Walking might not be the first thing that comes to mind when you think of the Dordogne. Although this area of south-west France is a very popular destination for UK visitors, most tend to arrive by car, tour around by road from one picturesque chateau or rock-perched town to another, visit a few sights, then leave again by car. This summer I've discovered what they are missing: leave the car at home and the walker discovers the other Dordogne: mile after mile of the greenest, lushest, rolling countryside, criss-crossed by many designated walking routes along waymarked paths, leading through forests, walnut groves, picture-book meadows full of wild flowers and tiny medieval villages built of glowing, golden stone, scented by mountains of overgrown rambling roses.
We started from Castels, near St Cyprien, in the heart of the Périgord Noir. Castels boasts a train station linking the area to Bergerac and Bordeaux. St Cyprien is not directly on the river Dordogne, but came into being as a dependency of an Augustinian abbey, its site chosen, presumably, for less worldly reasons than river trade. Built in the 12th century, the abbey still teeters dramatically on the top of a rocky hill, with a wide view of the surrounding countryside.
Our route led us up to the abbey, then out of town down a steep track to an ancient bridge and a beautiful former watermill, now a house with a lovely garden, left mainly to nature, running alongside the perfectly clear stream.
After a brief encounter with the main road, our route sent us off to the south, along a gentle and blissfully traffic-free track called the Impasse de Roquebeyssette. In the distance, we could see a row of comparatively modern (for St Cyprien) houses, built in front of a steep cliff, into which much earlier houses had been carved.
The track became smaller, narrower and grassier and ended, abruptly, at an idyllic farmhouse - the eponimous Roquebeyssette. Here we found the first of many wild flower meadows, filled with an incredible number of wild orchids, as well as an intriguing sculpture of a gecko, a local symbol, carved from the same, golden sandstone of which many of the buildings are constructed.
As we were apparently at a dead end, we were glad of our route map, which we had planned and downloaded from the Komoot app. It was the first of many times during our walking tour that we were thankful for this wonderful online tool, which I have only recently subscribed to and now can't get enough of - thank you, Komoot!
Our route led us to the right of the farmhouse, down an improbable, narrow, grassy path, through another stunning orchid meadow and into some woodland. Through the woods, we came eventually to a path which led us up and down small hills, following a line of power cables through otherwise impenetrable bracken. Its course was lit up under our feet by the sun catching on millions of spiders' webs, each one holding just a handful of perfect dewdrops, as though selected for the job by some invisible jeweller. Lizards dashed out of our way in that impossible, instant disappearing act that takes you by surprise, no matter how many times you see it.
The route led us next down a forest track, which, luckily, had been maintained well enough to allow us to pass through, despite some forestry activities which had left parts of it strewn with fallen branches. Here and there were large, muddy puddles, left over from the very wet weather which this area endured for much of this spring.
Off to the right, I caught sight of a movement among the trees, then a heavy, crashing sound signalled the presence of wild boar. We didn't like the idea of a close encounter at this time of year, when they would probably have young, and picked up our speed as much as our backpacks and the difficult terrain would allow, to get out of the woods as fast as we could.
We came to a small road leading to another typical, Périgord stone-built village called Saint-André-d'Allas. Although by this time we would have welcomed a cold drink, all the inhabitants seemed to have been spirited away. Not a soul was in sight, not even a barking dog. We concluded that the chances of any refreshments were slim and consoled ourselves by sitting for a while at a bench next to an entirely empty playground, sipping at our now luke-warm water bottles and gathering our strength to tackle the very steep path up the adjacent cliff. It was hot by now and our backpacks were getting heavier and heavier. We struggled up towards a small road leading to our destination for the night, Sarlat la Canéda.
Sarlat is another medieval town based around an abbey, this time Benedictine. Beautifully preserved, it has literally dozens of protected monuments, including its 14th century cathedral of St Sacerdos.
After around 20 km in hot sun and carrying backpacks, we were glad of a chance to sit on a balcony overlooking the main street, sipping a cold beer at last, and watch others meandering around the cobbled streets taking in the scenery. The most popular attraction seemed not to be the medieval stone buildings lining the street, but the window of the bakery opposite our hotel, which specialised in sweet treats baked with walnuts (the most famous produce of this region). Some strollers tried to pass it by, some even succeeded (with a bit of a wistful backwards glance), but most stopped in their tracks, veered towards the window, pointing at particular favourites, then stood, nose to glass, before being sucked in through the door.
Eventually the inevitable happened - we joined them. Being foreign, we didn't know the routine. My husband made his choice, grabbed a paper bag from a pile and a pair of tongs lying nearby, like you might do in an English supermarket, stuffed his prize into the bag and turned towards the till. He had taken less than half a step before Madame la Pâtissière swooped across the parquet floor and pounced on him, uttering (fairly polite) admonishments. Lesson of the day: one does not help oneself in a French walnut bakery.
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