Evening Walk

Took a walk up through the village of Castelnaud up its newly paved medieval paths, up beyond to the 19c Cross of the mission sent by Pope Leo XIII to remind the locals about Catholicism, Rome and the Pope, to which they were showing signs of indifference. The cross, with grey, withered bent side arms was replaced about five years ago with a robust, light brown, varnished version,  but there is a good view across the Dordogne Valley and down the Ceou valley to the south from the cliff edge here. Below in the valley bottom lay the field of newly planted walnuts which has caused an access dispute between our neighbor Anic and the Mayor of Castelnaud who wanted to pass just in front of her house. A double row of tape has now appeared across a field behind Anic's house so either an amicable agreement has been reached or she has agreed or been forced to sell part of her land for access. It went to a tribunal in Bergerac on appeal after she lost her case in Sarlat this winter. The hearing had been scheduled for June.

The walked continued along the cliff edge and then down through newly mown hay and walnut fields with a view beyond of endless woodland - the known habitation of wild boar. Almost immediately on entering the wood the barking of a boar could be heard about 200 metres uphill. Walking slowly downhill, I could hear various movements in the rather thick undergrowth. Then a small female wild pig walked straight across the path in front of me, looking neither right nor left - to be followed fifteen seconds later by a second, this time male, again small but with a short dark mane of hair and tufted tail. These creatures are quite plain and stout but have a peculiar grace because they walk on their hoof tips like ballet dancers. In the past  I have seen groups of up to seven wild pigs here.

The old road out of the wood which leads from Chateau Fayrac  to Castelnaud is probably the old medieval road between the two castles and has a little bridge over a precipice where, after rain, a stream tumbles down from higher up. The bed is now strewn with large rotting tree trunks and branches gradually moving down month by month towards the modern road below which runs between the bottom of the cliff and the river. The path is still wide enough to take a cart except that last winter and this summer during thunderstorms, trees have fallen across it and have not been cleared away so some had to be climbed over and others scrambled under. There must be a dozen of these which add to the wildness of the place.

Arriving at Castlnaud I decided to see if the new residents of La Gorce, the rather fine 18c river side house and undercroft were in evidence and then walk along the beach to the bridge. The house is close by the road which is not too busy for most of the year but is totally blocked by holiday traffic for the six weeks between mid July and the end of August so a number of buyers have purchased the property in winter and then decided to sell after experiencing the summer. Outside there was a large Range Rover with a Spanish plate but no sign of owners.

I made for the river intending to enjoy the sound of the water and the house martins on the wing for a final feed before roosting and to enjoy too the reflections of the evening sky and the Chateau of Beynac in the distance, upon the rivers surface. An old red van with silver foil over the back windows was parked further along on the river bank. On the bank were three large ladies one sitting throwing stones in a male manner, and I was just about to step past the giant poplar and onto the beach when I realised one of them had taken her trousers down and was sporting an enormous bottom as she urinated openly on the beach. I turned aside, as Sir Walter Scott might have said, and  wondered if they were with the fair, the pantechnicons of which had been arriving over the past two days   threatening four noisy nights of dull drum beats and howls from the dodgem drome. The fairground children enjoy the riverside but have a tendency to shout insults at passers by and throw stones at them in a random manner. These ladies were, I reflected,  either part of the fair or, if independent, were  on a brutish version of Mr Hulot's holiday in their red van.What ever the truth, these three ladies would not be capable of looking elegant on their points like the wild pigs they otherwise so much resembled..