age their production drops off. And, in any event, the demand for good sound walnut timber is constant, so why not have the best both ways.
There’s a wonderful family-run walnut mill at Ste. Nathalène in the Enéa Valley some eight or ten kilometres east of Sarlat. Father and son manage the mill and mother is in the shop and it is certainly worth a visit. The whole of the mill, including the massive and powerful press, is run by a huge water-wheel. Its power is amazing. The nuts are shelled (by various families as far as I could gather) and the kernels are finely crushed and heated to about 50ºC. The pulp is then pressed, and slowly, ever so slowly, the oil seeps out. But what oil it is, and how delicious to soak the bread of a fresh baguette in it.
My enthusiasm for walnut oil, and its relative scarcity in Australia, combined to cause me to endeavour to press our own oil from our very own tree. So, after dinner one night, I took a bag of our freshly picked nuts and I shelled them and I then put them through the vitamiser. Then I put them in a pot with a small quantity of water and I heated them as mentioned and then I put them in a press, a small press that we use for sampling grapes before vintage. I pressed and pressed. No oil. I threw the whole of my weight and strength into the job — a bent handle on the machine but no oil. I was determined to get some oil so I grabbed a torch and proceeded to the shed and the vice on the workbench. I put the little press in the vice and I applied the screw harder and harder. The press was in danger of collapsing when suddenly I perceived a few drops of oil drip on to the saucer. Eventually I obtained half a teaspoon. At eleven o’clock at night I drank that oil, every bit of it and then I began the job of cleaning up the mess before turning into bed. The oil was so delectable.
It was late in the afternoon when we pulled into the plane tree shaded square in Beaulieu (Beaulieu-sûr-Dordogne) and the sun was warm. Out the front of our virginia-covered, three storied, old stone hotel, was a footpath, and so there were small tables and chairs on one side and banquettes, yes banquettes and tables on the other. We sank into one of the banquettes and ordered two gin and tonics. I know, yes how I know, what a risky order that can be in France. They arrived, with a bowl of nuts, and…and the glasses were tall, chilled, filled with ice and a slightly blue mixture. They were delicious, two of the best that you could get in any part of the world. We made them last for half an hour and then there was time for a walk along a secluded track which went through a small forest and up a steep hill. I never did find the monument sign-posted along the way, but the view of the winding Dordogne and the sunset was wonderful.
The feature of Beaulieu is, without doubt, its beautiful twelfth century church built by the Cluniac monks — St. Peter’s church, or Eglise St-Pierre. It is quite remarkable. There was a jackdaw perched on the steeple. It jumped off as we approached and then flew slowly round and round, only to be joined a few minutes later by a half dozen of its mates. Jackdaws, steeples and bells and old churches, they take me back to our first visit to France all those years ago: an afternoon cup of coffee on the terrace of the little café at Tremolat, the dulcet tones of two English cyclists at the adjoining table and then the clear calls of the jackdaws hovering around the spire of the village church.
The Beaulieu church is said to be in Limousin Romanesque style and on the east end has the usual “tacked-on” round towers of that era. To me, they are clumsy, but apparently there was a cloister joined to the northern side and that might have made the difference. The south doorway was carved in 1125 and is one of the most famous in the whole area, with its depiction of a forgiving Christ, a second coming flamboyant Christ surrounded by apostles and angels with trumpets. For once, thank God, there is no grave warning, or perhaps an ominous threat, to any backsliders or sinners. Inside there was a kind and indulgent angel, which I photographed. I like those jackdaws and I liked the angel.
Beaulieu is the start of the Dordogne proper if you are going down river. You can now go north, south or east and you’ll be amongst stone villages, churches, gardens, forests, hills…anything that the eye desires. We went south and parked in the village beneath Castelnau-Bretenoux overlooking the Céré River. This château can be seen from afar built as it is on a spur above the two rivers. I say a spur and yet it is a fertile and cultivable spur — a sort of a small plateau. The château is one of the most appealing you will ever see: an almost unique mixture of fortifications, and ramparts on the outside, with an elegant house on the inside. It is surrounded by extensive lawns and forests and even some tilled land.
The French writer Pierre Loti said of Castelnau, “(It’s)…the thing you cannot help looking at all the time wherever you are…a cock’s comb of blood-red stone rising from a tangle of trees…poised like a crown on a pedestal dressed with a beautiful greenery of chestnut and oak trees.”
Now, you may wonder what this naval man and writer of sea tales and sensuous adventures was doing so far inland. You may indeed, and as to that I cannot help you, nor can he, as he died at Rochefort, a maritime town on the west coast of France, in 1923. Rochefort even has a street named after him — Rue Pierre Loti as I need hardly write.
CHAPTER EIGHT
St. Céré adjoins the Bave River and has a population of some three and a half thousand only, and yet it seemed very busy when we were there. Our destination was, naturally, the old part going back to the fourteen hundreds and the re-built seventeenth century church of St. Spérie. We walked along the Rue de la Republic festooned from end to end with shrubs and trees and stopped in front of yet another plaque to the Resistance. These maquisards died in May 1944 (before the Allied landing) and their executioners were once again the Das Reich Division. The town has its old Tudor style quarter around the Place du Mercardial but like Salers, it has a life of its own beyond the tourists.
Nearby Château Montal is most assuredly worth a visit, although the château itself had closed just as we got there. The grounds are simple and the château is, somehow, perfectly situated. The story is that in 1523 the owner of the land had a mansion built for her eldest son Robert, who was in Italy fighting a rather pointless war for François Premier. Robert was killed and the mother in her distress had a motto chiselled underneath the window which had acted as her lookout: “Hope is No More (plus d’espoir).” Luckily she had a second son Dordé, but he was a “church dignitary”, a priest presumably. Anyhow, he came out, as it were, and had nine children and I assume that one or some of them were boys. The château went through rather turbulent times in the intervening years but was completely restored by a rich Frenchman late in the nineteenth century who then gave it to the State in 1913. Its situation, its park and the building itself are all lovely. I particularly liked a rustic latticed gate beautifully constructed in a diamond pattern.
A village which is off the main road on the little D118 and very much worth the short detour is Loubressac. It’s on a hill or perhaps a small mountain, but you could easily pass it by. Well, please don’t. Allow Loubressac to draw you off the main road.
There’s a small parking area under the trees (chestnut from memory) by the World Wars monument. Having read the announcement and glanced down the list of names, in case I should see an Egan, I went, quite naturally to the little but old cemetery. There’s a wonderful view from its gates which takes in part of the valley of the Bave and the Castelnau fortress. To my mind, the peace and quiet of a well-kept cemetery is similar to the peace and quiet of an old, but empty, church.
I left the cemetery with reluctance, and walked on. Outside the church, I stopped and tried to decipher the beautifully lettered acrylic sign. My French had deserted me and the church was closed. The thing about Loubressac is firstly its authenticity and secondly its compactness. The roads are narrow, laneways almost, and every house and tower, every turret and roof is genuine, even if some have been restored. The gardens are alive, the flowers are blooming and the place is occupied. In the space of a half hour you have had a feast. We journeyed
