Away from the main tourist route, the department’s peaceful capital and ancient market towns offer an insight into a traditional rural way of life
I always enjoy coming back to Périgueux. Though it is the administrative centre of the popular British holiday zone, the Dordogne, it is virtually unexplored by tourists. Charm emanates from this sleepy hamlet located above the River Isle on limestone quays.
Situated in the centre of an incredibly culinary-rich region, tourism provides over 25% of the department’s revenue. But calling the region by its regional name, Périgord, provides an alternative viewpoint. This is the land of freshwater fish, figs, buttery tartines, aromatic vin de noix, truffles, cèpes, walnuts, chicken, confit duck, and foie gras.
The joy of French regional food is its close relationship to the environment, as a walk around Périgueux will demonstrate
A stroll through Périgueux demonstrates the deep bond between French regional food and the surrounding nature that gives it its own character. Every morning save for Monday, the market hall in Place du Coderc is open. The outdoor square is crowded with colourful stalls twice a week. The sellers are local farmers who grow their own food, not middle-class hipsters selling charcuterie, artisanal cheeses, and shining fruits.
When you start haggling, you’ll discover they’re speaking Occitan, a more rustic dialect of French. This ancient language is connected to troubadour culture and, more recently, transhumance, which is the yearly movement of grazing animals between mountain ranges. It is spoken by the Midi (D’oc, meaning “of the south”), the Pyrenees, and areas of northwest Italy. Occitan, primarily used by elderly rural people, is used to combat the vergonha (shame) that native speakers of French have traditionally experienced as a result of French organising. Nor is this language an affectation of the middle class.
The word “una passejada,” which means promenade, in Occitan is similar to the Italian word “passeggiata,” emphasising the public aspect of meandering through these streets. The idea is to exchange good morning greetings with onlookers in order to see and be noticed. The town centre of Périgueux, an old city rich in Gallo-Roman archaeological treasures, is lined with modest, shining 18th- and 19th-century stores that are spaced out along narrow mediaeval streets.
These stores are a pleasure to peruse, serving a variety of local requirements from expensive jewellers to stationers with dusty windows where publications slowly fade. Just keep in mind the extended afternoon break, when all businesses close and the streets are deserted like a ghost ship.
All you can do is go to a leisurely lunch with everyone else, maybe at one of the eateries near the Place de l’Ancien Hôtel de Ville.
Actually, this apparent lethargicness is a reflection of a pragmatic attitude towards life satisfaction that is common to all occupations, from showroom attendants to railway labourers and postal workers.
The distinctly unique profile of the Cathedral of St. Front serves as Périgueux’s emblem. Similar to how the Sacré-Coeur dominates Montmartre, this imposing 19th-century building with its domes and turrets commands the skyline. Given that Paul Abadie, an architect, designed both, this is no coincidence. Just past the edge of the city, you enter the deep countryside and see the cathedral rising above the lazy river in your rearview mirror.
Périgueux is 75 miles inland from Bordeaux and can be reached by train from Paris in about 4 1/2 hours. But since there isn’t a high-speed TGV line, passengers have to switch trains in Limoges. This produces a distinctive, traditional fusion of urban and rural life, providing a model of interdependent self-sufficiency that may teach us important lessons as we address the effects of the climate catastrophe on global supply chains and food security.
Maybe I have biases. I used to live here, in a hamlet some twenty miles west of the city, until Brexit. We lived in the Périgord Noir region, so called because of the famous black truffle that grows there, Tuber melanosporum. Périgord Pourpre, which has wine-growing Bergerac at its heart, Périgord Vert, which is renowned for its verdant surroundings, and Périgord Blanc, which is distinguished by its brilliant limestone. Actually, there was a lot of vegetation and light limestone in our region.
This is life off the beaten track, but it’s surely not without charm and admiration. For instance, the chateau that gave the village of Hautefort its name is located a short distance from our previous residence, over twisting roads designated with little white kilometre signs.
There’s a spacious gravel forecourt behind the ramparts above the main village street, which bears the name of the mediaeval baron-poet who founded the castle, Bertran de Born. From here, parkland and old gardens jut out on three sides, opening up to a horizon of vivid fields interspersed with wooded areas. This impressive building, more fantasy than defensive, with its 17th-century round towers, would be a popular tourist destination in the UK. But the majority of those taking in the undulating limestone scenery are French.
In nearby Excideuil, one can hear French being spoken in the shops and cafes. Similar to Hautefort, this quaint market village is perched on a limestone bluff with a river view. Three times, Richard the Lionheart was repelled by its chateau. The town’s cobblestone lanes are home to several exquisite 16th-century homes constructed after the town was awarded tax exemption status by royal edict in 1482, as well as ruins of the Knights Templar and a parish church that dates to the 10th century.
Excideuil is more of a scaled-down replica of Périgueux than it is a museum. There’s a market in the town square every Thursday where you may purchase either unplucked or plucked farm-raised chickens. The vendors might be JP “Pierrot” Journiac and his sons, our old neighbours who used to talk through the hatch of their tiny, hand-painted Citroën van with their dog, Jazz. Pierrot regrettably died earlier this year. He is now laid to rest in the Tourtoirac village cemetery, surrounded by the fields that his family has worked for many generations.
Here, farms encircled by acres of sunflowers, faded blue window shutters beneath stone-tiled roofs, and abandoned homesteads gradually reintegrating into the surrounding countryside can all be found.
Sitting with our dogs outside one of the two cafes in the square, I first experienced the world that Pierrot came to represent for me at Tourtoirac, which is smaller and quieter than Excideuil. Here, family farms span acres of sunflowers, faded blue window shutters sit beneath double-pitched lauze (stone-tiled) roofs, and abandoned homesteads gradually reintegrate into the scenery of limestone plateaus covered in woods. It’s a spot where gloomy, wind-blown kitchens with chairs beneath fig trees are used to prepare delectable butter dishes.
Here I witnessed the connection between city, town, village, and hamlet—a mutual reliance on the countryside. At some point, I published a book about the powerful effect of these limestone landscapes.
Tourtoirac’s history as a stop on the Santiago pilgrimage route is reflected in its Romanesque carvings, which are found in many of the region’s fortified churches. In recently found caverns, the community debuted a son-et-lumière performance fourteen years ago. Although these historical sites alter local life, they don’t completely alter it. Simple self-sufficiency customs like having a house cow, a corn drying rack, vegetable gardens and geese wandering the garden beneath the walnut trees still exist in our hamlet beside the River Auvézère.
