I’m sad to leave Figeac. When I open the front door of the B&B I’m staying at, the owner’s dog rushes in. Nothing to be done. He’s a shaggy, nervous creature, who reminds me forcibly of a childhood friend’s dog Ollie. I pass his human, who’s returning with breakfast provisions, I guess, after I gather my bicycle from the barn, while I’m riding out the long gravel driveway.
I stop for a pain au chocolat or several on the way out of town. By accident I pass the hotel where I stayed with my parents.
The Lot flows past the old walls. I snap a picture as I ride across. It’s a cool, gray, humid morning.
Let it all hang out.
After a steep climb out of town, I’m back to the partially exploited valley of the Lot. The morning feels sleepy; it’s mostly farms and orchards. I’m on my way to one of these mega-touristy destinations, but reliably hyped by a group of old French walkers who introduced themselves by saying that they fix up old buildings.
Lots of quiet.
Your rails are untied / Your train is delayed
The stone walls of the valley become the most noticeable geological feature for a while.
We’re headed up.
All of a sudden I’m on another street I recognize, this time in Cajarc. I stop in at the bakery next door. But this place looks likely for crunchy snacks.
This one stays in the distance.
Water, the stuff of life
The disused rails continue left.
I imagine the valley flooded
It’s not just that I’m not waving the phone around while cars are around–it’s really very quiet.
There it is, Saint-Cirq-Lapopie, a beautiful village surrounded by parking lots, given an intellectual sheen by Breton and others. Maybe a little too cute for a stop, and anyway it’s too early for lunch. Tourists disembark by the busload.
After climbing through the town I’m on a slowly rolling plateau for a while. The sun is out, and it’s like California.
Sorry for the one crappy picture, but for lunch I stop in Cahors. This one is targeted–I know in advance it’s a big enough place that it’s worth finding something with a good review. It’s a beautiful, quietly happening city. Lunch is great, but some combination of ingredients makes a visit to the bathroom urgently necessary before I can continue.
I take a few wrong turns on my way out of town–I forget why. Once I’m out of the western suburbs, there’s a sense of some more activity in the wings, but the roads and paths are warm and sleepy.
Cahors AOC selfie
Vineyards have some romance, but winemaking has less for me.
A nice afternoon for it
A tart from an island on the river.
It’s another pretty town on the river’s banks. But this one welcomes us with a bottle.
A small parcel. We traverse a lot of the black wine’s lands.
Matching château
The day feels long, and at this point I’m further west then I’ve been before.
There’s a little nook along the Zürich gold coast that reminds me of this.
This path will eventually get a little less scenic as we approach our destination.
Our destination is a larger city than we’ve been to in a while.
I’m actually staying pretty far at the edge of town. At any rate it’s a nice approach for a while. I’m not here to review hotels, but tonight’s is the low point for the trip. The dining room feels like a desperate, depressing community hall, such that Renton’s parents might frequent in Trainspotting, papered over with flowers. But I have a sunny spot to air my laundry and a bizarrely giant room.
(…for more coverage of “france 2023”, click here…)
a cozy place for odd rats i guess 