The following day, invigorated by the athleticism displayed in our canoeing trip, we took the bikes out yet again and headed for the village of Domme. A wonderful lazy ride followed, crossing yet another bridge over the Dordogne, and then, a little over 2 kilometres from Domme, the road took a turn to the left, and up. I mean seriously up. This was like climbing the north face of Annapurna. (If indeed Annapurna has a north face.) We got off and walked. Forever. On the verge of requiring CPR, we reached the tiny gate to Domme, noting that our motorhome would have been a tight, if not impossible, fit. This discovery went some way towards placating us with regard to the decision to use the bikes.
The rather tasty chocolate crepe in the first café we came upon notwithstanding,
the village itself was a crushing disappointment to this writer, at any rate. Domme seems to have overstepped that invisible line between good taste and rampant commercialism. There are shops selling art from Zanzibar, there are shops selling FBI caps. There is, if you can believe it, a stupid bloody tourist train like something from Benidorm or Blackpool for God’s sake. The simple question is, “Why?” the answer, similarly short and to the point, is of course, “Money.” These people have sacrificed their soul on the bloody altar of commercialism, and their village is the poorer for it. We left, swiftly (for it was downhill all the way) nevermore to return, and prepared to set off for an altogether more serene village, St. Leon sur Vezere. Before we take our leave in search of the aforementioned village, I feel I must report to you, dear reader, an unseemly incident that took place prior to our egress from our trashy trailer park. As I was evacuating our waste water tanks, a French couple in an adjacent motorhome loudly proclaimed, “OOO, What a stink! Quickly, Jacques, ferme la Porte before it gets in!” (I’ve only translated partly, so as to give you a little bit of local colour) This is as a red rag to a bull for me. These kinds of people always moan loud enough to be heard, but never have the balls to say it to your face. “We all smell the same, missus!” I shouted at her retreating bourgeois back, feeling ever so slightly the Englishman abroad.
A brief and unpleasant flirtation with the traffic system in Sarlat convinced us to push on to St. Leon, and we were not disappointed. We found a spot just a stone’s throw from our new river, the Vezere.
We spent an hour or two wandering the small streets, viewing the village from the bridge over the river, and discovering the wonderful buildings, a grand chateau, an imposing Church, and a mysterious large manor house of some kind, set in spacious grounds, our curiosity kept at bay by a pair of large ornate wrought iron gates. A quite delightful sleepy village…and guess what? We’re out in the canoes again tomorrow to conquer yet another mighty waterway. We laugh in the face of aquatic challenges! (Like emptying the waste water tank in front of a**holes)
Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom
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