story is set in and around his school and village of La Chapelle-d’Angillon in the Department of the Cher, and as I have said, it is just to the north of Bourges. He wrote extensively for one so young but is known for his novel Le Grand Meaulnes which was published in English as The Lost Domain. He was born in 1886 and was killed in September 1914 in the first battle of the Marne. He showed great insight and understanding of human nature, especially in the first half of the book.
Our man determined to see Sand’s château and Alain-Fournier’s village and then return to Bourges where they would stay overnight. I envied him. His wife came down and I said goodbye. When we got back to our room I took out the map of France. We were only a few kilometres from Rocamadour and it had easy access to the A20 which ran almost in a straight line to Vierzon just to the north-west of Bourges. Alain-Fournier’s village was only thirty-four kilometres from Vierzon. I began to add up the kilometres and divide by 140 — a reasonable speed on the autoroute. But, then I thought of our limited time and I pictured the Dordogne and so…I unfolded the local map. Today was to be Gourdon and Fenelon and villages on the way there and back — good stuff, exciting stuff.
So Gourdon it was. This is not a big town but it is unusual. If you park in the main street there’s an interesting church on your left called Eglise des Cordelliers. It was built by the Franciscans in the fourteenth or fifteenth century, but in the nineteenth century the authorities embellished it with a massive and curious tower. The building is now used for concerts.
I suggest you leave your car where you parked it and that you simply “spiral” your way (on foot, of course) up the rather steep hill to the other church, Eglise St. Pierre. On your way up you will see some quite old houses, (even as far back as the thirteenth century), and some interesting shops. Gourdon, for some reason, seems to be a centre for music. We happened to be there on a Sunday which was La Fête des Mères, or Mother’s Day. The special service had finished in St. Peter’s church and fortunately the congregation was just leaving, but someone still played the organ and the smoke of the incense hung over the empty pews. It took me back quite a few years.
Michelin does not remark on the stained glass except to say that there is a “large rose window”, but I thought the glass was worth a paragraph. I liked it very much. But then it is fair to say that my passion for stained glass is extreme. I would go so far as to state that there is no painting in the world which can match the beauty of the stained glass in Bourges cathedral, or Notre Dame in Paris or Chartres — especially the rose windows of the last two.
When you leave the church of St Peter at Gourdon, take the stairs around the side for a great view over the old roofs of the town, the church itself and the surrounding countryside. The walk up to the viewing table had been neglected when we were there and it puzzled me, as the rest of the town is proudly kept. But it doesn’t spoil a quite wonderful view.
The Bouriane is said to be worth a visit taking half a day at least and judging by the little that we saw I would agree. It is all rivers and hills and chestnuts and walnuts — not a bad enticement. That is the beauty of a picnic lunch: you always have a view with your baguette. And speaking of baguettes I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s the balance between the dough and the crust that is so precise and wonderful. But then there are so many great breads: Turkish, Italian, Jewish, Indian. English? I cannot think of any delicious English breads and yet they should have some for their splendid cheeses.
And there’s pastry — patisserie. How could one exist without pastry? So often in France the boulangerie and the patisserie are separate shops, they are that specialised. I soaked up the last of the walnut oil and looked at my watch. We would have to leave the view and go back to Gourdon and then out on the D 12 to Château Fénelon. It would be an easy and a restful journey.
We had been to the château on a previous occasion but didn’t have the time to see over it. Fénelon is more than just the childhood home of François Fénelon, it is a beautifully proportioned fifteenth century château set on a hill rather than a cliff or rocks. There is a softness about it which is partly the building and partly the trees which surround it, especially perhaps on the far side.
When you walk through the grounds of Fénelon and realise that it had to cope with something like a hundred or more horses and their carers, and troops and artillery and the like, you begin to realise why a château of this kind had to be so large. Fénelon is a sleepy and a tame place today but there would have been hectic times when war threatened or actually happened. Now it is views and lawns and roses and tranquillity and beauty. When you inspect the private rooms you realise just how small they were: the kitchen, Fénelon’s room — even the reception area and the dining room — none of them were large. I love the history and the stillness of the place.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Today is to be bastide day but prior to the bastides there is this walk — a before breakfast walk.
The Hostellerie is virtually on the banks of the Ouysse River and I wanted to walk to Château Belcastel which is on a cliff about a kilometre from our hotel. You can go straight up the hill at the back of the hotel but my God it is steep; excellent for the heart no doubt, but hard on the muscles. There is an alternate route, the D road that comes in from Souillac, where the gradient is perfect, the surface is excellent and there are views from every bend, and in addition there are limestone cliffs, and oak forests and sky and clouds, but the distance is about four kilometres.
It took me a while to make a decision standing there by the fast running Ouysse. I had climbed that knee-trembler of a hill last year so…the beautifully graded road with the views from every bend was the sensible choice and I would take the short cut back down the hill on my return journey.
I got to the château eventually and was greeted vociferously by the dog — a frighteningly savage dog which challenged me with its aggressive pose and deep-throated growls. The next thing I noticed, however, was that its tail was wagging and its eyes were smiling. So, we became companions, and as I walked to the gates of the château and peered through, it too poked its head between the wrought iron uprights as if seeing the château and grounds for the first time. A pleasant place — a place worth the walk.
I turned and began my return journey and it trotted along with me. I admonished it and told it in my best French to retournee to le château. It pretended not to understand no matter how I rephrased or repeated my reprimands. Alright, it could walk with me for part of the return journey while I searched for the appropriate French terms.
We got to the first corner but still it cantered at my side. There was a small field of wheat, excellent wheat in almost full ear, and a stone wall to sit on and so I sat and it lay. How pleasant to relax here on a chilly morning with the sun every now and again puncturing a golden shaft through the clouds. How pleasant to be in France in the spring in the Valley of the Dordogne with a French chien by your side. And the quiet — no cars, no loud music, not even church bells. And there was no hurry.
That boy I mentioned earlier who was not me, but a boy I knew; when he was seven or eight, or thereabouts, he too sat one winter’s afternoon but not on a stone wall, he sat on the fallen, curly dried bark of a large, old white gum, and he sat there for quite a while. It was after school and he was on his way up to the “Far Hill” to help his father with the digging and bagging of the family’s potato crop. His job was to pick up the large potatoes and put them in one bag and then to pick up the “chats”, the small potatoes, and put them in a drum to be boiled up and fed to the pigs. This job did not appeal to him.
On his way from the house to the potatoes he began to think yet again
