There’s a reason that a good number of English expats flocked to buy property in the Dordogne throughout the 80s and 90s – it’s utterly glorious. The Dordogne river cuts a wild swathe through limestone cliffs weathered by millenia of rain. Himself has to revive his Fearless nickname as the odd truck belts past us and through cliff overhangs that have me hold my breath until we pass. I beg to stop often – look, a castle! The river! The caves! He does his best to comply and continues to never cease amazing me with both his driving skills and sheer nerve.
Our castle stop sees a group of bikers rumble up beside us on return. Possibly not quite as scary as they might be – I spot teddies strapped on rear carriers. One has an additional passenger. Look says I, “He has a Squiz. I think our Squiz would like to meet his Squiz”. “Off you go”, says Himself watching in amusement. And I do, Squiz in hand. Closer, I make a show of him, the two Squizzes rub noses. Ever heard a group of bikers giggle? It’s a great sound …I only wish I had a photo.
We see Domme well before we arrive. Perched 150 metres above the river, its defensive golden bastide walls are an imposing feature. Domme has seen many incarnations – including serving as a prison for the Knights Templar in the 14th century, then for both French and English soldiers during the 100 years war. That little red below dot is Himself, for scale. The gates are HUGE.
Today, Domme’s existence is a peaceful one featuring glorious views over the valley from the Jardins de Marqueyssac and ramparts. Friendly locals happily direct our way there.
It’s much bigger than a typical Les Plus Beaux Village with a population of just over 1,000. I’m pretty sure we explore every nook and cranny.
Having hiked up the hill eschewing the ‘gods waiting room’ tourist train, Domme’s continuously hilly aspect is an excellent work out under an increasingly warm sun.
Himself eventually calls time. I offer the tourist train back, “no judgement”. “No, we’ll walk”, says he “where’s the gate”. It’s always a give away when in response to this question, you do a little circle and don’t come up with an answer. We’re lost inside the Bastide and both a little tired and grumpy. Our first attempt finds a gate, but not “our gate” from which we can find out way back to the motorhome. Eventually we spot where the tourist train turned and Google’s geo-coding in my first photo saves the day.
We spend the night alongside the river in a glorious setting accompanied by birdsong and have a truly spectacular argument. *Sigh* there’s one in every trip, I’m guessing that was it.
Miss Baci Travels 