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Wild Motorcycle Tales

Drifting in France - Part 4

I had read once, in a quantum mechanics book, that the universe does not exist unless we look at it. Inspired by this statement, I made my own: Beauty does not exist unless we share it. I must not be the only one, that when touched by a beautiful scene, can't wait to share the feeling with others. The worst thing that could happen to me, is that I would be condemned for life to ride alone thereby unable to share nature's beauty as seen from a motorcycle. Fortunately, my wife is here and I can silently share the moment with her.

Then I see the sign, carefully mounted on the stone wall of a comfortable terrace across the street. It reads: "Homemade Ice Cream." My wife rolled her eyes in protest while doing her best to keep up as I headed for the restaurant. Nothing was going to keep me from getting my second cup of ice cream today. Comfortably installed on the nearly deserted terrace, I savored the opulent cup of ice cream under the accommodating shade of old trees and the accusing looks of my companion. As the palatable delight ended, I realized that our current plans wouldn't take us past the end of my nose.

We simply had no plans, and had no idea where we were going next. We sill had sunlight and fuel, so we decided to ask the waitress for advice. Faced with the question, her forehead and the bridge of her nose wrinkled as she asked: "Where do you come from?" Apparently, we were the first yahoos she ever met, that had no idea where they were headed. Once we explained the situation she volunteered a name: "Domme. You should see Domme. It's on top of a mountain with a great view," she said. Then she gave us directions and disappeared into the restaurant.

Getting to the village required a short climb up the mountain, riding on a steep, twisted, humid road that passed under the canopies of big trees. Back into the sunlight, we arrived at one of the entrances of the fortified village. This was a small medieval village encircled by a hefty defense wall with guard towers and heavy doors. Once inside, I followed the traffic signs, passing in front of the big parking lot for tourist buses, some stores and ended on a little plaza on the edge of the cliff. The view was indeed splendid. We passed long moments contemplating the scenery. We could see far away into the river valley. It was beautiful.

After a while, we walked to the center of the village visiting the stores and the tourist office, where we learned that the village is on top of a big cave, the ones with stalactites and stalagmites, even a big underground lake. The entrance to it, located right there in front of the church. I voiced a desire to visit it but gave up when I found out we had to wait one hour for the next guided tour. I was growing tired of walking around villages. I wanted to spend the last few hours of sunlight doing what I like the most: riding the motorcycle. Fortunately, Martine felt the same way and as we saddled up I proposed to just ride around without a destination in mind and see what happens. "Yes," was her enthusiastic answer.

Back at the bottom of the mountain we arrived to an intersection, and I asked if we should go left or right. "Left," came the muffled answer from under her helmet. This was fun, driving around aimlessly on the river valley's roads. We had no map, no GPS and no watch. The road signs meant nothing to us as we turned left or right guided only by instinct and the desire to have fun. I had found Thunder Magic, and with life's worries immediately exorcised, I was zenning as we drifted in the sunny afternoon, in company of yellow and brown leaves that gently glided to earth in the soft warm breeze, only disturbed by us, passing through the virgin scene as we followed the road into a calm future. I wish I could bottle moments like these, into a carefully handled Mason jar, to be released later when daily life's restlessness overwhelms me.

We saw castles, old stone bridges, hidden creeks, sleepy villages and the kaleidoscope of colors that an autumn afternoon can offer. Coming around a corner, I saw a small castle sitting on top of a very steep hill, make that a big rock. I slowed so I could take a second look. Suddenly a sign appeared indicating the road to take to reach the castle. My wife taps me in the back. She wants to take a look.

I follow the sign's advice and we're soon climbing to reach the castle. I know it sounds redundant, but I can't avoid using the word again: steep, VERY steep, so much so, that at one point we felt the need to lean forwards to help the front wheel stay on the ground. After a few minutes we arrive at a big gravel parking lot, and I park next to the only two cars there. As we dismount I see another sign: "This way to the castle" A footnote lets you know you're about to embark on a up hill stroll lasting 450 yards. Ah no! I refused to go. Too much effort at this hour, besides, the shadows are getting long and we have to be back before Mr Charbonnier locks the garage. Instead, I suggested going to the cafe I saw at the intersection at the bottom of the hill. Luckily my wife took the bait. The castle of Castelanud la Chapelle will have to wait until our next trip.

Down at the cafe next to the river, we relaxed at an outside table while enjoying the quiet evening and a good espresso. I quickly figured out the way home with the aid of a small map courtesy of the cafe owner. We travel the short distance back to Sarlat in the dying light, arriving at night birth, we parked the bike in the garage and went looking for food.

We ate at a quiet Italian restaurant around the corner, outside in the terrace, accompanied by the night's silence and the soft glow of the amber street lights.

After another great bath, I was settling for the night when I took notice of the old, elegant clock resting on the fireplace. It had no hands. Somewhere along the line it lost its hands and could not tell time any more. It sat there in all elegance and wisdom, useless as a rock. What a strange coincidence, just on the day when we rode around with no accurate means to tell the time, we come home to find this.

As I fell asleep, my thoughts evolved around one question: If I wanted to express my discontent with structured two wheeled vacations, where schedules and planning are the norm, then which would be the best way to do it, by not wearing a watch, or by wearing a watch that has no hands.

Next morning at breakfast, Mr Charbonnier's politeness can hardly mask his excitement. He has bad news. An angry storm front is approaching from the sea. It brings cold and freezing rain and will be here this afternoon. Hunched over his computer we observe the radar screen, sure enough, a wide front is coming in, already reaching Bordeaux. It extends all the way to Brest. I study the repeating movement of the screen. Not good. Going home the short way requires heading to Bordeaux, where we'll meet the storm head on. Then we're sure to spend the rest of the trip under freezing rain.

So I borrow a tactic from the sailing days. I square off. I plan to set stern to the weather and move away from the storm, going home the long way around. With luck, we'll get to Nantes before the storm arrives tomorrow. If we leave now, we could still take a look at the troglodyte areas near Les Elyzes de Tayac Sireuill, then continue on D-706 a sinuous road that borders the river Vezere, and connect with highway A-89, then A-20 towards Paris, and left on A-85 towards Nantes passing trough Tours and Angers. This would take us two days to complete.

Nevertheless, we finish breakfast in peace, pack our bag and say our goodbyes to Mr Charbonnier and his wife. We promise to come back.

We ride small quiet roads in search of Les Elyzes. It's considerably colder than yesterday but not unbearable. Everything is covered with low gray clouds and the spectre of the impeding storm. Le Elyzes is a small, run-of-the-mill village, but her proximity to numerous prehistoric attractions makes her a busy hub during tourist season. Today is calm, and as we chug along her main street, we peer into the inviting windows of warm restaurants where locals prepare for a comfortable lunch. I stubbornly resist the temptation to stop and eat, and I keep going. We haven't traveled very far and I don't want to spend two hours eating here.

We follow the signs to D-706. This twisted, solitary road runs between a calm little river an an imposing cliff wall raising about 150 ft above us. On the other side, the river bed extends about 500 yards to another wall. The landscape is strange, the vegetation, a mix of evergreens and leafless trees already asleep for the winter, barely covers the unusual rock formations. It is desolate with no signs of humanity, except the road and us. Sometimes we pass so close to the wall that we ride under the bulbous rock protuberances.

We advance slowly, twisting our necks to look here and there. Suddenly, good news. A small hand painted wooden sign passes by. It announces: "Restaurant Parking Ahead." Great, I hope it's open! Some distance up the road, another sign points to the entrance of the gravel parking next to the river. I pull in and park alongside some vans. This is a good sign.

The vans belong to workers of various trades: painters, electricians, and city workers. They like to spend their lunch breaks at what is called "Restaurant Ouvrier" (Worker's Restaurant). This entity is as important to France as the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre or Notre Dame, maybe even more. Here's where the working class can get decent food at decent prices, with good service, and they like to eat well and varied, nothing less is tolerated. These restaurants exist all over France, even in Paris. They're usually run by a middle aged lady with short black hair, mascara, flashy clothes an authoritarian demeanor. She's accompanied by one or two young, smiling and dynamic girls. The team will ensure you have a great stay, or that you're kicked out on the street for breach of protocol, so respect. The places are simple but clean and well arranged. A "home cooking" atmosphere relaxes the customers who spend their hour and a half or two hours lunch calmly eating, conversing or secretly nursing a love feeling for the "Madame." So if you're in France, and want to eat cheap and well, follow the workers' van.

As I take my helmet off, I look around and find no sign of a restaurant. Martine spies a stair, carved on the stone steeply climbing the wall on the other side of the road. "I don't like it," I said, I didn't want to leave the motorcycle here, unattended while we embarked on a rock climbing adventure in search of food. Then I see the roof of a car passing behind some bushes as he descends along the cliff wall. There must be a road going up. I tell Martine that we should continue a bit, and if we find the road, we'll go up, if not we'll keep rolling the dice. 100 yards later, there it is, and up we go on the steep narrow road, big enough for one car.

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