French Impressions: The Dordogne River

French Impressions: The Dordogne River

A unique mix of information, anecdote, opinion and recipes in the French Impressions series follows the course and history of the River Dordogne. It takes us on an affectionate voyage along the banks of one of the country's most iconic rivers, starting half-way up a dead volcano in the Auvergne region and ending three hundred miles later in the Gironde estuary. On the journey through five regions and six departments, George examines the diverse cultures and communities, their sometimes turbulent history, and how the past informs the present in this deeply fascinating part of a great country. He also tries to solve that age-old mystery of what makes the French soFrench.

If you want to know where there be underground dragons, saints with a golden touch and how the good burghers of Sarlat make cat litter from walnut shells, French Impressions: The Dordogne River is the book for you. If you like armchair travelling or just love France, it's your sort of book.

PS A paperback version of this e-book is also available

Extract

La Bourboule

If there is a place where old hotels go to die, La Bourboule must be strongly in the running. Going by the average age of the residents, not a few people must also choose to end their days here.

Once upon a time, La Bourboule was a very swish place, but times and tastes change. The population of the town has halved since 1930, which gives an indication of when things began to go downhill. Or rather, not downhill.

Nowadays and in an apparent effort to re-invent itself for modern tastes, it bills itself as a ski resort. This is a bit of a liberty as there are no ski-slopes at La Bourboule. There is, though, a telecabine (cable car) which goes up to the Plateau de Charlannes 1300 feet above the town. A half mile to the west, a small dam across the Dordogne has created a picturesque lake. All in all, this is a pleasant part of the river's progress westward.

There is not a jogger in sight when we bowl into town, but a few elderly people are taking a promenade, or at least putting one foot in front of the other. Earlier, I noticed a prominent notice by the town boundary sign which read STATION OXYGENE. If it marks a supply site, this probably gives a further clue about the age and condition of many of the residents.

We roll along the main street and it soon becomes clear that the town is almost a stereotype. It is obviously a place of faded splendour where wealthy French and English people of a certain age would come to take the air and the waters, eat very well and have a punt at the Casino. The anglicised names of many of the former hotels lining the main street are still vaguely visible on the upper storeys, and Grands and Supremes abound. Eerily, most of the soaring frontages house shops, cafes and bars at street level, but have been abandoned to time and nature from the first floor up. It is disconcerting to see a smart boulangerie at eye level, and above it a gaunt, peeling frontage with empty eye-sockets instead of windows. It makes the names in faded lettering a poignant reminder of the good old days. It is also a reminder of how all things die, and how great empires, dynasties and even the grandest of hotels come to the end of their days.

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There is something decidedly English about the park at la Bourboule. It is all very neat and symmetrical, with exceptionally well-tended lawns. There are winding paths, a boating lake and even a miniature train which leads to the telecabine station. The parc Fenêstre also boasts a vegetable garden, and it is growing the first runner beans I have seen in France. Being in a posh health spa, the rods up which the tendrils crawl are of ornately-fashioned silver metal rather than common bamboo.

We walk through the gardens to the cable car station and - much to my wife's relief - find that it

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