The rain was over this morning and the weather was bright and sunny as our route led us out of Sarlat towards the south, under an impressive stone viaduct and out into open countryside. The fields to each side of the road were still glistening with last night's rain, the trees still throwing down the occasional cold drip, but the sun was hot as we struggled up a steep hill on a tiny, empty road.
You don't have to venture far out of any town in this part of France to find yourself in total isolation, with little sign of fellow humans. Our only encounter was with a bored chestnut horse, who snickered to us questioningly from his shady spot under some pine trees. He stood up to his knees in long, lush grass, seasoned here and and there (were you inclined to feast on it) with oxeye daisies and the ubiquitous purple orchids. It looked like horse heaven.
The road led under another railway viaduct, past some cottages and then, suddenly, towards a glaring change of scenery - a giant Dacia car sales centre, apparently in the middle of nowhere. From there, we followed another small road, across a highway named after Josephine Baker. We found out more about her connection with the area as we hiked from our final overnight stop back to St Cyprien.
The small road continued as the Route Jean Jaurès, through a hamlet with the strange and rather unsettling name of Prends-toi Garde (literally "Look Out!"). We heeded its advice and hurried on, past a beautiful but near-derelict farmhouse and on towards La Roque-Gageac.
Suddenly, we were no longer alone. A barrier across the road, manned by a group of clip-boarded officials, announced that a marathon was in progress. A couple of exhausted and very sweaty-looking runners stumbled past. Shortly afterwards, our route took us off the road and through a forest, where we found a trail of yellow and white flags, indicating that the marathon had come this way. Or, more worryingly, was it coming this way? We hoped that the runners we had seen were the last stragglers, rather than the elite front-runners, and that the others had already passed through here. If not, the narrow woodland path was going to become very crowded. (I had a similar experience on the West Highland Way, where I and my companions found ourselves dodging around 600 very determined fell runners, completing an unbelievable super-marathon along the whole 95 mile route of this famous trail and who, not surprisingly, expected to be offered an unimpeded path and first passage through any obstacle). We seemed to be in luck, as we continued in total solitude through the quiet and intensely green woodland, shouted at only by the occasional crow.
We eventually emerged from the forest into another complete change of scene. The path swerved suddenly from leading us through gentle, wooded hills with bracken and leaf-mould underfoot, to veer down a series of steep, rocky hairpin bends and, finally, out into an open view of the river Dordogne and the scenery which most visitors come to this region to see. Giant pink and yellow cliffs suddenly dominated the views, some of them topped off by impossible castles. To our left was Roque-Gageac, across the river to the west we could see the turrets of Castelnaud, ahead of us the ramparts of Beynac and towards the north, Feyrac.
We turned west, through the village of Pech, following the river. After the recent rains, the current was ferocious. Whole tree trunks sped past, faster than we could run, let alone walk. Seagulls spun in eddies. There was little river traffic, only the very rare (and, we hoped, very experienced) kayaker, racing past like a speedboat. They would need transport at the far end of their river trip, as there would be no paddling back upstream. At one point, the path was still flooded and we had to climb around the bank.
We came eventually to a flat water meadow, with a path cut through the very long grass. Here, suspended along the edge of a high, sheer cliff, we could see our first destination for the day: the Hanging Gardens of Marqueyssac.
We waded through a sea of poppies and on to the main road, before following a track up a very steep hill towards the château and its famous gardens. The track ran between very old, stone walls, some of them completely submerged under giant jasmine plants, in full flower and overwhelmingly fragrant.
The gardens of Marqueyssac were laid out in the late 19th century, although the château dates from the 17th century and is still in the original family ownership. The gardens feature tens of thousands of boxwoods, some laid out in intricate patterns, some allowed to grow into naturalistic (although still carefully curated) shapes, some sculpted into whimsical topiaries. All of them have to be clipped, every year, entirely by hand, by an army of volunteers, guided by the small team of permanent gardeners.
The views from the cliff edge paths are spectacular, the châteaux of Castelnaud and Beynac springing out of the surrounding landscape to glare at each other down the valley. At one point, a viewing platform allows visitors to walk out beyond the cliff edge and hover 130 metres above the swirling Dordogne river. The really keen can, by special appointment, scramble along the side of the 200m cliffs on a terrifying via ferrata. Not today, thank you.
The château itself is comparatively modest, like a rather grand family home rather than a castle. It must be a wonderful haven once the tourists have all gone at the end of the day and the endless box walks and high, distant views belong to its residents alone.
It was really hot now and most visitors had ended up at the café (some looked as though they had barely strolled from it), where they were eagerly observed, pursued and hassled by a loud gang of peacocks. In my search for the "toilettes", I came across a particularly regal specimen, proudly displaying his very fine, shimmering tail feathers, shaking them with a noise like a thousand sewing needles being dropped. I attempted to take a photo. He turned away with surprising speed, continuing to display his beautiful feathers to a brick wall, and to me, instead, showed off his quivering backside. I walked around him and tried again. As soon as he saw my phone, he turned the other way, again showing me only his downy derrière. I obviously don't look much like a peahen.
We made our way down the hill again to the river and followed the path along it, towards our final destination for the day, our overnight stop at Beynac. The other side of the river, we could see the Château de Castelnaud appearing here and there between the trees. The path led under willow trees, which gave us welcome shade, but also provided the less welcome feature of millions of enthusiastic mosquitoes, who couldn't believe their luck that the sun had forced us to expose so much helpless, bare flesh.
We were drawing near to the end of our walk for the day and congratulating ourselves on having found the way with such ease. Not once had the route we had planned on our Komoot app let us down. No disappearing paths, no "Private, no entry" signs, no blocked roads, no... ermm...
Suddenly, the path was extinguished, a high, metal barrier, festooned with neon-coloured plastic, blocked our way entirely and our digital map showed us a red triangle, with an exclamation mark in the middle. Beyond the blockage was a railway viaduct, under which the path was supposed run, then on along the river to Beynac. Was the only option to be the very busy main road? And first of all, a long trudge back through the mosquitoes to the path leading to it? No diversion signs gave any glimmer of hope. We turned sullenly and began our backwards slog, feet in hot boots begging for mercy.
But wait! Marathon runners have a greater purpose than just sweat and blisters! There, miraculously, along the side of a small track, was a procession of miniature yellow and white flags urging us onwards like our own team of supporters. We followed them across two fields, along a makeshift path through some undergrowth and back out to a gravelly area the other side of the viaduct. We were walking along the river to Beynac and its magnificent, rock-perched castle after all. Thank you, marathon runners!
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