shook again and the white patch where his saddle had been became less white. My clothing was splattered, my shoes squishy.

Now that Iadj was safe, I had a new goal—get him cleaned up before anyone saw him. This was cowardly and dishonest of me, and I must admit my husband did not agree with my duplicity, but the moment relief washed away fear a new emotion sprang forth in my breast: embarrassment.

I didn’t want to have to explain how I almost killed this horse to the people who were already puzzled about why we had gotten lost on a route we’d traveled before. They had provided us with maps and detailed instructions written in both French and English and numbers we could call on our cell phone. In addition, hopefully unbeknownst to them, we had a handheld GPS which we couldn’t figure out how to use. And now we had nearly drowned their horse right next to a “No Swimming” sign. I was mortified by my ineptitude, my adrenaline was still high. I now had a new mission: deceit.

I fashioned a halter from a lead rope and washed the bridle in the creek, the same creek that we were meant to cross and that Iadj was meant to drink from. I took off my grimy tell-tale shirt and replaced it with one in my saddle bag that had remained reasonably protected. I used the soiled shirt to carry water between the creek and the horse who rested quietly while my husband held him.

Clean and dry and heading for home. Photo Dave Kashoff

It took an hour and a half to get him close to clean. As brown rivulets flowed off, several bloody spots appeared on his legs. All minor cuts and scrapes—probably caused by his own flailing hooves during his struggle.

While I cleaned, other people finally appeared: it was an older couple wearing zip-off trousers. They raised their walking sticks in our direction. “Bonjour!” they called out in a German accent. “Bonjour!” I replied with bravado.

Clean and rested, we set off, and Iadj seemed happy to be traveling on solid ground again. I experienced my final bit of relief as we moved off into a steady trot, with none of the head bobbing that would indicate a limp and therefore an injury. We rode through thickly wooded trails until we reached a clearing from where we looked down upon the red roof tops of a town in the valley and then rode through an old stone village, grey except for the brilliant blue shutters framing each window.

In our desire to arrive on schedule to our evening’s abode and keep our adventure a secret, we made up lost time by skipping our last route direction; the climb to the castle. We took the road below, and the silhouette of Puylaurens, high on the hill above us, shadowed our path for a long while. We watched the sun descend behind its maze of old stone walls. The magic of an early evening in a beautiful place pulled us back to the pleasures of our vacation. My horse walked with a spring in his step and his white coat shone against the dark of the mountains beyond.

© 2012, Judy Kashoff.

Judy and Dave Kashoff have been traveling extensively around the world since 2008. Rather than wait for the proverbial golden years, they rented out their house in a suburb of Philadelphia, dropped their cats off with Dave’s mother, kissed their two grown children good-bye, and set off for what they thought would be a year of travels by boat, by bike, by horse, by foot, by kayak and by golly let’s just do it! Four years on they are still at it.

*Editor’s note: 911 actually does work from mobile phones in France. It’s immediately transferred to the European emergency number 112. The more common numbers in France, however, are 17 for the police and 18 for the fire department and for other accidents and emergencies such as the one told here.

* * *

While working on my first guidebook to France in the early 1990s I met Gerard Charpin, the foreign press attaché of Chambéry, capital of Savoy (flag in photo) in the Rhone-Alpes region. By the time I arrived in Chambéry, in the valley of the foothills of the Alps, I’d been on the road in the region for about a week. Hearing that during that time I’d had an intensive schedule of visiting castles, churches, museums and old towns, Gerard was horrified that I hadn’t taken a break from visiting les vieilles pierres, old stones.

We were both in our early 30s, too young, he felt, to truly want to spend a full week of it. So after showing me the vieilles pierres of the historical center of Chambéry—the former castle of the Dukes of Savoy, their chapel that once housed the Shroud of Turin, the cathedral, the alleyways of the old town, the Fountain of Elephants—Gerard took me to an indoor aquatic park that had recently opened by a mall on the edge of town. He brought an extra bathing suit for me—we were about the same size then.

Conscientiously trying to describe a town that few readers of that ‘90s guidebook (and possibly of this article) ever heard of, I figured that the water slides at the mall were less significant than Chambery’s role as the historical seat of power of the House of Savoy until they moved across the Alps to Turin in 1563, “leaving behind their ducal castle to dominate the town.”

View over Chambery and the pre-Alpine Mountains from the castle walls. Photo GLK.

That guidebook-like quote is from my own long-out-of-print guidebook. I continue: “Below is not an old town of princely buildings but one of solid, practical construction. Yet a false order reigns on the main streets, for behind the somewhat austere facades of the old town are narrow, hidden alleyways that twist past elegant little courtyards, painted archways, and open staircases, before emerging on an unexpected side street.”

Apparently Gerard did a good job of showing me those old stones. But it’s the water park that I now remember most from that visit: leaving the old town to drive to the mall, the buzz in the changing room, choosing between the green and the black skimpy bathing suits that Gerard had brought, wading in a pool surrounded by joyful strangers, the slides, and Gerard repeating for the third time that he couldn’t believe that I’d spent the entire week visiting vieilles pierres while I thought it odd to be swimming by the mall in Chambery.

Ceiling of the Sainte Chapelle of the Ducal Castle. Photo GLK.

Though I didn’t return to Chambery for a number of years after that, I came across Gerard again and again at travel fairs and press events in Paris. Occasionally we would have a drink or dinner together. We became friends. He invited me to visit him in Chambery but I kept sidestepping his town when traveling south from Paris or into the Alps.

Logistically, Chambery is an easy town to sidestep, which isn’t to say that it should be avoided but rather that trade, train and tourist routes don’t naturally pass this way unless heading through the Alps to Turin, Italy. It’s a low-key town, a find of sorts, known more as a place where people live than visit, and Gerard has an attractively low-key way of talking about it, whether to encourage people to visit or simply to speak about where he lives. He rarely relies on superlatives to do the work for him. But he claimed to have a magnificent view of the mountains from the terrace of his apartment and invited me to see.

I finally returned to Chambery one long weekend about seven years ago to visit Gerard. Gerard is a kind and diligent host, but the magnificent view that he promised failed to appear. For three days the city sat in a foggy gray. We were now in our 40s, so it didn’t matter that the aquatic park had long closed.

On Sunday afternoon, after satisfactorily accomplishing the French ritual of market (there’s a great one at Chambery) and lunch, we drove to Grenoble, about 45 minutes away, with the intent of visiting the Beaux Arts Museum there, though we managed to enjoy the town without it.

On the way back to Chambery, a shift in the clouds told Gerard that once home we would find blue skies and snowcapped mountains. But when, back on his terrace, Gerard pointed in the direction of the winter ski slopes and the summer hiking grounds where he now owned a chalet without electricity, I couldn’t even distinguish Gerard from the potted plants for the mist.

That evening we went out for raclette, an Alpine meal melted cheese and warmed cold cuts, as a reminder that the mountains were out there somewhere.

One of four elephants on the Fountain of Elephants, Chambery. Photo GLK.

I’ve returned to Chambery again more recently, in research mode this time. Gerard is still responsible for promoting his town. I, after a break of several years to focus on Paris projects, still write about the about his country.

On a guided tour of the historical center of Chambery, Florence, my guide, showed me the chest-high plaque indicating the height of the flood of January 18, 1875. We were both surprised to realize that today’s date was January 18. A couple of tourists passed by just then and Florence seemed to want to share the coincidental date with them. She held up her hand in a combination point and wave hoping they’d notice the plaque, but they ignored her gesture.

Florence told me another date, May 26, 1944, when Americans planes bombed Chambery to stop Germans from going to/from Italy during the final days of the Allied preparations for the Invasion of Normandy. The railway station and about a third of the town were destroyed.

On my own I walked away from the center of town for about 20 minutes to reach Les Charmettes, where the writer and philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778) spent time while in his 20s in the home of his protector and mistress. I’m glad I did because walking by a stream on my way back to the center of town I felt inspired to reread Rousseau when I got home, though I haven’t yet gotten around to it.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s view from the backyard of Les Charmettes, Chambery. Photo GLK.

It was January, as I’ve said. The weather was spring-like in the valley, winter bright in the mountains. My visit corresponded with a visit of the area organized for s small group of Italian tour operators, whom I joined for a tour of Aix-les-Bains, 11 miles north of Chambery. Aix is a fin-de-siecle town formerly turned inward to his hot springs. While the springs are still used for medical purposes and the old stones are a pleasure to see, contemporary travelers mostly look outward to Lake Bourget, France’s largest natural lake, and upward into the pre-Alpine hills and mountains.

Approaching the Abbey of Hautcombe by boat from Aix-les-Bains. Photo GLK.

Hundreds of black-feathered white-beaked ducks (fulica atra) saw us off as we embarked for a beautiful morning cruise to the Abbey of Hautecombe, necropolis of the House of Savoy (counts, dukes and finally, briefly, kings of Italy), where we were greeted by cormorants. Bourget is a long, narrow lake. I wondered aloud whether it was possible to rent bikes at Aix-les-Bains to cycle all the way around and was told “Oui, 74 kilometers” (Yes, 46 miles), which now inspires me more than the thought of reading Rousseau, but I haven’t yet made biking plans either.

Looking down on Aix-les-Bains and Lake Bourget from Grand Revard. Photo GLK.

As with Chambery, the mountains begin on the edge of Aix-les-Bains. I took the photo above when we went up to the Grand Revard, the closest mountain from town, just a 30-minute drive from Aix-les-Bains (equally accessible from Chambery). We skied for a couple of hours on the gentle pre-Alpine slopes (1550 meter/5000 feet). Gerard had lent me for the occasion a pair of ski pants, which I left unbuttoned because they were too tight.

I returned the ski pants to him back in Chambery when I went over to his apartment to finally see the promised view from his terrace. There, lo and behold, was the Massif des Bauges and the Cross of the Nivolet facing the town. The white-crossed red Savoy flag fluttering atop the old stones of the ducal castle.

© 2012, Gary Lee Kraut

Flag of Savoy above the Ducal Castle, Chambery. Photo GLK.

Chambery Tourist Office, 5 bis place du Palais de Justice. Tel. 04 79 33 42 47. Closed Sundays except in July and August.

Aix-les-Bains Tourist Office, Place Maurice Mollard. Tel. 04 79 88 68 00.

Chambery is one of the points of entry to the French Alps of the Savoie/Savoy region. The official Savoie Mont Blanc website provides information about skiing, hiking and other activities in this portion of the Alps.

Chambery Hotels

Château de Candie, rue du Bois de Candie. tel. 04 79 96 63 00. Member of the hotel associations Château et Hôtels Collection and the Esprit de France. Four miles north of the center of town, in the direction of Aix-les-Bains, a 25-room luxury hotel (4-star) partially within the walls of a 14th-century fortified manor. On a 15-acre estate with views of the surrounding mountains. Gastronomic restaurant. Pool in summer. A fine place from which to explore Chambery, Aix-les-Bains and the lakes and hills.

Inter Hôtel des Princes, 4 rue de Boigne,  tel 04 79 33 45 36. A friendly 45-room 3-star hotel for a pleasant stay in the very center of Chambery between the Fountain of Elephants and the castle.

Chambery B&Bs (Chambres d’hotes)

Petit Hôtel Confidentiel, 15 rue de Boigne and 10 rue de la Trésorerie. Tél. 06 22 76 08 85. A luxury (4 corn ears, which are similar to stars but attributed to B&Bs) hotel-like B&B with suites of sleek modern design at two locations in the center of town.

Les Suites de l’Hôtel de Sautet, 6 rue Métropole. Tél 06 16 83 16 64.  Excellent comfort in the 4-corn-ear B&B located in an 18th century mansion on a pedestrian street in the center of town.

La Vie de Bohème, 14 passage Henri Murger. Tél 04 79 70 06 42 or 06 84 35 20 74. Spacious accommodations for a central stay beyond a couple of days or for a traveling family.

Chambery Restaurants

Côté Marché, 60 rue Vieille Monnaie. Tel. 04 79 85 04 35.  Restaurant and gastronomic food shop. Closed Sunday and Monday.

L’Atelier, 59 rue de la République. Tel 04 79 70 62 39 ou 06 11 25 41 45. A restaurant and wine bar. Closed Sunday and Monday.

Le Bistrot, 6 rue du Théâtre, Tel. 04 79 75 10 78. An ambitious young chef in a handsome bistro décor. Closed Sunday and Monday.

Le Saint Réal,  86 rue St Réal, Tel. 04 79 70 09 33. Polished and traditional, a scent of old France. Closed Sunday.

© 2012, Gary Lee Kraut

I knew from experience that rental agencies in or near train stations and airports in France simply give you the keys, once you’ve signed the necessary forms, and send you on your merry way to hunt for the vehicle at the far end of the parking lot. And since one of those forms is the inevitably incorrect sheet indicating the agency’s vision of pre-rental dents and scratches to your vehicle, your failure to re-inspect may come back to haunt you when you find yourself being asked to pay for someone else’s fender bender.

Having returned to the agency to correct the error, I then set off with a slightly scratched but correctly recorded compact and headed to Royat, the first hot springs/spa town on my list on this exploratory trip to Auvergne.

Overlooking Clermont-Ferrand from the hill above Royat's hot springs. Photo GLK.

I assumed that Royat would be bucolically removed from the city, and my assumption had been reinforced by the fact that a tourist official had told me to give myself 30 minutes to reach Royat from the train station. She must have guessed, though, that I’d spend the first 20 minutes correcting the rental car scratch sheet though, because after only a 10-minute drive my GPS told me that I had arrived. But I didn’t appear to have arrived anywhere other than a slope on the edge of the city. It felt like being in Yonkers after leaving the Bronx, suburban yet still city.

Furthermore, my GPS, I discovered by the end of the day, would accept street names but not numbers, so it would abandon me at the start of a boulevard or avenue and leave me to rely on direct sighting to find my actual destination. My first destination, the Hotel Princesse Flore was indeed at the start of the avenue, but I went up and down the full length twice before feeling sufficiently confident behind the wheel on these narrow, winding streets to raise my eyes high enough to see “Princesse Flore” written on the side.

Timeline for hot spring towns in Auvergne

I’d come to visit this 5-star hotel and the adjacent spa and water park because they represent the latest step in the economic evolution of a town that developed with the discovery of its hot springs.

Though not the case at Royat (aka Royat-Camalières), some hot springs in the region were already exploited during Gallo-Roman time (e.g. Le Mont Dore). Some supplied hot water and even heating to villagers in the Middle Ages (e.g. Chaudes-Aigues). And some were already attracting visitors in the 18th century (e.g. Chatel-Guyon).

For the most part, however, the development of these hot springs medical/leisure “resorts,” as we would now call them, largely occurred during the 19th century according to the following schema.

1. a trickle of visitors following the discovery of the spring (1822 at Royat);

2. the arrival of developers with a vision (1845 here);

3. an increasing stream of visitors including some fashionable French or European aristocrats, who put the destination on the map (in 1862 by the most notable of French aristocrats visited Royat: Emperor Napoleon III, who suffered from rheumatism, and Empress Eugenia, who suffered from his incurable philandering);

4. the construction from 1880 to 1913, roughly the “Belle Epoque,” of ever-grander hotels and villas and buildings with furnished rooms to rent;

5. a restyling, after WWI, or towns and installations for the evolving high-end curistes (patients taking the waters), their entourage and other vacationers, accompanied by further study of the medical benefits of the waters, whether through bathing, drinking and/or smelling (mostly for rheumatism at Royat);

6. an attempt to keep on a happy face after WWII despite increasing competition from beach resorts and jet vacations;

7. a fall from grace through the 1960s as thermal baths lose their luster and the state health system pays lesser fortuned visitors to come for a 3-week medical cure, and

8. an attempt since about 2000 for local government to encourage the arrival of medical “curists” while trying to find ways to develop other forms of tourism with or without the thermal baths themselves.

(Though none of the hot-spring that I’m exploring in this series can be considered a luxury resort, it is not at all my intent to dismiss this region for high-end travelers, as will be seen as this report goes on.)

Hotel Princesse Flore and Royatonic spa and water park in Royat.

Royat, Princesse Flore, Royatonic

Royat itself was never a major spa town despite Napoleon III’s visit—indeed, he showered most of his imperial thermal favors to Vichy—, but for a time it held its own. Its medically prescribed thermal facility still welcomes about 9000 “curists” per year with a prescription to take the waters for rheumatism and certain cardiovascular diseases.

The hotel across the street from Royat’s medical thermal center entered the scene at Phase 4 of the timeline above. Built in 1883, it was renovated in the 1920s, as can be seen from the Art Deco styling of the public areas, but fell into decline in the final decades of the century. It closed altogether in 1999 (another half-dozen hotels would close over the following decade), took a deep breath when it was purchased by its current owner, Isidore Fartaria, in 2001 and reopened in 2009 as Le Princesse Flore , named for the owner’s youngest daughter. It is now a 5-star hotel, which places it a couple of notches higher than any of the hotels in the Clermont-Ferrand.

As noted at Phases 6 and 7 above, the moneyed crowded increasingly turned away from hot springs such as these in the decades following WWII. Competition from more modern coastal or foreign resorts coincided with moves to include medical water therapy among those treatments to be covered partially or fully by the French public health system.

It was a double-edge sword. Medical coverage of taking the waters meant that certain thermal facilities would continue to function and perhaps flourish by attracting patients of the national health system, but it also caused the well-to-do to spend their well-being funds elsewhere. After all, the latter were not about to hang out with the general and elderly population that could now enjoy (or suffer in) the same the hot springs with small portfolios but with a doctor’s prescription and some or all of their expenses covered or reimbursed by the state system (le Sécu) and by complementary insurance.

Several times during the course of my stay in the region I would be told that the Sécu killed the high life of the hot springs in France. While that’s somewhat true (as I’ve noted, coastal resorts and foreign resorts also played a role), the Sécu has also allowed helped these towns to survive.

But no spa town wants to live by Sécu alone, which, for all its positive effects on the well-being of citizens and long-term residents, would have a tendency to turn a town into a socialist retirement home. (Interestingly, spa towns tend to vote right rather than left.) So in recent years Royat (pop. 4500) and other towns have sought ways of giving some economic umph to their aquatic heritage by coupling local or regional public investments with private investiments.

The Princesse Flore, privately owned, and the adjacent spa and water park Royatonic, owned by the municipality, are a case in point.

As the top hotel in the immediate Clermont-Ferrand region, the Princesse Flore is primarily (at 85%, according its director) a business hotel. Indeed, there’s no good reason for an upscale leisure traveler to stay here (might as well leave the urban environment altogether) unless transiting as a family through Clermont-Ferrand on an overnight. However, I wouldn’t mind coming home to this 43-room hotel after a day at one of those French meetings that end with everyone promising to think about the situation some more and to call each other in another work or two, or three or four because vacations are coming up. In addition to the visible comfort of the rooms and suites, guests have free access to the watery playground of Royatonic next door and can purchase some spa treatments there.

Main indoor pool at Royatonic.

I did not stay the night since I had a chateau-hotel in the country to look forward to that evening. But I took the time to relax for 15 minutes on a hydro-massage bed (Hydro-Jet) in Royatonic’s peaceable Sanhoa-branded spa treatment area and then made the rounds of steam, baths (cold, warm, hot, scented) and basins of its water park. At Royatonic, the water springs from its source at 86F (30C) and his heated several degrees for the indoor pool and several degrees more for the outdoor pool, which is open year-round.

Royatonic is a public project (with plans for expansion), publicly funded and operated, that, according to its director, turns a profit. How it’s public investment and operation is actually calculated with respect to that profit I leave to French journalists to investigate, but the figure that I was given of 165,000 visitors for last year is indeed significant.

Royatonic is certainly a nice place for locals and for business travelers to gather and relax—except when there’s an underwater spin class going on and the music is pumped up in contradiction of the sign asking visitors to respect the calm.

The group was cycling to the tunes from “Grease”: “Grease lightning, go grease lightening…,” “Tell me more, tell me more, did you get very far…”

So much for relaxation.

Anyway, I’d come for research rather than zenitude, and I had a lunch appoint at Chatel-Guyon, the next spa town on my list.

I plugged Chatel-Guyon into the GPS, with Anywhere for a street name, and drove into the hills.

© 2012, Gary Lee Kraut

Hotel Princesse Flore, 5 place Allard, 63130 Royat. Tel. 04 73 35 63 63. Princesse Flore is the first French member of Best Western’s Premier association of hotels.

Royatonic and Spa SanHoa, 5 avenue Auguste Rouzard 63130 Royat. Tel. 04 73 29 58 90.

Return to Part I: From Paris to Clermont-Ferrand by clicking here.
Go to:  Part III: Chatel-Guyon
Part IV: Chateau La Caniere, a luxury hotel
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Indeed it is… Lost, but easily found from Paris on a daytrip or better yet an overnight into the Chevreuse Valley.

The town of Chevreuse serves as capital of the Regional Natural Park of the Upper Chevreuse Valley (Haute Vallée de Chevreuse), which encompasses a portion of the valley of the narrow Yvette River.

Regional Natural Park status doesn’t mean that the valley is all forest and wilderness; it’s rather a designation that protects the zone’s landscape, agriculture and woodlands and that controls the development of its towns and villages, all the while allowing its castles to stand out as they have for hundreds of years.

Chateau de la Madeleine, Chevreuse. Photo GLK.

The park’s main tourist office is in the medieval fortress Chateau de la Madeleine that overlooks Chevreuse, a pleasant valley town of 6000 twelve miles southeast of Versailles, 25 miles southeast of Paris. The suburban train line RER B extends south from Paris to Saint-Rémy-lès-Chevreuse, 1½ miles from Chevreuse. (See “Logistics” below)

Despite Chevreuse’s attraction for a pleasant stroll, lunching options, and a hike up to the castle, the town isn’t excursion-worthy by itself. But Chateau de Breteuil, several miles away, is.

The approach to the Chateau de Breteuil. Photo GLK.

That may be a standard and easy refrain of the heirs of historical properties open to the public, a post-19th-century form of noblesse oblige. Yet Mr. de Breteuil, born in 1943, has indeed devoted his much of his adult life to safeguarding and sharing the honor and, where possible, the glory of his home. Mr. de Breteuil not only talks the talk but also walks the walk, it seemed to me as he showed me around his chateau one afternoon after lunching together in Chevreuse.

“Call me Henri,” he said, when we first met.

Henri-Francois de Breteuil in the courtyard of Breteuil the chateau. Photo GLK

Inside the chateau, visitors encounter assorted ancestors (government ministers, ambassadors, bishops, etc.) and prestigious acquaintances (Louis XVIII, Proust) of the Breteuil family in the form wax figures representing scenes in the life of the chateau or of the family.

As fascinating as it is to an American to learn of a 400-year family connection with a historical property, the most telling aspects of Mr. de Breteuil’s ownership/ trusteeship/ stewardship come from his own lifetime, in particular the difference between his own ties to Breteuil and his late father’s desire to flee such ties.

Mr. de Breteuil’s father saw the ancestral home as a ball and chain prohibiting him from living out his dreams, for not only was he the heir to the Breteuil name but also heir to the New World since his mother was American.

After his mother’s death (his father had died previously), the elder Breteuil went to the United States to settle her estate and decided to settle there himself along with his wife and young Henri. (I call him Henri here only to avoid the confusion with his father but otherwise he’s still Monsieur de Breteuil to me.) But his wife preferred to stay in France, where she directed a theater and where, according to Henri, she envisioned their son’s future. The couple divorced and Henri’s father soon remarried an American, as Henri’s grandfather father had, but this time with the intent of staying in the United States, where he had a second child, Henri’s half-sister. His father wished to sell the chateau, but Henri, in his 20s, decided to take on the full responsibility of restoring and maintaining the ancestral home, joined soon in his devotion but his wife Séverine. Take it if you’re that attached to it, his father more or less said.

(As a youth, Henri spent summers in the United States visiting his father and, rest assured, is quite fond of Americans.)

Together Henri and Séverine restored, renovated and reinvented Chateau de Breteuil to open it and its grounds to the public as we see it today. Séverine de Breteuil passed away in 2009.

Upper portion of the dovecote at Breteuil. Photo GLK.

The current chateau was built largely in the early 1600s, replacing the ruins of a fortified castle. Of the medieval fortified castle only the dovecote (colombier), with its 3200 pigeon niches, remains, dating from the end of the 15th century. It now houses an exhibit “Breteuil à Table,” with 3D reconstitutions of renowned paintings of mealtime scenes from the Middle Ages to the 19th century.

The chateau itself, built of brick and stone, was then called the Chateau de Bévillers. It took on the Breteuil name when inherited by Claude-Charles le Tonnelier de Breteuil in 1712. Successive partitioning of the property in the 20th century and finally, in 1967, between Henri and his half-sister, have amputated the Breteuil domain of much of its original land, yet the heart of historic Breteuil—the chateau, surrounding buildings and landscaped park—remain as part of the 185 acre estate.

Breteuil, like other private homes open to the public, offers a glimpse into the interplay of historical nobility and contemporary tourism. And if you’re fortunate enough to encounter Henri-Francois de Breteuil along the way—not an unusual occurrence—you will also gain insights into the personal and particularly French sense of heritage and transmission.

Chateau de Dampierre

Dampierre is another private chateau in the Chevreuse Valley, just a few miles from Breteuil. Designed by Jules Hardouin Mansart in the 1680s for the Duc de Chevreuse it is more imposing than Breteuil, as is to be expected from the architect who left major markers of French architecture during reign of Louis XIV, including the Hall of Mirrors and the Grand Trianon among other additions at Versailles, Place Vendome, Place des Victoires, and the dome of the Invalides in Paris. However, it has less the personal, emotive stamp of its owner than Breteuil. Dampierre is open from April to September for guided tours only but makes for a photogenic drive-by at anytime.

Abbey of Vaux de Cernay

For an overnight consistent with the historical and natural theme of a visit to the Chevreuse Valley, look about four miles southeast of Breteuil and Dampierre to the Abbey of Vaux de Cernay.

The hotel is built around the ruins of the abbey, which was founded in the early 12th century by monks from Savigny who then aligned themselves with Cistercian rules. The abbey’s main structures were built as the institution grew from the 12th through 14th centuries. Pillaged during the Revolution, its ruins were later protected and the full domain reconstituted under the ownership of the Baron Rothchild family beginning in 1873.

Hotel/Abbey of Vaux de Cernay. Photo GLK.

It is now owned by Les Hotels Particuliers, a hotel group (part of the Savry Group) that transforms formerly more or less abandoned private properties of historical value into hotel complexes. The group currently has fourteen such properties in France, mostly in locations that are, at least for the time being, little known to American visitors.

Remaining usable portions of the abbey have been integrated into the public spaces of the hotel while the roofless, windowless walls of the abbey church testify to both its enormity and the 800 years of history that have passed this way. The public spaces draw inspiration or actual architecture from the Gothic period. The bedrooms of this superior 3-star establishment range from the comfortably monastic (125€) to the expansive apartment (655€). They are decorated without extravagance but in the spirit of restful tradition. The restaurant beneath the Gothic arches serves traditional French cuisine.

If visiting the area by car, Vaux de Cernay, which lies between the chateaux of Breteuil and Rambouillet, is worthy of a coffee/teatime stop even if not spending the night.

Ruins of the abbey church beside the hotel patio at Vaux de Cernay. Photo GLK.

Rambouillet

Rambouillet is located just outside of the Regional Natural Park of the Upper Chevreuse Valey, but its close enough (seven miles from Cernay, ten miles from Chevreuse) and green enough to be associated with the above explorations.

The Chateau de Rambouillet has the status of a Presidential Estate, though it’s rarely been used by recent French presidents other than for the occasional meeting with heads of state or international conferences. It is otherwise open to the public on guided tours and is the point of departure for hikes and biking into the Forest of Rambouillet.

At its heart Rambouillet is a fortified castle built in the late 14th century though it has been repeatedly modernized over the centuries. King Louis XVI purchased it in 1783 to take advantage of the hunting grounds of the nearby forest. Though the king was tone-deaf to the troubles that would soon be brewing in his kingdom, he was up to date on the science of selective breeding of farm animals. Under him, Swiss cows, Spanish and African sheep and angora goats grazed here. Napoleon, who also enjoyed Rambouillet, added horses and buffalos to the farm. The National Sheepfold (Bergerie nationale) of Rambouillet still exists.

Louis XVI also had a dairy built for Marie-Antoinette’s pleasure, as with the Queen’s Hamlet at Versalles, and Rambouillet’s Queen’s Dairy, without the cows, can also be visited. Visits of the interior of the castle, the Queen’s Dairy and an exquisite thatched cottage can be visited by guided tour only, departing almost hourly. Closed Tuesday.

Green travels continue in the 50,000 acres of Forest of Rambouillet that spread out beyond the castle’s park. Information on hiking and biking routes on the forest are available at the tourist office near the castle.

Ferme de Coubertin

Exploring the Chevreuse Valley and the Forest of Rambouillet is green enough to make a visitor want to find some fresh goat or cow cheese to make a picnic. And that’s possible at the Ferme de Coubertin, a farm with 60 milk cows and 25 goats along with rabbits and pigs, just a half-mile from the Saint Remy les Chevreuse RER train station, where this report started.

Along with purchasing fresh dairy products, you can visit the farm and watch the cows and goats being milked in late afternoon. See site for opening times.

With proper timing you can stop at Coubertin Farm to pick up a dairy picnic before setting out to visit the valley or visit the cows and purchase some cheese before taking the train back to Paris, as I did.

The author, fresh cheese and cows at the Ferme de Coubertin.

Logistics for visiting the Chevreuse Valley and Rambouillet

Weekending Francilians, as inhabitants of the Paris region (Ile-de-France) are called, are likely to have a car when visiting the Chevreuse Valley and so are able to visit the various sights mentioned in this article without much logistical consideration. If you’ve got wheels, use them.

Using public transportation and taxis requires more forethought but is possible as well as adventuresome.

The easiest way to reach the area by public transportation is to take the RER suburban train line B to Saint-Rémy-lès-Chevreuse, then setting off by taxi or by bus (Sundays only April-Oct.). RER B runs north-south through Paris (Gare du Nord, Chatelet, Saint-Michel, Luxembourg, etc.), with one of its branches (verify that you’re on the right one) reaching Saint-Rémy-lès-Chevreuse in 50-55 minutes.

The town of Chevreuse is 1.5 miles from the Saint-Rémy-lès-Chevreuse RER station, so that might be your first stop. There’s regular bus service between Saint-Rémy (from the station) and Chevreuse and less regular to Choisel (then a walk to Breteuil), Dampierre, Cernay and Rambouillet. You can always get somewhere by bus, if not everywhere, and in any case close enough on a nice day to finish on foot (excluding Rambouillet). A sweet smile in the parking lot at Breteuil might also get you a ride to your next destination.

If sans bus (and sans smile) you might take a taxi directly to the Chateau de Breteuil from Saint-Rémy, 3 miles away. Vaux de Cernay Abbey is a few miles beyond it in one direction, Dampierre a few miles in another.

On Sundays and public holidays from the first Sunday in April to the last Sunday in October, a bus service called Baladobus makes the rounds several times per day from the Saint-Rémy-lès-Chevreuse RER station to the Chateau de Breteuil, 20 minutes away, as well as to Chevreuse, Vaux de Cernay, Dampierre. With careful planning with the Baladobus schedule it’s possible to hit several of the highlights of the immediate area on a leisurely day or a Saturday-Sunday or Sunday-Monday overnight.

An alternative approach without a car is to begin at Rambouillet, reached in a little over an hour by train from Paris leaving from the Montparnasse station. Rambouillet makes for a daytrip on its own.

A 36-hour adventure from Paris can involve arriving at Rambouillet and departing from Saint-Remy-lés-Chevreuse (or vice versa) and visiting the sights in between according to your touring interests.

Official information websites and details

Saint-Rémy-lès-Chevreuse. There’s a tourist information office across from the RER train station, open Wed., Sat., Sun. and holidays.

Regional Natural Park of the Upper Chevreuse Valley 

Chateau de Breteuil, Choisel, 78460 Chevreuse. Tel. 01 30 52 05 02. Guided tours set out at 2:30pm daily, with an additional tour at 11:30am Sunday and holidays. Can be visited without a guided tour. A creperie stand is open early April to late October. Picnics are welcome at any time.

Chateau de Dampierre

Chateau de Rambouillet 

Forest of Rambouillet 

 Abbey of Les Vaux de Cernay (hotel), 78720 Cernay la Ville. Tel. 01 34 85 23 00.

The Coubertin Farm, Ferme de Coubertin 

Yvelines Tourist Information.  The sights mentioned in this article are all found in the department of Yvelines, which also includes Versailles, Saint-Germain-en-Laye, Maisons-Laffitte, and other towns east and southeast of Paris.

© 2012, Gary Lee Kraut

UNESCO’s official acknowledgement of inscription to the list in November 2011 describes equitation in the French tradition as:

“… a school of horseback riding that emphasizes harmonious relations between humans and horses. The fundamental horse-training principles and processes are guided by non-violence and lack of constraint, blending human demands with respect for the horse’s body and mood. Knowledge of the animal itself (physiology, psychology, anatomy) and human nature (emotions and the body), are complemented by a horseman’s state of mind that combines skill and respect for the horse. Fluidity of movements and flexibility of joints ensure that the horse participates in the exercises without coercion. Although practised throughout France and elsewhere, the most widely known community is the Cadre Noir of Saumur, based at the National School of Equitation…”

Cadre Noir de Saumur. Photo (c) Alain Laurioux - IFCE

“… The common denominator among riders is the desire to establish close relations with the horse, build mutual respect and work towards achieving ‘lightness’. Cooperation between generations is strong, with respect for the experience of older riders, galvanized by the enthusiasm of younger riders. The Saumur region is also home to instructors, horse breeders, craftspeople (saddlers, boot-makers), veterinary services and blacksmiths. Frequent public displays and galas hosted by the Cadre Noir of Saumur help to sustain the visibility of equitation in the French tradition.”

Here is a video in French showing the Cadre Noir and explaining the development of horseback riding traditions in France:

The official website of the Cadre Noir and the National School of Equitation in Saumur provides information on shows and sporting competitions held at the school that are open to visitors.
Tourist information for the town of Saumur, in the Loire Valley, can be found here.

Other elements of French heritage that have been added to the list in previous years are:
2010
- The gastronomic meal of the French,
- Compagnonnage, network for on-the-job transmission of knowledge and identities,
- The craftsmanship of Alençon (Normandy) needle lace-making,
- Falconry, a living human heritage (France is one of 11 countries designated as sharing this heritage).

2009
- Aubusson tapestry
- Maloya, a form of music, song and dance native to Réunion Island,
- The scribing tradition in French timber framing,
- That year “The Cantu in paghjella: a secular and liturgical oral tradition of Corsica” was also added to the List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent Safeguarding.

2008
- Processional Giants and Dragons in Belgium and France.

I sat next to the wood stove with a mug of coffee in my hands. Bless my hosts for having coffee! I thought, as I eased back against the bench and let my muscles unstiffen.

I had come to France from the winter-cold Midwestern U.S. a little over a week earlier, as a WWOOF volunteer. WWOOF (WorldWide Opportunities on Organic Farms) was something I’d long wanted to do. Organized on a country-by-country basis, with 40+ nations participating, WWOOF connects small organic farmers and homesteaders with “willing workers” (the WW of the original acronym) who are interested in sustainable farming and eager to travel.

For room and board a WWOOFer exchanges a certain amount of work each day, over a period of time that can range from a few days to a few months. I had recently finished graduate school, and after months of unemployment and restlessness, I decided I needed to go WWOOF somewhere. And somewhere became France.

Hills and meadows in Dordogne. Photo Erica Romkema.

I needed to go WWOOF somewhere

My hosts, Frederic and Dorine Berendsen-Schut, of La Ferme des Jolies Allures, were kind and hospitable from the outset. “Eat anything,” they said, opening their cupboards full of foods I liked: chocolate spread, cookies, butter and bread, pudding, and oh, wonderful coffee! During my stay we drank coffee together at least once a day, usually two to three times, and my hosts began to tease me for my penchant for sweets to go with it.

Dorine and Frederic hail from the Netherlands. “We came to Dordogne for a better life,” Frederic told me. Their lives in the Netherlands, he said, had gotten too crowded, too fast, and too stressed. As they started to think about a place in the country, France seemed the likely option, and so to France they moved. They are among the many Dutch and English who have chosen to settle in the Dordogne countryside.

Dorine took a course in agriculture and entrepreneurship, and despite doubtful laughs from some of her fellow classmates, she and Frederic set out to make their dreams happen. In 2007, they purchased their farm and got to work.

I was their first WWOOFer, and they had set up a separate room for me, with a layer of rocks on the floor to keep the dust down in the then-unfinished barn-house. It amused me to step out of bed and feel the floor crunch under my feet, but the bed was comfortable and the heat piping into the room was much appreciated.

Chåteau de Jumilhac in Jumilhac-le-Grand, nearby. Photo Erica Romkema.

Dordogne, more enchanting than I ever expected

Before coming to France I had paged through books and gotten a general idea of the country’s various regions and departments, but to read is one thing and to experience is another. I found Dordogne to be more enchanting than I could have expected or even hoped for. Oh, I thought, every time I would climb onto the tractor and off we’d go to the woods, I am living in the place where they make fairytales happen: the golden stone buildings, the red and blue shutters, the green hills folding into each other, and all those castles; small villages one after another; quiet roads yet nearby neighbors; paths winding down into valleys, coming out alongside streams, and streams running under bridges into old mill wheels.

I found this all so beautiful I could hardly find a way to speak of it. So I scribbled in my notebook, evenings by the wood stove, with smiles for such things, even if only for myself to understand.

I have a bit of an agricultural background, so I’ve spent many summers between jobs and school semesters crouched over rows of vegetables, planting and weeding and harvesting. The work on this farm, however, was not of the kind I had done most often before. When coming to volunteer on farms in France during February and March, that is to be expected. Unlike summer, the tail end of winter is less focused towards tending crops and more directed towards animal care and general farm maintenance.

Ulani, stallion on the farm. Photo Erica Romkema.

At work and at play

When Dorine went into town to work with her real estate company (a place where she can use her knowledge of four languages, as others from the EU seek to relocate to the region), Frederic and I headed out to a stand of nearby trees to chop and gather firewood and stack it near the house. We would spend a few hours each morning working on the wood, come in for lunch, and maybe go back out again, depending on our plans for the day.

In mornings and evenings, we took turns making sure the horses were all well and had hay and water. My hosts raise Mangalarga Marchadors and Tennessee Walkers, both gaited horses for smooth riding, and they also nurture their shrubs and vines (blueberries, black currants, gooseberries and others), the fruit from which they will use for making natural and organic juices. I drank some of their juice from the previous year, made with fruit that had been given or purchased from neighbors and friends. Frederic and Dorine had wanted to begin juicing for practice in this early, just-starting-out phase of their farm. The flavors were full, and so sweet, with no sugar or sugar substitutes added! And the horses – well, the horses were gorgeous. At night I would slip out of my room and go lean on the fence and just look at them.

While the mares produce some of the first foals and the fruit starts to bear, these Frederic and Dorine are hard at work converting their barn into a house. When I was there, half of the barn had been bricked off and was where we humans stayed, while the other half was for the horses, all with a dirt floor but quite cozy, nonetheless. In addition to finishing the house and setting up a few campers for subsequent WWOOFers to stay in, the Berendsen-Schuts have plans for a new barn for the horses, and hope to construct several ecological gîtes, so tourists and visitors can stay and enjoy the fresh air, the rolling landscape, the picturesque villages, and certainly the good food.

I enjoyed all these things, and lots of laughing with fine company. At first I was shy and eager to please, but as the Berendsen-Schuts and I worked together we got to know each other and spent a lot of time joking and bantering – even when we got a bout of le gastro and spent several days running to the bathroom. (I think we may have laughed then more than ever!) And one of the very best things was getting to know the neighbors; something I so appreciated about my hosts was how, even as Dutch imports with still relatively new French speaking skills, they engaged with their community and invited me into their circles.

A sense of community

The author with a neighbor’s Clydesdales.

In the two-and-a-half weeks I spent with my hosts, I joined Dorine in watching Frederic perform with his choral group inside a small stone church; I dined at the home one of the fellow choral members and his large family (so much food and drink!); I went to a community memorial for boys who had died while organizing as part of the French Resistance; and I helped clear trees and branches from the yard of a perfectly jolly British couple, stopping to chat over steaming mugs of tea out in the misty gray. Once, while driving, we caught sight of a barn we admired, and when we stopped to look at it, we made new friends with the Yorkshire owners and their handsome Clydesdales.

A week or so into my stay, I hopped off the tractor for an impromptu meet-and-greet with the next-door neighbors on a rainy afternoon, and was left alone with the mother and grandmother while Frederic and the uncle went to look at some firewood. The women spoke almost no English, and my French was yet tentative and clumsy, but how gracious we all were to each other! I had heard so much, here and there, about the French disliking Americans. But here in Dordogne I felt warmly welcomed, as friends of friends – invited into a place of green and sunshine, of rain and golden-white castles, of horses and bright open doors.

For more on WWOOFing in France see www.wwoof.fr.
For more on WWOOF worldwide see www.wwoof.org.
Frederic and Dorine Berendsen-Schut’s farm La Ferme des Jolies Allures is among 26 WWOOFing farms currently listed in Dordogne, indicated by #24 on the map on the association’s website. Quoting from the Berendsen-Schuts’s own description: “… always enough to do here. Some of the activities are: mowing, weeding, constructing, chopping wood, maintaining the fences, picking fruits. Next to all those activities we like to sing and to make music… French, Dutch, English and German spoken.” Their full description is found here.

Author bio: Erica Romkema grew up on hobby farms in the heartland of the United States. She enjoys working in the dirt and writing about food, farms, and nature. You can visit her blog at www.kindsofhoney.wordpress.com.

***

The view didn’t seem entirely real as I approached the sanctuaries of Rocamadour. Perhaps that’s because in addition to the natural drama of the way the sanctuaries are set into the cliffs above the Alzou River, Rocamadour has long stood in a shadowy zone between history and legend.

I’d been riding along the valley from the south. Between brief rain showers a spring sunrise illuminated the gray cliffs and the cité réligieuse. I thought that this combination of light, shadows, rocks, walls and mists would allow for exceptional photos for the Dordogne cycling guidebook I was preparing at the time.

View of Rocamadour. WJM.

The view of the cliff and the sanctuaries that hug it may have influenced a few movie set, including Raiders of the Lost Ark, but this is the real deal, and like much of history, what actually happened here seems more farfetched than fiction.

My own arrival was more like a scene from “Around the World in 80 days.” I’d flown in from Orlando two days before, taken public transportation from Charles de Gaulle Airport to the Paris Gare d’Austerlitz train station, had lunch next to the Jardin de Plantes, then taken the 4-hour train south to Brive la Gaillard. On arrival, I rented a micro van large enough to carry my luggage and bicycle, and off I drove to a small hotel in Souillac. The next morning, I rented a bike and took a first ride to Sarlat.

These cliffs facing south and some water from the Alzou, even though most of it is underground, is a lot like the area around the caves at Lascaux north of here. So Cro-Magnon, or even Neanderthal, groups could have lived here, plus Ice-Age bison and ibex. But what I would be seeing soon was more recent, 1,000 years old, though the legends date them back further.

Alzou Valley. WJM.

And on up the valley I cycled.

Then came that slow (most are slow for me) climb up and through the two short tunnels to the castle level of Rocamadour.

From the top I could see the three levels of Rocamadour: the village at the base, the seven sanctuaries hugging the cliffs at the middle, and here at the top the medieval fortified castle that protected the pilgrims.

I locked my bike near the inclined elevator, stored my helmet inside the ticket kiosk with the cashier, and took the incline down to the village level. From there I would take the 216 steps of the Grand Staircase to the sanctuaries, with a few stories along the way.

The Roc part of Rocamadour refers to these rocks or cliffs. Amadour apparently comes from the hermit Amadour, who became St. Amadour.

Approaching the sanctuaries and Porte St-Martial. WJM

Of the many versions of the identity of Amadour, my favorite is that he was actually Zacchaeus, the chief tax collector of Jericho, husband of Veronica, and that he once had Jesus as his houseguest. Zacchaeus and Veronica, disciples of Jesus, were eventually persecuted and driven out of Palestine. They followed the shore of the Mediterranean in a delicate skiff guided by an angel. After a journey halfway around the Mediterranean, they landed in southwestern Gaul, now southwestern France. There they met Martial, also a disciple of Jesus and spreading the Gospel in the region. The couple traveled to Rome and witnessed the martyrdoms of fellow saints Peter and Paul. After Veronica passed away, Zacchaeus returned to Gaul and constructed a chapel above the Alzou Valley. He lived in a cave as a hermit before he died.

There were a number of modern-day pilgrims ready to ascend the Grand Staircase. The group was quiet as the prepared to pass the Stations of the Cross indicated along the ascent.

Zacchaeus was buried next to the chapel he’d built. In the twelfth century, the nearby faithful started calling him St. Amadour, or Amator, though some say that the name refers to the fourth-century bishop Amatre of Auxerre. Whatever the case, in 1166 a body was uncovered near the very same chapel in such a remarkable state of preservation that people believed it could only be that of a saint.

In the Middle Ages, religious institutions thrived on possessing a piece a saint. During the twelfth century, every religious community across France wanted to give pilgrims a reason to stop for supplies, rest and exchange news. Much like drawing tourists, receiving pilgrims was good for the economy for that community. The major pilgrimage in Western Europe at the time was the journey to Santiago de Compostela in western Spain, site of the relics of St. James. Rich or poor, almost everyone that undertook a thousand mile pilgrimage had the means to complete it.

The discovery of St. Amadour’s well-preserved remains led to Rocamadour becoming a destination for pilgrims and a major stop on the route to Santiago de Compostela. The Rocamadour community prospered. But during the sixteenth-century Wars of Religion that pitted Protestants against Catholics, Protestants burned those remains, and an emboldened knight bashed the bones with a battleaxe. In spite of that desecration, there were remnants, and they are now in the St. Amadour Crypt below the Basilica of St. Sauveur.

The Black Madonna inside Notre-Dame Chapel. WJM.

It was now my turn to climb the Grand Staircase, passing along the way the faithful at the Stations of the Cross. Traditionally, pilgrims would climb the staircase on their knees, though few do so today.

Even on foot I needed to rest by the time I arrived at the sanctuary level. No rush; the chance to take in the view while recovering (rapidly, thanks to cycling) before going down into St. Amadour’s Crypt below Notre-Dame Chapel.

A sign stated that Bishop St. Martial had lived in the third century, further complicating the history of Rocamadour. Some say that the faithful were referring to St. Amator or bishop Amatre. There isn’t much hard data to go on. Relics of the day were currency with little or no authentication. And beatification was as messy as the Lehman bankruptcy or the Greek tax collection system.

I climbed up to the Notre-Dame Chapel.

Here in this dark church, also called Chapelle Miraculeuse, is the celebrated Vierge Noir (Black Madonna). Legend has it that Zacchaeus (St. Amadour) carved her from local black walnut. I read in Helen Martin’s guide to the area that the Black Virgin was greatly venerated in the Middle Ages, most fervently in the 12th century. Honored for her assistance in fertility and childbirth, she was an heir to pre-Christian views of a mother-god.

Durandal mark, center top. WJM.

Coming out of the Chapel one sees a diagonal gash in the cliff face high above our heads. It’s a mark that legend says was left by Durandal, the sword of Roland.

Roland was a military leader fighting for Emperor Charlemagne in the eighth century. Roland is the subject of many legends in Europe and this how the France’s eleventh-century The Song of Roland puts it: Roland was retreating from a battle in Spain through the Pyrenees when his force was ambushed here by the Basques. The battle went against him. He had a horn named Oliphaunt that he then blew hoping for help from the Emperor. And he had a sword named Durandal. It was embedded with Christian relics and was considered to be unbreakable. With defeat imminent, Roland didn’t want Durandal to fall into the hands of the enemy. He tried to destroy it himself but as I said it was unbreakable. Finally, the Archangel Gabriel arrived. He took Durandal and threw it high and away. The sword struck the cliffs above the Alzou Valley, where it stays impaled to this day. The slash in the cliff to the left of the Chapel is where Durandal struck.

I followed a steep path back up to the ticket kiosk, recovered my helmet and bike, took a last photo, and set off for further adventures, including a bottle of Cahors vin noir in the evening.

- Text and photos © Walter Judson Moore, 2011.

Walter Judson Moore is the author of five cycling guidebooks to France and four companion queue sheets in print and as downloads. His guide “Dordogne Valleys and Villages” includes the area covered by this article. His work is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/walterjmoore and other online booksellers, as well as directly (and personally signed) from the author, who may be reached at wjmoore@tampabay.rr.com.

For further information on Rocamadour and the departments of Lot and Dordogne

Rocamadour Tourist Office
Lot Tourist Office (department includes Rocamadour and Cahors)
Dordogne Tourist Office  (department includes Périgueux, Bergerac and Sarlat)
*Helen Martin’s Lot: Travels Through a Limestone Landscape in Southwest France. Moho Books, 2008 rev. ed.

This is especially true in my two-wheeled explorations in and around the Morvan Regional Natural Park, a vast, lightly populated, protected green zone covering 1100 square miles in the center of Burgundy that’s exceptional for cycling, farms, forestry and history.

Celts and Romans

Three thousand years ago, during the Bronze Age, the area was inhabited by the Celts. Early merchants carried tin from Cornwall to the Mediterranean regions using the valleys of the Seine and Saône, and through Alsace, southern Germany and the Danube valley.

Around 100 B.C., the control of these routes allowed the Eduan tribe of Celts to establish power over most of what is present-day Burgundy. Their center of authority was Bibracte, an oppidum (or fortified settlement) at Mont Beuvray in the southern Morvan. That’s where the united Celtic tribes elected Vercingétorix chief to repel the Roman army under Caesar. The name Vercingétorix fills Frenchmen with pride since he was a homegrown hero brave enough to go up against an invader. He was nevertheless soon defeated.

From his camp at Flavigny-sur-Ozerain, Julius Caesar directed the final defeat of Vercingétorix and the Celtic tribes at Alesia, at the top of a nearby hill, in 52 B.C.

Caesar wrote that the Celts fought naked, perhaps as a way of saying that the men they set out to defeat were less than human, but in these warrior tribes men and women wore full armor, including chiefs and elders, who fought side by side on small horses. The Celts had a flourishing civilization. In the second and first centuries B.C. men shaved with obsidian razors, made fine jewelry, enjoyed wild boar, and imported oil and wine from Italy. These were tall people and had long blond hair. The hair color may have come from washing in a lye solution to rid their scalps of various critters.

Archeologists estimate that prior to the Celts’ conquest by Julius Caesar, traders brought 40 million amphorae (two-handled pottery jugs used to transport liquids such as wine and oil) into Gaul. After Caesar’s conquest, there was a decrease in the wine traffic as, instead of wine that easily turned to vinegar en route, Romans brought vines and their winemaking methods to eastern Burgundy.

Cycling around the Morvan has allowed me to acquire a sense of how Celts and Romans might have lived 20 centuries ago. In spite of small paved roads (a few following old Roman roads) allowing easy access, the rocky hills are covered with square mile after square mile of mature, dark forests. There are probably more villages now, but fewer permanent inhabitants.

From Forest to Wood for Paris

By fits and starts through the Middle Ages France became an increasingly powerful and centralized kingdom as far as most Parisians were concerned. But not much changed in the Morvan.

Paris only began paying attention to the Morvan—and perhaps the Morvan to Paris—because of the rich supply of wood in the area. Paris managed to find sufficient wood within its own surrounding region through the Middle Ages, but by the early 16th century that resource was nearly depleted. The kings, starting with Francis I, would not allow woodcutting in the royal domains that they reserved for hunting. Some wood was coming from northwest Burgundy by oxcart, but this was slow and costly.

In 1545, someone came up with the scheme to raft wood down the Cure River to the Yonne River, the Seine River and into Paris. It was a good idea but he had no funding. Charles Leconte, a native of Nièvre and prime carpentry contractor for the City Hall of Paris, then jumped on the idea and obtained funding.

On 20 April 1547, Leconte brought the first profitable raft of logs on the Yonne to Paris. Two years later an epic number of logs began floating to the capital.

This enterprise thrived for nearly 300 years, until wood was displaced in Paris by charcoal and then coal. At its peak, the annual volume of wood down the Yonne provided 90% of heating wood for Paris, exceeding 900,000 cubic yards of wood per year.

The annual cycle of selling and floating wood started on All Saints Day, 1 November, when the previous year’s wood harvest was auctioned at Châtillon-en-Bazois to 22 brokers by the owners of the forest properties. Within 15 days, the crews of those brokers and the forest owners marked each end of each length, called hammering, with a registered brand. These marked logs were stacked close to streams that ultimately flow to the Yonne. They were then moved into the streams in preparation for the “small wave” that started on 15 November. To obtain a sufficient flow of water, many reservoirs (made for this purpose) released water. Men and boys lined the streams and threw logs back into the flooding streams. This took the upstream logs to the 22 accumulation ports at the streams’ confluence with the Yonne.

After 15 November, the upstream reservoirs were dammed and an army of workers swarmed back into the Morvan forests for the winter to cut logs for the following year’s auction.

By 15 March, winter snows melted and the reservoirs were full again. Early that morning, water was released and marked wood from the accumulation ports flowed into the Yonne and on to Clamecy. All along the Yonne, men and boys risked their lives pushing the logs back into the river. The wave of wood was enormous; the river was covered with logs many feet thick and miles long.

Five hours later the residents of Clamecy, 20 to 30 miles downstream, heard the thunder of the approaching “Great Flood.” That was the signal to gather along town’s riverbanks to watch the logs arrive. With the initial roar of logs, the temporary wood dams below Clamecy were closed to raise the Yonne level and stop the flow of wood.

On the river banks, workers—men, women and children—drew wood out of the river with spiked poles up to 12 feet long. Women and children sorted the recovered logs and loaded them on special wheelbarrows. Then the wood was distributed to 30 workshop areas near the river depending on the logs’ marking.

The sorted logs were stacked 10 feet high with layers in alternating directions, roughly 5 cubic yards. There the wood dried until November.

In November, as the annual wood auction began way up stream, teams of six experienced workers in Clamecy assembled individual and complex rafts of logs, 250 feet long by 15 feet wide, with about 200 cords of wood. They then slid and levered the rafts into the Yonne and the next phase began. Two people were on each raft, the floater (a male adult) and his “little man in the back” (a teenager). When the raft got past the narrows upstream from Auxerre, the teenager left the raft and walked back to Clamecy. The floater guided the raft the rest of the way north down the quieter Yonne to the Seine and on to Paris, 155-mile ride that took 10 to 15 days.

Then innovation intruded into life along the Yonne. By the end of the 17th century the French had become master builders of canals and were extending the canal network throughout the kingdom.
Construction of the Canal du Nivernais began in 1784 with the goal of connecting the Loire basin with the Seine. This final 113-mile waterway for barges up to 99 feet in length and 16½ feet in width, including 110 locks and three tunnels, was finally inaugurated in 1841.

Paris had then started turning to coal for heat, and the Canal du Nivernais was also transporting upwards of 100 tons of coal per barge. With all that excess wood, the shops in Clamecy started making and shipping charcoal.

Canal tourism by barge and by bike

Commercial traffic along the Canal du Nivernais declined when a rail line was built nearby. That could have been the death of the canal.

Then Pierre Zivy pioneered canal tourism in France. The Canal du Nivernais had been effectively abandoned and was overgrown with vegetation. Between 1965 and 1970, traffic was virtually non-existent and there was consideration to close the waterway. But Zivy saw a future in the canal and put forward a plan. The region of Burgundy, supported by local and national funding, stepped in with money, renovating locks, tunnels, bridges, and the waterway for exclusive use of pleasure boats. To the great pleasure of cyclists like me, they implemented bicycle routes throughout the region, with old towpaths upgraded and paved for much of their length.

I rode here for a week in spring when the area is green, temperatures are moderate and the risk of rain acceptable. A bike path runs along the length of the canal, allowing easy cycling for those who wish to avoid hills, offering a leisurely pace during which to visit surrounding villages and absorb local culture and history. There are plenty of decent restaurants, and those in search of Burgundy wines and wine knowledge can certainly find them. Undoubtedly, fewer people here speak English than in the more popular eastern Burgundy wine region, but whenever I attempt a little French, even just a greeting, conversation thrives.

Information in this article about the Celts and Mont Beuvray corresponds to the St-Honoré-les-Bains & Mont Beuvray loop. Information about woodcutting and the “Floats” correspond to the Georges de l’Yonne loop. Information about the wood auction corresponds to the Châtillon-en-Bazois loop. Information about about the Canal du Nivernais correspond to the Châtillon-en-Bazois loop and the Corbigny & Clamecy loop.

Along the gentle slopes above the canal, I bicycled through a couple of small villages and a section of woods that seemed right out of the eighteenth century, albeit with a wider and paved roadbed.

To get an idea where the annual wood auction took place, I rode south along the canal to Châtillon-en-Bazois. In addition to a few normally spaced locks, the canal flows through the Sardy Locks Ladder with its 16 locks and the three Collancelle Tunnels at the highest elevation of the canal. Built into each tunnel is a towpath just wide enough for a man to walk pulling a barge, but not wide enough for a weary horse that might misstep into the canal.

Discovering a new part of France by bike is always gratifying for me, whether the day ends with a glass of beer or a glass of wine. I thank Pierry Zivy and his appreciation for the canal for this one.

My appreciation for the lives of the Celts, the early foresters and floaters, Caesar’s legionnaires and residents of then smoky Paris increased during my week in the Yonne Valley and along its canal. The gîte I stayed in was clean and warmed with electric heat. The roads and bicycle paths were smooth. There were no critters trying to take up residence in my scalp. And I didn’t have to defend against invaders while cycling up Mount Beuvray, though I did once have to dodge a group of archeologists while barreling down a hill.

Text, photos and cycling map © Walter Judson Moore, 2011.

Walter Judson Moore is the author of four cycling guidebooks to France and three companion queue sheets. His guide “Bicycle Your France: Secret Burgundy” includes the area covered by this article. His work is available at http://stores.lulu.com/bicycle-france and most popular online booksellers, as well as directly (and personally signed) from the author, who may be reached at bicyclemoore@tampabay.rr.com.

More history of the wood commerce on the Yonne can be found here.

Official website of the Nièvre Department Tourist Board, specifically biking information.

Site of Les Amis du Canal du Nivernais (Friends of the Nivernais Canal).

Official website of Morvan Regional Natural Park.

[Comments may be left at the bottom at this page.]

It’s an astonishing sight: a 2.46 kilometer (1.53 miles) long, stay-cable bridge supported by seven pillars that look like tuning forks. At the top, each fork of a pillar has enough room for a tennis court. The bridge tops out at 343 meters (1,125 feet) above the Tarn River.

Grand Viaduc de Millau. Photo WJM.

Until the bridge opened, in December 2007, all that traffic would have passed through the town of Millau. I’d taken a restful coffee break at a café in the center of town, a pre-cycling pause that would likely have been much less peaceful if it involved watching a slow parade of long-haul trucks.

Geography

Earlier the prior day I’d set out on what I expected to be a 70.3 kilometer (43½ mile) ride on Day 1 of an 18-day self-guided cycling tour in the Aveyron, Lozère and Lot departments of southwestern France.

The Tarn Gorge. Photo WJM.

The resulting gorges, often 600 meters (1,970 feet) from the river up to the tops of the cliffs, split a series of plateaus known as causses in central and southern France: Causse Sauveterre (north), Causse Méjean (northeast) and Causse Noir.

These sparsely populated plateaus are the domain of sheep and shepherds. The sustaining and commercial products are wool, meat, and milk used in local cheeses, including the lesser known pélardon and the greater known Roquefort, the latter made in a village of the same name 10 miles southwest of Millau.

The gorges involve about 330 feet of ascent over 22 miles of bicycling. Once up on a causse, the terrain is rolling and also pleasant to bicycle. It was the change from gorge to causse that was my challenge on this trip.

The author's cycling routes in the region.

Tarn Gorge and Causse Méjean

This was my sixth cycling trip in France. As on previous trips, I began by hauling my bike out of the rented micro-van and mounted my cycling computer/altimeter.

I was starting out from the Grand Hôtel de la Muse, a few hundred yards northeast of the center of Le Rozier. From my third floor balcony on the first cool morning I saw large, circling birds high above me close to the cliff tops and just below the clouds. After a decent breakfast, I walked out onto the lawn along the Tarn and watched a skilled fly-fisherman casting across the river.

I was wearing three layers of cycling shirts, a high visibility jacket, shorts, leg warmers, socks and shoes. Surely the moist, 52°F air did not cause me to think of waiting for another day. This was cool for May in southwest France and much cooler weather than I would choose to ride in at home in Florida. Aside from the temperature, though, there was nothing else about the weather to give me pause.

Off I rode north on D907 with the Tarn on my right and high cliffs on both sides of the river. Best of all for cycling, the road was paved and automobile traffic was light. My lunch destination was Sainte Enimie, 22 miles (35 kilometers) upriver. I set out hoping that the overcast would burn off during the morning.

The ride to Ste-Enimie revealed the power of a river over time. Steep cliffs rise 1475-1650 feet to the Causse Sauveterre on my left and the Causse Méjean on my right. Humans have attempted to alter small portions along the cliffs and river for over 5,000 years. I had read that the Ferrière tribe established Dolmens on the plateau, and I noticed evidence of several abandoned lignite mines hand tunneled into the cliffs.

There are three villages with restaurants along this stretch to Ste-Enimie: Les Vignes, La Malène and Saint-Chély-du-Tarn. Beyond the paved road there is rock and water. The views along the river often inspired me to stop to take some pictures. I spotted a first-time group of two dozen children learning to pilot canoes down the river. They were clearly novices. Their screams of anxiety and fun while avoiding cold water, rocks and each other could be heard over the next two miles as I pedaled on.

Saint Enimie

Arriving in Sainte Enimie at lunchtime, I easily spotted a good place to eat. There are a number of choices in the center of the village along riverfront. My favorite choice early in a multi-week trip is pizza with a load of carbohydrates. Alone in the pizzeria, a beer and large pizza in front of me, Willie Nelson and Loretta Lynn serenaded the room from the sound system with “God Bless America.” Could the moment get any better than this?

Enimie, after whom the village was named, was a seventh century Merovingian princess, daughter of King Clothar II and sister of King Dagobert I. When the beautiful Enimie reached the age to be married, Clothar brought several eligible nobles to meet her. Wanting to continue her good works nursing lepers, she refused them all.

Legend has it that Enimie implored divine intervention to get out of marriage. She became afflicted with leprosy. This solved the marriage problem but then she wanted to be cured. An angel guided her up the Tarn River to Burlats (now the village of Sainte Enimie) and a curing water source. She bathed once and was miraculously cured. She then traveled out of Burlats but the illness came back. Revisiting the water source, she was again cured. Again she left, and again she relapsed and came back to the curing source. Ultimately she decided to stay and live in a cave. She had many confrontations in the cave with a devil-type named Drac. Surviving these encounters, she established a convent in the village where she lived out her days treating lepers.

After lunch, I sat outside thinking little about the light sprinkles and much more about getting out of the gorge and over the causse. I looked south across the river and up. The temperature was still cool and wet clouds sat below the tops of the cliffs. It was only my first day of cycling—I wasn’t going to spoil it by heading directly back down the Tarn to my warm hotel.

Cycling in the rain

Entering the Department of Lozere. Photo WJM.

Riding cross the river, I climbed the 1,325 feet to the Causse Méjean and the initial summit of Col de Coperlac, where the sprinkles turned into cold rain. During the climb, I didn’t notice the cold so much as being soaked through and through.

After the Coperlac the route drops 230 feet, I started to feel cold and thought I was in trouble. Trouble was wind-chill and my clothing soaked through to my skin, along with knowing that the way to the hotel would be even colder whether I continued as originally planned or turned back. Continuing forward after that descent, there was a 540-foot climb, which warmed me some without drying me in the least.

Next was the final 1,900-foot descent into La Jonte Gorge. That road is no more than 13 feet wide most of the way with all kinds of switchbacks, shear drop-offs and descents up to 8%. I was shaking with cold during the last 200 yards of descent and had difficulty controlling the bike.

About 4 p.m., I pulled over at the lone restaurant that appeared just as I rode onto the gorge road.

I asked the proprietress of Chez Armand if I could drain some on the porch. “Non,” she said and pulled me into the empty main room, sitting me in front of glowing fireplace. “Café, monsieur?” she asked. “Oui.” I replied. “Petit?” “Non. Grand!” I held the large cup tightly in my hands and sipped for ten minutes until my hands stopped shaking.

Somewhat restored I then cycled the final three miles to the hotel in the rain.

Vultures Sanctuary

Day 2: The sky was crystal clear in the morning. Speaking with the waiter at breakfast I had mentioned that I planned to cycle across the Causse Noir to the village of Meyruies during the day.

Not wanting to discourage a guest, he reluctantly let me know that snow had fallen on the high plateau overnight, but maybe it would melt during the afternoon. Of course, the melt would freeze during the late afternoon. That was serious. Along with lightning and snow, ice is no friend to the cyclist. I had to implement plan B.

The Jonte River at Le Rozier. Photo WJM.

I wanted to know more about those big soaring birds as well as return to the restaurant that had provided me shelter the previous afternoon so as to thank the proprietress. An inquiry at the front desk sent me cycling up the Jonte Gorge to both the Belvédère des Vautours (Vultures Viewpoint) and Chez Armand.

First to the viewpoint. There is a parking area a little over 2 miles east of la Rozier along the Jonte on the river side of the road. South across the river is the Cirque de Madasse, a loop carved by nature into the Corniche du Causse Noir. Way up in the gorge near the top of the cliffs sitting on a ledge at least 150 yards above me was a large dark tan bird with a white collar. A local birdwatcher let me use her binoculars and told me I was looking at a Griffon Vulture (Gyps fulvus).

A half-hour later we also spotted a couple of Black Vultures (Aegypius monachus) and the smaller Egyptian Vultures (Neophron percnopterus). The Blacks have a wingspan of 9 feet, the Griffons’ typical wingspan is 8¼ feet, and the Egyptian has a wingspan exceeding 7 feet.

Vultures have the unwarranted reputation for snatching lambs, but vultures really feed on carrion. The French government passed a law, perhaps in the eighteenth century, that all carcasses (not slaughtered for food) must be buried. Later the government encouraged shepherds to poison some carcasses left out for vultures. As a result the vulture population starved or was poisoned, and vultures became extremely rare in France during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. (An unintended consequence of burying carcasses was that ground water became contaminated.)

In 1970, Michel Terrasse and some fellow bird-lovers started reintroducing Black Vultures into the Jonte Gorge just above that viewpoint. But the program was halted for two decades as they learned how to familiarize the birds with the area. Meanwhile, Mr. Terrasse convinced local shepherds, with government permission, to place sheep carcasses on wooden stands. Reintroduction started again in 1992. Within a decade the population of Blacks was 60 and self-sustaining.

Previously, starting in 1981, the same bird-lovers had introduced twelve Griffon Vultures with the first chick from a breeding pair taking flight in 1982. No further additions have been necessary since 1986. By 2003 the Griffon population had grown to 400. The birds travel as far as Switzerland, The Netherlands, Latvia and Senegal, returning to the Jonte Gorge to nest and reproduce. In the mid 1980s, the Egyptian Vulture also returned to the Jonte Gorge, perhaps following the Griffon Vulture.

Vultures from a single colony share the task of searching for food over their territory. Griffon Vultures are able to distinguish a sheep at rest from a dead sheep at more than 300 meters. Within minutes of a Griffon reaching the carcass, ten to fifteen more turn up for the spoils, hastily eating the more tender parts. They leave immediately afterwards, making way for the more imposing Black Vultures that tackle the tougher and stringer bits of the dead animal. Finally, the Egyptian Vultures arrive, making do with leftovers. Within a quarter of an hour, a whole carcass has been converted into a clean skeleton.

M. & Mme Costecalde, proprietors of Chez Armand. Photo WJM

My vulture education much improved, I rode on to Chez Armand where Gisèle Costecalde had provided coffee and shelter the previous day. I thanked her for her kindness, and she and her husband allowed me to take a picture of them as a memento.

After another half hour cycling up the gorge, I returned to Le Rozier village where I ended the afternoon slowly cycling around the village. I stopped to relax in the sun in a café. I listened to the river and hoped the weather would be kind during the next sixteen days.

Later in the afternoon I stopped again for an aperitif and found myself contemplating what I would choose for dinner; lamb might be nice.

Then I got back on my bike one last time for the day and a slow ride to the hotel.

© Walter Judson Moore, 2011

Walter Judson Moore is the author of four cycling guidebooks and three companion queue sheets guides for France. His guide “Lot Vineyards to Tarn Gorges: A Bicycle Your France Guidebook” includes the area covered by this article, as does his “Lot Vineyards to Tarn Gorges Queue Sheets.” His work is available at http://stores.lulu.com/bicycle-france and most popular online booksellers, as well as directly (and personally signed) from the author, who may be reached at bicyclemoore@tampabay.rr.com.

Hotel Doussiere is a 2-star hotel with restaurant in the center of Le Rozier.

Café Restaurant Chez Armand, three miles east of Le Rozier, serves family cuisine and has a terrace overlooking the river.

Information about the Vultures