The Route du Treuil led us out of Beynac in warm sunshine to start our circular walk via the medieval hilltop town of Domme and the imposing château of Castelnau. We headed back towards Roque-Gageac, but soon found ourselves catching up with three separate, huge groups of hikers, each following their own guide. The guides' job was not easy, as the hiking bodies all moved at ill-matched speeds, so their guides had to trot up and down checking on their charges like well-trained sheepdogs. We wondered how far they were planning to walk, as some members of the troupes were moving so slowly that they may still be out there somewhere.
There was no avoiding getting in among them, so to get back out again, we had to put on a real burst of speed, up a steep hill, in growing heat, scattering cheery "Bonjour!"s as we went. Finally recovering our breath and comparative solitude, we took the Route de Picasso towards Roque-Gageac, rather than the footpath, to avoid running back into the throng.
Back on the river, we found a new, well maintained path along the riverside towards the Domme bridge. The path ran under shady willows and poplars, the water thundering past on our right along the narrow stretches, leaping like a powerful animal over submerged rocks and the occasional uprooted tree trunk. Our host at the guest house had told us that the canoeing season had only been opened a few days before, as the heavy rains up to then had made the force of the river too dangerous. In places, the river was wider and the water smoother, but still rippling with power, hemmed in on the opposite bank by tall, white cliffs, home to hundreds of nesting martins dashing in and out.
The sun was hot now and had brought out a humming chaos of flying insects, led by mosquitoes, which showed absolutely no mercy to any exposed flesh - and even some that was not exposed. We swatted, yelped and flapped our way along the path, not daring to stop for more than a few seconds to drink water and being forced to hurry through the truly beautiful riverine scenery.
We crossed over the bridge to the other bank at Cénac. It was a picturesque spot, spread along the river, with a small, green mountain behind it. At least, there was a mountain behind it when we were there, but someone seemed to be trying to remove it by blowing it up. The little town rocked to a series of explosions coming from somewhere up in the heights.
Hoping that our destination was still in one piece, we followed a very long, very steep road up the hill to Domme. Perched on top of a rocky outcrop 250m high, the town was founded in the 13th century as a stronghold by Philip the Bold and is now considered one of the most beautiful villages in France. The fortifications and medieval squares have survived 700 years of turmoil and have been restored to a golden limestone perfection which tends a little towards film set. The restoration continues and we watched as two brave craftsmen worked on the ramparts, dangling terrifyingly from an impossibly high crane.
The walk back down to the river took a fraction of the time it took to walk up, despite having to dodge from one side of the road to the other round the hairpin bends, to get out of the way of vehicles. We seemed to be the only people accessing Domme on foot. Not surprising, really, as we sweated our way back towards the distant water.
Back at the bridge, we turned left and followed the other bank of the river through a lovely area of walnut groves. The trees grew in rows, with a crop of barley ripening in the spaces between them. The mosquitoes seemed to have been banished from this side of the river, the trees gave pleasant shade and our path (found effortlessly for us by our Komoot app) was about as beautiful as they get.
We enjoyed a half hour of easy, flat walking on grassy tracks in the gentle scenery before the path took a sudden, sharp turn straight up a steep hill, becoming rocky as it climbed. It led us through woodland and eventually spat us out at the impossibly pretty hamlet of Saint Julien. The houses were all ancient, built of golden limestone and swathed in climbing roses and honeysuckle in full flower, surrounded by tall linden trees, in blossom and just at their most hauntingly fragrant.
We continued along the south bank of the river to a confluence with a tributary. The merging of the two streams must have seemed a perfect spot to build a watermill, because at some time in the past two local millers had done just that. The mills were once just an essential working tool, maybe they were once rival businesses, keeping a close watch on each other across the river, but now they have become exquisite houses in an enviable, watery setting.
We followed a small road, among a sudden shoal of bicycles, into the town of Castelnau. Here we had another long climb up to another medieval castle, perched menacingly on another rock, proclaiming its allegiances in a collection of colourful flags bearing various heraldic animals. We admired it, but by this time, we couldn't help being more interested in the wonderfully cold beer served at a shady cafe in the cobbled square next door.
We came back down to cross over the bridge, past a spot where the river had formed a clear pool, filled with tiny black fishes. They tempted us with thoughts of a delicious, cool swim in their glassy water, but we had no swimming gear and didn't think the passing cyclists would appreciate the sight of us plunging in naked.
Reluctantly, we carried on, along the north bank of the river, back towards Beynac. From this direction, it was much easier to find the route through the diversion at the railway bridge which had caused us problems the day before. We arrived back under our final castle of the day, to find it gleaming in the early evening sunshine. It looked almost two dimensional against the flat, blue sky, like another film set.
We were hot, tired, sweaty, itching all over from mozzie bites and ravenously hungry. That's the way all the best walks end.
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