Grey start to a miserable day. Showers throughout.
I decided that it wasn’t day to pussy-foot around with mere hangovers. The best thing to do was to drive around until the hangovers disappeared. I picked a route I’d been meaning to do for some time which incorporated a couple of historic sites in and around Rocamadour. It being a Sunday, I was worried that Rocamadour might be full of tourists – I mean it is France’s second most visited natural attraction after Le Mont St. Michel. But I reasoned that it being a wet Sunday and the fact that the French only ‘do’ tourism in July and August, that we might get away with the hordes of snappers.
Took a different route to Rocamadour and it was a far far better thing than I have ever done on other routes. It followed the river along the gorge and then up through limestone tunnels and stacks onto the plane. Very beautiful scenery and much better than the plain old rolling green countryside of a route that I usually take. I mean if you want wonderful green undulating countryside you could stay in Sussex.
It was pissing it down when we arrived at Rocamadour, and the place was absolutely heaving with day-trippers who were clearly trying to get rid of their hangovers, or get in some early practice for July and August. The lower car-parks were full so we started at the top of the cliff and walked down into the village. Starting at the ramparts, towering 200 metres above the valley, was a new way of encountering this bizarre village built into the rock. I defy anybody not to suffer from vertigo when you look down from a crumbling stone path with only a 3ft wall for protection. We certainly were in no mood for any other sort of hangovers up there.
After walking down and then past all the tacky touristy shoppes, we walked back up again. Well that’s all there is to do in Rocamadour unless you want to take the silly tourist train back to the top, which I certainly didn’t. Paul was moaning a bit, but he soon snapped out of it when I bought him an ice cream and said if he was good I’d take him for an afternoon treat.
The afternoon treat was a trip to an old watermill that spans the river across the valley a little bit further downstream. It’s a bit difficult to find because you follow a bumpy single-track lane for a few kilometers, but that didn’t seem to stop the coach-loads of unseasonal tourists from making the same trek. The mill is 13th century but is still grinding flour to this day – not bad for an 800 year-old machine. Has anybody from Moulinex ever thought of getting some design tips I wonder? My crap Magimix broke after just twice trying to make something unambitious with flour and milk.
There is a tour guide at the mill, but she only spoke in tongues so we slipped past her did the tour ourselves. We still managed to fill a bag with some complimentary flour though, which was included in the 3.5 euro entrance ticket. Almost Waitrose prices!
From the mill we drove on past some other scenic wonders (chateux yawn … chapels built on overhanging rock yawn …. Medieval villages yawn …. Vistas as far as the eye could see yawn …), and then it was time for food.
We got to Martel, which is a lovely little village famed for something I’m sure, but for us it was a restauration stop. Played cards in a bar until the food started at 7 o’clock. It would be immodest of me to say who won, because it was my rules & my pack of cards so Paul didn’t stand a chance. I celebrated by eating a giant pizza – Paul chose a red-raw steak (he was missing his meat poor thing – that should make him stop).
