The Bastide Monpazier – Where is Everyone?

Zagan the motorhome is on the outskirts of the bastide town of Monpazier, Périgord Noir (Dordogne), and although he’s now surrounded by other vans, is feeling somewhat alone. It seems everyone in the old town has nipped off on holiday, or left forever. The streets are quiet, or perhaps better described as ‘dead as a doornail’? The aire here is free (N44.68491 E0.89419) and next to the fire station, so might not remain quite so quiet all night…

Free aire at Monpazier. We’ve since been joined by vans from Germany, Belgium, France and the Netherlands.

Apologies if you’re eating, or were feeling hungry. Design flaw we’ve seen a few times with loo emptying spots: the grate is fixed, so where are the ‘solids’ supposed to go?

Charlie’s gone seriously prima donna after his blogging fun yesterday, and has insisted that we hand feed him confit de canard all day while carrying him aloft on a bed of palm fronds. It’s taking all of our energy to keep the wee man from spending all of Team Zagan’s budget on a Versace diamond-studded collar. Sigh. A follow-up post will have to wait for him to remember his place. What am I saying? We bow down to him on a daily basis!

Last night the rain came. Drops accumulated on the hand-sized leaves above us until brave enough to fall on us in a heavy splat, having me peering along the inside of the roof half-awake, wondering if it would rip like a sodden paper bag. We’d both laid awake much of the dark hours, the sound of the abbey’s bells chiming measuring out time. Imagine introducing church bells into Western society anew, I pondered, wondering at the noise pollution outcry which might accompany the idea of millions of bells being strung up in towns and cities, and hammered at all hours. In many ways I’d have preferred the heartfelt Muslim meuzzin’s call to prayer lifting my eyelids than the cold chimes of metal bells.

The clouds were fought off for a while this morning, blue skies propelled us due south along wide and smooth D roads. It’s woodland here. Forest. Spaced out only by the odd bit of scrubby grazing. The idea the English and French spent 100 years fighting over all of this not-muchness isn’t odd at all, their ego-driven daftness being repeated many times since (Somme anyone?). Metre lengths of cut wood stacked along the road. The sliced circle-ends faced outwards, like an Ikea poster, giving the current lay of the land: the locals clearly simply burn the place for heat these days.

Monpazier is an English bastide, or whatever ‘English’ meant 700 years back. I doubt the builders hummed Swing Low Sweet Chariot as they lifted the stone fortifications in place to fend off those pesky French from stealing this ever-so-useful, erm, woodland? The Rough Guide sings its praises as not being commercialised. We have to agree. Ju’s attempt to ask the tourist office lady where we could eat tonight resulted in a look of confusion: “You want to eat? Here? tonight?” But for a tiny Spar, a bar with three blokes supping Belgian Trappist beer and an empty-but-for-the-waiter restaurant, it’s pretty, but pretty dead.

Right! Feck it, that’s it, we’re outta here. Both of us feel down. It’s time to get some miles done, to hunt out a bit of life, to find something more of a challenge, to get to some new places, to find a restaurant (or maybe just a kebab shop) that’s bloody open and has some fellow punters! Tomorrow, miles will be done, oh yes, miles of ’em.

Some photos today from Monpazier:

Just nipped out, back at the end of the month!

Bear with us, been called away, back in 6 months.

Monpazier’s square, rather pretty but I felt somewhat crushed by silence and the weight of ghosts.

Monpazier church. I seem to have developed an unhealthy interest in vaulted ceilings…

Yet another fruit we have no idea what it is…

Detail from the covered area in the Monpazier square.

Sums it up for me.

I’ve long since realised it’s impossible to sum a place up without injecting your own prejudiced feelings brought on by the weather, who you meet, what food you eat, your mood that day, whatever. You could visit a place one day and love it, but hate it the next. Monpazier’s quiet at the moment, asleep, which leaves me cold. Come back another day and it might be lit up with people, sounds, smells and humour?

Cheers, Jay