Shared Illusions

I was about half way through my order of rougail saucisses when I had to ask, “What did I do to deserve this?” By “this” I meant being on a shaded patio in a roadside brasserie on a hot summer afternoon in a quiet country village in France. We are in the gastronomic heart of France and having another exceptional meal.

We had been driving from our home base near Domme to the prehistoric cave in Peche Merle, and now on the way to Rocamadour. In addition to being the heart of Deep France, this region is one of the longest continuously inhabited places in the world, having human habitations ranging back to 400,000 years before present.

How do you wrap your head around that? The cave art at Peche Merle dates from over 30,000 years ago, shortly after, in geologic terms, the Cro Magnon humanoid was emerging on the European continent.

And here we were, having transported ourselves in a metal contraption over the land at 80 km/hrs, powered by fuels that were slowly forming when this area was being settled.

What have I done to deserve being here, at this time, in this place, having this experience as the flavor of the sauce dissolved in my mouth, a sauce created through countless millenia of human evolution.

The answer, of course, is “nothing.”

When we determined to delay our start on the Chemin St. Jacque we had to make a few decisions, such as where we would spend the 10 days or so, how we would get there, and what we would be doing. I must admit that our initial response was to return to Lyon since there were more transportation options to a greater array of destinations.

After making a non refundable apartment reservation, we decided that we really wanted to spend the time in “Deep France,” a term we have encountered that refers to the southwestern rural areas, in other words the same general area ẁe had just left.

One of the reasons we chose”Deep France” derived from a series of novels written by Martin Walker about a municipal policeman named Bruno. Walker is a retired Scottish journalist who lives in the Dordogne region, and he situates his novels in the environs of his home. His descriptions of the area, the culture, and particularly the food, are quite compelling.

We rented a car in Lyon, reserved an apartment on the outskirts of Domme, and drove a bit more than 250 miles to get here. Although we enjoyed our time in Lyon it may have been a better choice to hunt down a rental car in Le Puy en Velay, which is less that two hours away rather that spent the time and gas and tolls to get here from Lyon.

Since we were already wasting money taking the long way here, it might also have been a good idea to not scrimp on the rental car, sorrento another thirty dollars on a weekly rental for a vehicle with more than one rubber band.

Is that an archaic reference?

As it is, we got a Fiat 500 hybrid with a six speed manual transmission. Sixth is fine for downhill and flat terrain, but is useless on the long uphill grades between Lyon and Sarlat. We arrive at our destinations much later than anticipated since we can only maintain a fraction of the 120 km/hr velocity that Google Maps uses to calculate arrival times.

On the rural country roads, however, the car is perfectly serviceable, easily able to maintain the 80 km/hr speed limit. The only question is, why would you? Perhaps is the smallness of the car, the narrowness of the road, the sharpness of the curves, or the fact that I haven’t driven a manual transmission since the last time I was in France (twelve years ago), but it seems to me thatyou have to be crazy to drive that fast here.

There are a lot of crazy people in France.

I can’t drive more than a few miles before finding myself in the lead of a caravan of up to six cars, trucks, campers, and mobile homes. They’ve been speeding on these roads for 40,000 years, so I guess they have become comfortable with them.

Every few miles there is a quaint, picturesque village, an imposing fortress, a beautiful chateau, or another magnificent view. What we don’t see are strip malls and fast food restaurants.