Page 32 - Jan2023

Driving in France, continued from page 31 grown up around.The cobbled streets there
I half closed my eyes, and felt transported back to a
previous time, a previous century perhaps, maybe even
a previous millennium. It felt good.
My home here was the top floor of an ancient,
narrow, three-storied stone house. Climbing the stairs
up the back to my outside entrance, I found that it had
been modernized inside, with new plumbing and
windows.
The view from the large front window took in the
entire wide valley on the other side of the river. There
were rows of walnut trees in the orchards on the near
side, and vineyards climbing the hills on the far side.
Behind those hills low, steep sided mountains rose to a
height of several hundred meters. To one side the
black walls of a classic feudal castle stood on the edge
of an isolated, rocky height. Rising from within the walls
was a massive square-sided keep, lording over the
valley, keeping watch on all below from its hazy
distance.
Each morning I walked down to the tiny car park, and
then drove off to explore this corner of France. My daily
drives did not need to go far, for subtle attractions were
everywhere. The vineyards cascaded over the hillsides,
right down to the edge of the roads, anchored at the
ends with pious shrines to Our Lady, and were the
central subject of many a landscape scene as I cruised
back roads.
Almost every panoramic view was framed by a castle,
sometimes even two or three. A few were huge and
looming, a few were tumbled-down ruins, but mostly
they were ancient fortified houses, left over from the
Hundred Years War. Some had their beginnings (as did
the ever so narrow village lanes) as far back as Roman
times, when there was a garrison here to maintain the
.
?Pax Romana? These country homes were often
modest, repaired and upgraded countless times since
their beginnings, but still serving. well.
You Can't Get There from Here, (nor can you park
when you get t here)
One day I decided to visit a historic church in a small
city some distance away.The cathedral of Ste. Mathieu
was in the core of the old town that a modern city had
32
were mostly pedestrianized.
Of the few that were open to cars, all
were one way. Cautiously negotiatingthe
unlabeled lanes, trying to find the only car
park shown in the visitor's guide, I found
myself in a curious maze. Inching up to the
same intersection for the third time, a
friendly local came to my aid.
Holding his bicycle with one hand,
pointing at the guide with the other, he
shook his head and said something along
the lines of ?you can? get there from here?
.
t
Gesturing for me to follow him, he mounted
his two-wheeler and eased off down an
obscure narrow alley with me following.
Minutes later we emerged from the
stone-built village to the little tree filled
oasis that was the car park. Smiling and
waving, he rode off on his bicycle.
Here was a whole new maze. The
parking spots were squeezed in between
the trees, and wound around the curves of a
rocky stream. And, oh yeah, every single
space was filled. Inching my car around the
maze, I spotted a man striding purposefully,
and not too far away. Voila! No doubt a
parking space will soon become available!
Turning around, I headed toward the spot
as he got into his car. Oh No! I?m too late!
Another two cars, coming from two other
directions, got there before me. They
jockeyed closer by turns, moving up on the
guy until he could hardly squeeze out of the
spot. They effectively blocked his exit, but I
was able to gingerly back up to where he
could squeeze by me, maybe with inches to
spare. (Centimeters? Millimeters?)
Meanwhile, the two other cars continued
crowding each other, edging closer and
closer in a slow motion game of chicken,
both intent on occupying the same spot.