Soon after moving to Dordogne in early 2023, Ava Kabouchy found herself intrigued by the Gardens of Marqueyssac, first as a visitor in awe of the clifftop estate, then as a photographer wishing to capture the impressive array of topiaries, the subtle shades of green, the long alleys, the wandering peacocks, the chapel beyond the iris bush, the gardeners at precision work, the employees informing and entertaining visitors, and more. From February through April, then again in December, she returned four more times to examine the abundant and eye-pleasing life of the 54-acre park with its more than 3½ miles of pathways.

I, Gary, also had the pleasure of strolling along the paths of Marqueyssac this year, on a bright September morning, and though writing is my primary tool rather than photography, I couldn’t help but want to record with my phone the views that I took in.

This photo reportage leans on Ava’s photographs, supported by my contributions and several photos provided by Marqueyssac itself. I organized the images into the eight strolls and wrote the descriptions and captions.

Where is Marqueyssac?

Located five miles from the well-preserved old town of Sarlat, Marqueyssac occupies a promontory 425 feet over the Dordogne River. Even without its gardens, Marqueyssac would be a worthy destination for its panoramic views out to the villages, chateaux, walnut orchards and winding river that make this such an alluring region. Add the gardens themselves—along with a small chateau, a café overlooking the valley, and numerous activities proposed to visitors—and you get a singular sight. While especially famous for its more than 150,000 boxwoods, Marqueyssac’s attraction extends well beyond them. The site lends itself to a variety of strolls: romantic, contemplative, family, boxwood-botanical, and more. Though the organized activities here slow down during the short cold days of late autumn and winter, Marqueyssac, open every day of the year, is truly a year-round destination.

The Boxwood or Botanical Stroll

European boxwoods are the defining greenery of Marqueyssac. There are some 150,000 in all, either trimmed or otherwise tamed, destructured or left to grow naturally. Ava was the first visitor on the morning she took the photo above, but the work-day of gardener Christophe Kursac, glimpsed trimming a topiary upper right, was already well underway. Christophe, the head gardener, is one of the six full-time gardeners, who, along with four seasonal gardeners, ensure that the site’s unique presentation of topiaries—all trimmed by hand twice annually—and the overall park remain in tip-top shape for the more than 200,000 visitors that come each year.

Though the noble history of Marqueyssac begins with a landscaping project of 1692, the estate’s boxwood connection dates to the late 19th century. In 1861, Julien de Cerval (1818-1893), a magistrate of nearby Sarlat, inherited the property. His passion—obsession—for boxwoods was sparked by his travels in Italy, as were the cypress and umbrella pine and various shrubs encountered along the garden paths. Boxwoods (buxus sempervirens) are well suited to the limestone soil of Marqueyssac. Successive owners, without the funds or passion to maintain de Cerval’s work, eventually allowed the bushes and trees to grow untamed and the garden paths to all but disappear.

Enter Kleber Rossillon, the driving force behind the estate’s restoration. His parents had purchased the fortress castle of Castelnaud on the opposite side of the Dordogne River, visible in this shot between boxwoods and pines.

At age 30, Rossillon took the reins of Castelnaud, which he developed into a major tourist attraction with its family-friendly museum about war in the Middle Ages. In 1996, he purchased the estate of Marqueyssac and set about a major restoration of de Cerval’s garden along with contemporary additions that now fit seamlessly into the overall gardenscape. The gardens reopened to the public in 1997.

On the strength of those experiences in Dordogne, Kleber Rossillon’s company has expanded to become a significant private player in the management of historical sites open to the public in France, including the Montmartre Museum in Paris, the Castle of Langeais in the Loire Valley, and the Cosquer Cave in Marseille, among others. His daughter Geneviève Rossillon is now the company’s managing director.

These boxwood topiary “bricks” appear as blocks rolling down the hill towards the château. Plumb lines ensure precision of the rectangular shapes, but the main tools are sharp shears and elbow grease. Not all of Marqueyssac’s boxwoods are topiaries. Many are also left untamed, where they can reach heights of up to 30 feet.

The captivating variety of shades of green catch the photographer’s eye. Keep Marqueyssac in mind if you’re looking for a place to mark World Topiary Day, the Sunday that follows May 12.

If you’ve ever tried your hand at a topiary, you know that creating and maintaining even a single one for just a year requires commitment. Imagine, on your boxwood stroll, the devotion that goes into maintaining thousands of them. Each topiary is hand-trimmed twice per year. When not too crowded, don’t hesitate to use your best French to mention your appreciation to the gardeners for their work and even ask a question or two about it. They may be happy for the opportunity to stretch their aching backs and respond.

Most of the boxwoods at Marqueyssac take their roots from those originally planted towards the end of the 19th-century by then-owner Julien de Cerval.

The Valley-View Stroll

When I compared my photos with Ava’s, I found that hers studiously looked inward and down green pathways in search of the beauty and geometric nuances of the gardens, while mine occasionally turned outward to the Dordogne Valley. Perhaps, in the case of this photo, because I’d just pointed out to my strolling companion that I would next be headed there, to the riverside village of La Roque-Gageac.

I’m a point-and-shoot kind of guy, hoping to come away a telling or memorable image. And I can’t resist a gentle point-and-sweep, though I’m never sure where the sweep should end and sometimes just go around in a full circle. But in the short video below, a garden fairy suddenly appeared indicating that it was time to hit “stop” and stroll on. She’s Stéphanie Angleys, Marqueyssac’s communications officer and my guide through the gardens.

I’d more or less completed our project when Ava returned on a December morning then sent several more photos, including this.

Perhaps it was the dampness of the day that turned her eye away from the garden path, beyond the geometry of the boxwoods and the leaflessness trees to the sodden winter landscape with the grey river running through. Still, you notice that her focus remained in the garden, unwilling to let go and reaffirming that the gardens of Marqueyssac are a year-round destination.

The valley-view stroller—in fact any stroller who makes it to the far end—is rewarded with a 360° view from the highest part of the gardens. This Cross marks the spot. We leave it to you to discover on your own the view that goes with it.

The Romantic Stroll

While you and your loved one will quickly be drawn into the meticulousness of the topiaries, romance thrives on the less planned as well. Beyond the precise trimming, Marqueyssac is home to enough unfocused fantasy—albeit intentionally unfocused fantasy—and dreamy points of view to allow for an exquisite romantic stroll as well.

Arrive early enough in the day and you might even feel that you have the place to yourselves.

The romantic stroll proceeds at a gentle pace. And a stroll wouldn’t be romantic if it didn’t also include a romantic sit, or several, to prolong the pleasure. The bench above, overlooking the valley, is perfectly suited for a starry-eyed conversation (oh, the places we’ve been)… while the one below is an even sweeter spot for a sun-dappled snuggle stop.

If, after a while, you get into one of those tiffs that even the best of travelers find themselves in with a loved one, turning a corner to find a peacock, the mascot of Marqueyssac, perched on a ledge will be a sign to return to each other’s hand.

The fellow below isn’t shy about unfurling his seductive plumage in a mating ritual despite human presence—and presumably because there’s a peahen around—so you needn’t either. Within limits of course, and with less of a squawk if possible.

Peering through the evergreen oaks to the village of La Roque Gageac may feel like your private discovery, something that only you and your love share.

If your love was reading a travel guide in bed last night, then he may take this opportunity to inform you that Dordogne, the “department” or sub-region, in which Marqueyssac is located, more or less follows the borders of the historic province of Périgord. So while Périgord no longer officially exists, he’ll explain, the two names are often used interchangeably. Périgord (Dordogne) is unofficially divided into four color-coded landscape-defined sections: Green Périgord, White Périgord, Purple Périgord, Black Périgord. White refers to the limestone soil and the white buildings constructed with it in and around Dordogne’s capital Perigueux. Green refers to the vegetation to the north. Purple refers to the wine growing region in the west (Bergerac and surroundings). Black refers to the dark leaves and shadows of evergreen oaks (quercus ilex) to this southwest quadrant of Dordogne/Périgord. That’s where Marqueyssac lies. Black Périgord is the quadrant with the most tourist appeal (Sarlat, the Dordogne and Vézère Valleys, Marqueyssac, Castelnaud, etc.). That’s fascinating, honey, you’ll reply. Let’s not read in bed tonight.

The Contemplative Stroll

Come alone, walk with a thought-provoking friend, or temporarily lose your loved ones or friends along the way and those same romantic paths and views appear refreshingly contemplative. That snuggle bench above then becomes a seat for private reverie or to write a vignette … as long as you resist taking out your phone to check for messages and news.

Though visitors inevitably remember, photograph and return to the rounded or straight-edge topiaries, the overall park has a rich vegetation that lends itself to contemplation of this good and suffering Earth.

The vegetation on the southern side leans to the Mediterranean with cypresses, umbrella pines, evergreen oaks, and more. Its northern side leans more to the Atlantic with locust trees added to the mix.

Through Ava’s damp lens, the scene by the entrance, which looked so promising in the opening shot, now holds an eerie, contemplative fascination in the photo below.

The topiaries no longer appear as the achievement of creative landscapers and hard-laboring gardeners but seem to be caused by something boiling or furrowing underground. Are we safer here or in the disorderly landscape that lies beyond and below. Are the tile rooftops hints of refuge or danger?

Ava found a wistful contemplative moment from inside the chateau, between the parted curtains, looking out to the topiaries and the naked trees on a visitor-less late winter’s morning.

And she found it again with a feeling of quiet and peace beneath the dripping cascade in a shallow pond known as “the Zen.”

The limestone cliffs that surround Marqueyssac don’t contain any water source other than rain, and there is no spring within the gardens, so Kléber Rossillon added a silent pump to create the waterfall on a closed circuit. But no need to focus on the mechanics in that dreamy corner of the park.

Contemplation may not best describe one’s reaction to the creature below, but if nothing else, the sight of this 150-million-year-old skeleton of an allosaurus, visible from a garden path, will get you wondering what the heck it’s doing here.

This Jurassic-era dinosaur—about 75% original remnant, measuring 24.6 feet long by 8.2 feet high—was found in Wyoming and purchased by Kléber Rossillon in 2016.

The Cliffhanger’s Stroll

Not only do the gardeners and the boxwoods cling to the cliffs, but so can visitors on a climb-stroll above the greenery along the limestone walls of Marqueyssac.

The cliffside strollway, its Via Ferrata, is punctuated with metal steps and rings and fixed safety cables. Fitted with a harness, lanyard and helmet and attached to the course-long lifeline, visitors 8 years old and over and taller than 1.3 meters (a tad over 4-foot 3 inches) can securely take this 220-yard climb-stroll.

Ava came across this adventurous family as they prepared for final instruction before going on the Via Ferrata.

Cliff-strolling not your thing? You can nevertheless step into the trees on this elevated path beyond the creepy rock-head sculptures facing up from the ground.

The Family and/or Activities Stroll

Making the most of Marqueyssac doesn’t require joining on a planned tour or activity, especially for romantic or contemplative strollers, but for a family stroll or simply to punctuate your visit, check out the calendar of activities in advance. If interested in the cliff-stroll above, you should time your visit according. There are also nature workshops, a wood turner, yoga classes, and a playground for sliding and climbing.

You might begin with a guided explanation about the garden before venturing off on your own.

“Curious about nature” arts and crafts workshops, particularly aimed at children, are held spring to fall.

The Chateau Stroll

Though the gardens are the primary interest of Marqueyssac, a visit ends with a brief stroll through the chateau, a late-19th-century residence. A vast restoration of the chateau was completed in 2017. Though called a château, the main residence of the estate appears more as a manor house compared with the massive stone medieval and Renaissance chateaux (Castelnaud, Beynac, Les Milandes, etc.) that can be visited in the region. What’s most impressive about the chateau is its stone-tiled roof. Placed without mortar, the hand-cut limestone slabs (lauzes) have a combined weight of over 500 tons.

Several rooms can be visited inside.

The Candlelit Stroll

Thursday evenings in July and August, Marqueyssac’s Soirées aux Chandelles give the opportunity for visitors to take a candlelit stroll as the day recedes and sunset, twilight then night envelop the Dordogne Valley. The garden paths are lit by 2000 candles and hundreds of other elements of soft lighting, a pianist plays in one corner, there’s a brass quartet in another, perhaps an acoustic guitarist somewhere, and the occasional fairy winging by. The estate is open from 7PM to midnight on those special evenings, but if you don’t plan on spending more than two hours, then arrive at 8/8:30 in order to best experience a leisurely and enchantment stroll through sunset and twilight.

So what’ll it be, daytime or evening, romantic or contemplative or botanical? Will you find yourself more drawn to staring out across the valley or peering down a dimly lit alley? It’s up to you. Marqueyssac offers the opportunity for you to create your own remarkable stroll.

Marqueyssac, 24200 Vezac, Dordogne. See here for seasonal opening times and admission prices and here for the calendar of activities and events. Online reservation is required to attend a Candlelit Evening.

Photos, where indicated, © 2023 by Ava Kabouchy, first published on France Revisited.
Other photos, where indicated, video, and all text © 2023 by Gary Lee Kraut.
Additional photos, where indicated, © Laugery-Les Jardins de Marqueyssac-Dordogne.

The post 8 Remarkable Strolls in the Gardens of Marqueyssac (Dordogne) appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

Twenty-thousand years ago Cro-Magnons hunted in the Vézère Valley in what is now Dordogne. They ate reindeer. They encountered bulls, felines, equines, stags, bison, bears. They drew images of these animals, creating the concentration of decorated caves found near the village of Les Eyzies-de-Tayac, and, most famously, at Lascaux. They wore their hides and used bone needles and hide laces to sew on ivory buttons.

Nearby, hidden in the Dordogne hills in the village of Fanlac, a 30-minute drive north of Les Eyzies, a 15-minute drive west of Lascaux, another ancestral type of hide-work is going on. Not as old as the Cro-magnon cave paintings, this craftsmanship draws on an ancient tradition practiced by our fellow Homo sapiens sapiens, in Siberia.

Tucked away among the houses on one of the narrow lanes of Fanlac, just off the village square with its 12th century fortified church, is a workshop designated by the sign announcing “Leather Artisan” and marked with two fish. It’s a dark studio with display cases and long wooden tables, where a man is hard at work making leather goods—bags, belts and cases—that incorporate what look, at first glance, like snake skin.

We enter, intrigued, and were soon transported away from the tourist attraction of the surrounding village and into the story of a largely forgotten native Siberian tribe.

We ask about the snake skin.

“Not at all,” laughs the artisan, Kristof Mascher, holding up what is actually a fish skin. “I use only the skins of sturgeon and salmon that have been farmed for food and then tanned using only vegetable products and dyes. It is a very ecologically-friendly product.”

In south-east Siberia, he explains, an indigenous people called the Nanais developed a specialized tanning technique for fish skin which allowed them to make waterproof clothing.

“My grandfather’s grandfather was a merchant who travelled round the villages collecting examples of native costumes,” Mascher says. “He subsequently donated them to museums in Europe. My uncle, who was researching his life, came across a descendent of this tribe, Anatol Donkan, who is now a renowned artist in the field of native sculpture. Following extensive research and experimentation, Anatol managed to improve on the Nanais’ technique of tanning fish skin, as the original method produced skins that were partly raw and still smelled of fish. In collaboration with a Swiss specialist, Anatol has worked to improve and modernize the ancient method and has succeeded in producing a tear-proof fish skin leather using only plant extracts.”

Today there are 10,000 surviving Nanais, but only the oldest ones still speak their own language. Their culture has mostly been annihilated and forgotten. Donkan, who now lives in Viechtach, Gremany, has worked tirelessly to restore their place in history and to give them back one of the old traditions.

Donkan produces the fish skin leather using his unique technique and Mascher uses them in his exquisite handcrafted creations. Mascher demonstrates the superiority of Donkan’s leather by showing us other skin, this time processed with chemicals in a dangerous procedure that leaves the fish skin flabby and a uniform dull grey.

“I inlay the fish skin leather, using its unique coloring, design and shading to produce different effects,” explains Mascher. “The designs I make on the bags are my little homage to nature: leaves, fish, flowers, or the sun, for example.”

The result is beautiful and unique. See some of Mascher’s creations here. See some of Donkan’s creations here.

Mascher spends some time each year taking parties canoeing down Mongolian rivers. He was born in Sweden but his mother was German, so he mostly sells his work either from his atelier or at annual craft fairs in Germany. He left home as a young man to work his way through France and eventually learned his craft as an apprentice to a Parisian leather craftsman who later moved to the Dordogne. He made his home here and now his eldest son is working with him, learning the business, carrying on the tradition brought from another time, another place.

Find out more about Kristof Mascher’s work here.

Find out more about Anatol Donkan’s work here.

© 2014, Janet Duignan

Janet Duignan is a British writer and journalist living in Dordogne

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By Janet Duignan

I didn’t think I would miss the snow last winter. Usually a sun lover, the mild weather here in the Dordogne was particularly disappointing because I was on the lookout for the return of a very special visitor to our garden from the previous year.

Since arriving in France nine years ago, I have thoroughly enjoyed the variety of species of birds that have visited us. During the unseasonable week of snow the previous February, it was obvious that the wild birds were suffering, especially those that were not adapted to take advantage of the variety of foods we left on the feeders. As the snow melted, a patch of grass appeared in our south-facing garden. And I was astonished to find, when I looked out of my window one cold morning, a large bird with an enormous beak pecking through the thawed but still hard ground for worms. It was a woodcock.

Not only had I never seen one before but the bird itself must have been driven to desperation to come out of the woods that give it its name and forage around in broad daylight as they usually feed in the evenings or at night and are carefully camouflaged to make them very hard to see in leaf matter. I kept quite still in order to spy on this unusual visitor; they have large eyes placed high on the sides of their heads giving them 360° vision. The beak is twice as long as their head, which is why the French name for the bird is bécasse or “big beak.” They are a bit bigger than wood pigeons and sound like a frog when they call, croaking followed by a sneeze.

Unlike some of my French neighbors who like to hunt, I knew that I would rather find out more about this beautiful bird than pick up a gun and shoot it for the pot. I can’t even keep chickens because, just as the Red Queen told Alice when she went through the looking glass, “It isn’t etiquette to cut anyone you’ve been introduced to.” The hunters use dogs specially trained for this type of game, with bells on their collars; they find and point to the birds before flushing them out. The French Woodcock Society (Club National des Bécassiers) specify a bag limit of 3 birds per hunter per day to a total of 50 per year. Its motto is “Hunt as much as possible while killing as few as possible” (Chasser le plus possible en tuant le moins possible).

Woodcocks have been hunted for food for centuries, with recipes appearing in medieval times. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall of River Cottage fame recreated a Ten Bird Roast for a medieval-themed feast. He starts with turkey and stuffs it with goose, duck, mallard, guinea fowl, chicken, pheasant, partridge, pigeon and, last but not least, woodcock.

Elizabeth Raffald, when writing The Experienced English Housekeeper in 1769, included a recipe for A Yorkshire Goose Pie which also involved a turkey, two ducks and six woodcocks. No bag limit in those days, then.

At least there is no wastage when eating Woodcock as almost every part of the bird can be eaten, except for the gizzard, eyes, beak and feathers. It seems that they empty their bowels before flying, which means the bird can be roasted with the intestines still inside. When removed and added to the cooking juices with a small glass of Armagnac, a dash of lemon juice and seasoning and then flambéed, the resulting sauce was said to be so delicious that, in his Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine, published posthumously in 1873, Alexandre Dumas Père felt he had to write a warning. He said that, when serving a ragoût of roast woodcock, in a recipe called salmis de becassins des bernardins, it was essential to provide forks to prevent the guests devouring their sauce-covered fingers.

Another delicacy was the head split open in order to eat the brains.

Guy de Maupassant in his 1887 book of short stories Contes de la Bécasse (Woodcock Tales) tells of a dinner party game played with the head of a woodcock pinned to the cork of a good bottle of wine (once drunk). The head is spun around, a bit like Spin the Bottle, until it stops and the woodcock’s bill points to one of the diners, who is announced the winner. The prize is the privilege of eating all of the woodcock heads but at the cost of having to tell a story to the others while they sit by the fire smoking cigars and drinking brandy. The trick, as a good host, was to be careful how many good bottles of wine were served before getting to the game, to ensure the winner’s tongue was loosed enough to make him capable of telling a good story, without being too drunk.

Mordorée is another name for woodcock in French, so perhaps the ideal wine for these occasions would be the Châteauneuf-du-Pape “La Plume du Peintre,” an expensive special reserve with a 16.3% alcohol content from the Domaine de la Mordorée. Wine Advocate (N° 173, Oct. 2007) described it as a limited cuvée which “is meant to age for 40-50 years. From a specific site in one of the appellation’s most hallowed sectors (La Crau), this wine’s level of concentration, richness, extract, and harmony are almost beyond comprehension. With beautifully integrated acidity, tannin, and alcohol, it is a monster wine the likes of which are rarely seen today.”

La Plume du Peintre, the painter’s feather, is in fact the name of the little pin feathers. Only two of these are found on each Woodcock, on the leading edge of each wing. Shaped like the head of a spear, they are so fine that they are used by artists for very delicate work, for example by Renaissance painters to paint angels’ hair and Victorian artists who specialized in miniatures. Perhaps when Claude Monet painted his Partridge and Woodcock in 1872 he used the Plume du Peintre for the fiddly bits.

The impression I am left with, after researching the woodcock through history, literature, cuisine and art, is that I am just looking forward to the next snowy winter and the hope that I might once again see an unexpected visitor rummaging for worms in a small patch of thawed grass.

© 2014, Janet Duignan

Janet Duignan is a British writer and journalist living in Dordogne

The post In Dordogne: A Winter’s Woodcock Tale appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in 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.

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.

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.

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

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.
For more on Frederic and Dorine Berendsen-Schut’s farm see La Ferme des Jolies Allures.

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. She write a blog called Kinds of Honey.

The post On the Farm: WWOOFing in Dordogne, France appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

***

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 on Amazon 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.

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