by Ann Barry
After resting on the south side of the river, the pilgrims would climb up to the plateau, the Causse of Gramat. The causse is a drier woodsy-bushy wilderness dotted here and there with sinkholes or depressions where a farmer can eke out a living. Shepherds pastured huge numbers of sheep on the causse in the Middle Ages, and orders like the Knights Templar owned huge expanses of its harsher and less populous parts. In summer the causse becomes fiercely hot, at least in comparison with the sweeter valleys to the north, and in winter the wind blows very cold. There is no surface water on the causse, and it is a very long day’s walk across it to the edges of the deep canyon of the Alzou, which hides the wonderful shrine of Rocamadour.
The reward for those who reached l’Hospitalet, a village at the edge of the canyon, was a spectacular view of Rocamadour, with its buildings that seemed to pour down the cliff face to the west. Here the pilgrim could rest, find food and shelter, and prepare for days of devotion, sightseeing, and shopping. The first meal at l’Hospitalet would surely include slices of a huge round peasant loaf, the tasty disks of cabecou or goat cheese, and wine from the vineyards of Cahors. In the days that followed, the pilgrims would walk down the cliff road and through the fortified gate. They would pass dozens of small stalls, inns of every variety, and religious shrines for every type of devotion. Poor and rich alike, men as well as women, must all have felt the keen sense of satisfaction that a long effort to reach a distant goal brings. But pilgrimages are addictive, and how many of them would decide in a few days or weeks to continue on, to Conques or to St. James of Campostela in faraway Spain? After all, it would only take three or four more months to get there. The life of a pilgrim was both harsh and sweet, trudging, staff in hand, to new countryside, and a new blessing with every shrine. It’s easy to see how the way of the pilgrim became one of the most powerful metaphors for the journey of human life.
The route to Rocamadour from my house has the best approach. The road winds through a tunnel and brings you out on the far side of the valley—swoosh!—just opposite the cliff and the suspended village. It takes your breath away. It did Patsy’s.
At the far end of the village is a long (two hundred and twenty-three steps), steep staircase, with a plaque listing various notables that have climbed its taxing passage, ending with Raymond Jolie Fénelon, whose relationship to François of Carennac I am uncertain of. It reads, at the end, SUIVIS DE FOULES IMMENSE, ONT GRAVI CET ESCALIER À GENOUX (followed by enormous crowds, who have climbed this staircase on their knees). The stairway leads to a chapel at the summit, which houses the Black Virgin. A penitent, having climbed the steps on his knees, with perhaps chains around his arms and neck, would present himself for purification before the statue. Patsy and I took the ascenseur.
Today, the tiny chapel is a grimy black, as if it suffered a devastating conflagration, though it’s probably only centuries of accumulated candle soot. Two angels opposite the altar appear instead to be heralds from hell. My American eyes say this cries out for restoration, yet it certainly has an atmosphere to suit the Black Virgin. Patsy and I agreed that this statue has to be the ugliest in all of Christendom. She is perhaps two feet tall, seated with the Christ child on one knee; her crown, studded with what look like some cheap semiprecious stones, seems too heavy for her diminutive size. The two figures are blandly featureless. And strangely, sinfully black. Paradoxically, however, her peculiar size and forbidding color give her a certain poignancy and presence.
Outside the chapel is a recess in the stone wall, which reads: ICI FUT DÉCOUVERT EN 1166 LE CORPS PARFAITEMENT CONSERVÉ DE ST. AMADOUR. According to the Michelin, the identity of St. Amadour is a bit sketchy. The most accepted theory is that the perfectly preserved body belonged to Zaccheus, the husband of St. Veronica, who wiped the face of Christ on His way to Calvary. I hadn’t known that St. Veronica was married, nor the rest of this story. They were obliged to flee Palestine and, guided by an angel, found their way to the Limousin. After Veronica died, Zaccheus took to preaching in the area.
How do we get from the name of Zaccheus to St. Amadour? Patsy wanted to know. The Michelin, at this point, requires a giant leap of faith. In its rather stunted translation of the French Michelin, it states: “It is pure legend but one thing is certain; there was a hermit and he knew the rock well as is [sic] often sheltered him. The Langue d’Oc expression—roc amator—he who likes the rock—established the name of this village sanctuary, which became Roc Amadour and finally Rocamadour.”
We descended to the village, had a light lunch, and headed back to the car. As we approached the ramparts I saw that Charleston was obscured by an enormous tourist bus, devoid of passengers and driver. When we got closer, the full impossibility of our situation became apparent: the car was completely cornered, with not an inch to maneuver. We looked at each other and moaned.
Across the road, near the souvenir shop, a group of men were hanging out, conversing and smoking as if they had nothing better to do. These had to be the bus drivers. I approached one and explained my dilemma. Ah, he tsked, I had parked in a space reserved for the buses. The tour group wouldn’t be returning until four o’clock, maybe four-thirty. It was now two o’clock. No, he shook his head at my plea, the bus couldn’t be moved. To do so would require moving the other bus alongside. And that driver wasn’t even around, probably having a café.
Patsy shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, “So what’s two hours in this wonderful place?” We ambled back through the village. Patsy wanted to buy some postcards; she planned to use them as a visual aid, along with her photographs (in the end, she took probably a dozen rolls), for a lecture she planned to give about her trip. The decision over the best views took up nearly a half hour. I’d always avoided souvenir shops, but found myself suddenly fascinated by all the kitschy stuff. I found myself looking for a key chain with a plastic Black Virgin, and ended up buying a Rocamadour ballpoint pen with pink ink and a cellophane package of glazed walnuts, which were among the usual produits régionaux.
I suggested a citron pressé. We found a quiet little café. A citron pressé is superior to a lemonade. It is civilized and refined, like high tea served in the classic tradition. One is presented with a tall glass on a china saucer, containing the juice of a couple of freshly squeezed lemons. Alongside is a sugar pot, a pitcher of cold water, and a spoon. You add water and sugar to taste, and stir it up. It’s fresh and tangy, but it’s the ritual that makes it elegant.
As the time neared four o’clock we strolled back to the ramparts. The buses were still empty; only a few early stragglers had made their way back. I approached the group of drivers again. The driver of the bus that had Charleston locked in was on hand. He admonished me for my error, more dutifully than contemptuously. I pleaded with him to move the bus and sensed a weakening in his armor. I pointed to Patsy, who was happily munching the glazed walnuts with one eye on the offerings of the souvenir shop, and explained that she was a visiting friend whom I was attempting to show as much of the country as possible. We had already been delayed several hours as a result of my ignorance of the regulations.
He hailed a fellow driver—the driver of the bus parallel to his. They crossed the road and mounted their buses. As soon as this exercise began I realized the enormity of my request. Villages like Rocamadour were not built to accommodate giant tour buses. It would have been one thing if the drivers were simply departing in single file up the road. But freeing Charleston meant that the first bus had to turn down toward the village at an angle in the tiny street (there were three other buses parked parallel to his), so that the second driver could pull up the road and back down again in the space deserted by the first bus. Charleston, freed, looked the size of a ladybug. Patsy and I hopped in. There were now literally inches of space on either side of the car, between the stone rampart and the wall of the bus. This delicate operation brought forth the entire pack of drivers, who guided me, inch by inch, through the opening. I was sweating, fearful of denting Charleston; Patsy was craning her n
eck out the window. Finally, we were clear. I got out and thanked all the drivers for this enormous favor. Patsy, no stranger to New York, where a similar situation might have elicited rude behavior, was equally impressed by their helpfulness.
Through Patsy’s eyes, sights I’d seen time and again took on their original wonder. The gouffre de Padirac, an enormous chasm in the limestone massif of Gramat, seemed even more awesome. The deep caverns are reached by descending in two elevators to passageways with astonishing stalagmites that can be seen both on foot and by boat along the underground river three hundred and thirty-eight feet below the surface. Both Patsy and I, being from Missouri, are stalagmite—and stalactite—buffs: the underground caves of Meramec Caverns and Onondaga Cave in the Ozarks are renowned. Padirac has a powerfully dramatic setting and a legend connected to it, involving a Faustian bargain struck between St. Martin (and his mule) and Satan (with his sack of souls). Patsy, who had read Butler’s Lives of the Saints, strictly for amusement, relished all such lore.
Though I’d been to Padirac at least three or four times, I’d never seen it under more treacherous conditions. Patsy, to my surprise, proved amazingly intrepid. Because of the severe floods during the spring and summer of 1993, the river was a gushing, roiling torrent. We could hardly hear ourselves speak above its roaring turbulence as we trundled down steep wooden stairs sloshing with water. The water pelted us from overhead. The smooth, timeworn rocks glistened on every side. Passageways underfoot were slippery—a misstep and you could be swept into the surging river. When we boarded the boats (insubmersibles), they rocked nauseatingly. We were both giddy, a nervous giddy. If this had been the States, the caves would have been “closed temporarily due to unsafe conditions.” But this was France, the France that loves raw nature.
At the end of the boat excursion, an automatic souvenir photograph is taken of each returning boatload. Patsy and I chose to purchase one, which cost an outrageous eight dollars. When it was mailed to us later, it proved to be worth every penny. Patsy and I are huddled together, frozen and drenched, and—I remembered—fatigued and famished after the ninety-minute excursion. The photograph, however, illuminates the scene like a stage set. The hellish rain and gloomy atmosphere are erased, reducing the crowd in the boat to a cast of comical characters having a seemingly inexplicable reaction to what appears to be a beautiful setting. Patsy and I are smiling cheerily, having survived the reckless adventure together.
A photograph that exists solely in my mind is of Patsy standing on the ramparts of Castelnaud, a castle that bounced back and forth like a tennis ball between French and English hands during the Hundred Years War. It has one of the most spectacular views in all of the region. Patsy felt the ghosts of knights were stalking the land: nothing seemed changed since the Middle Ages. From its dramatic perch high on the hill, you gaze over the Céou valley and the meandering Dordogne River to Beynac Castle in the near distance. Beynac was Castelnaud’s formidable rival throughout the Middle Ages. What is astonishing is how close the two castles are—how could anybody get a decent night’s sleep? In the artillery tower of Castelnaud are displays of armor and weaponry. Those hourglass knights’ suits of armor seem so small—size six?—that even I would have a problem with a fit.
Since I’d last been to the castle, they had added a video demonstrating the use of primitive cannons and stone balls. Patsy and I were amazed to learn that a stone ball could be hurled from the contraption built for that purpose—a sort of giant slingshot—the distance of two miles. All the way across Prospect Park, I mentally translated.
As we watched the video a scenario played out in my head. Everyone at Castelnaud is seated around the banquet tables for a feast and evening of merrymaking. Thonk! A stone ball lands on the roof! The enemy has attacked and there is general pandemonium. In a movie you would see the tables overturned and a little scrappy dog steal away with a leg of mutton, you would hear the bare-teethed horses whinnying as they’re wrenched from the stables and the clatter of their hooves on cobblestones, you would see a bolt of lightning strike from the heavens. The women and children would cluster together and run for shelter, but where? My castle plan doesn’t include a broom closet—perhaps they’d flee to the kitchen. The knights and infantry rush to their posts.
How a castle was ever overtaken is beyond me. A common strategic position for a castle is on an outcrop of rock over water, so that it is impenetrable from at least one side. Inland, it would be laid out in defensive rings, with an outer curtain wall. If, by luck, the enemy penetrated that wall, there would be an inner curtain wall, which could be two feet thick and thirty-five feet tall. This design scheme was picked up from Syrian castles by the Crusaders. In front of this wall would be a drawbridge, which could be hoisted to send everybody into the slimy-green, infested moat. Arrows would be showered from above through arrow loops, cleverly wedge-shaped so archers could aim in a range of directions. Troops storming through the main gate with its great iron portcullis would be met with stones hurled from machicolations and boiling water poured from what were called murder holes cut in the ceiling. I have a problem figuring out how those huge cauldrons of water could be kept at a boil. Bottom windows were made small enough so that the enemy couldn’t crawl through. Soldiers manned the merlons, the intervals between crenellations, topped with fierce finials. What chance did an intruder have? Better, it seems to me, to sit it out, starve the bastards.
Castelnaud makes this past a vivid reality.
Patsy and I would spend the end of our days at the house, with aperitifs before the fire and a candlelit dinner with wine. It was a time to relax and talk. We know each other practically as well as we know ourselves, and accept each other for who we are. I am myself—my best self—with Patsy, a profoundly satisfying feeling.
The Marian Seldes character in Edward Albee’s play Three Tall Women says of middle age: “It’s the only time you get a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view—see in all directions. Wow! What a view!” That suggests to me a woman standing on a mountaintop, at a pinnacle, exhilarated. It’s not the emotion I would use to describe where I think Patsy and I have arrived. There’s more a sense of being grounded, having traversed the proverbial long, bumpy road and arrived at a paved one, which feels easier underfoot. We are realistic, surefooted, grateful for good health and fortune. Friendship—particularly with women friends—is extremely precious to both of us.
Our perennial subjects for conversation are friends, our cats, work, sometimes world and local news, books. Patsy is a voracious reader (on one of our jaunts, she regaled me with the plot of a book by Angela Thirkell, an English writer to whom she had become recently addicted). As a prelude to her France trip, she’d read The Parkman Reader, a selection edited by Samuel Eliot Morison of Francis Parkman’s 1865 nine-volume The French and English in North America. Patsy’s enthusiasm for a subject was so contagious that I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the tome.
Patsy and I both feel French is in our blood, since our hometown of St. Louis was founded by the French. In 1764, the village was established in honor of Louis IX, who reigned in the thirteenth century. Pierre Laclede, who founded the city, was the scion of a prominent French family—Laclede Station Road, in the suburbs, not far from my old house, is named after him. By late 1764, some fifty families had settled the town that had been studiously laid out by Laclede, with fancy street names like Rue Royale. Patsy said that with her heightened interest in all things French, she had begun to notice the number of French street names—sometimes bastardized, such as Gravois, which in St. Louisese is pronounced Gravoy, with the accent on the first syllable. Laclede saw the town as a crossroads, and his vision held. It’s renowned as the “Gateway to the West,” symbolized in the famous Saarinen arch on the riverfront.
A glass of wine and a fire invited philosophizing. We talked of our lives, of how we felt at this point. Like me, Patsy has never been married. She has a problematic history with men: when they draw closer to commitment, she backs off; when the
y back off, she grows madly attached. Now, Patsy said, romantic fantasies have receded. She isn’t sure if her sexual impulses have faded because of menopause or—she chuckled—simply been replaced by her infatuation with her cat, Ferguson, who is the love of her life.
Being in our fifties, we agreed, is somewhat bewildering. I showed her a poem, titled “The Child,” by W. S. Merwin (who lives and works in Southwest France):
Sometimes it is inconceivable that I should be the age I am
Almost always it is at a dry point in the afternoon
I cannot remember what I am waiting for and in my astonishment I
Can hear the blood crawling over the plain
Hurrying on to arrive before dark.
“It’s like having a new suit of clothes that doesn’t quite fit, isn’t it?” I asked her. People die in their fifties. As Merwin says, you feel the blood crawling over the plain: death is conceivable; not frightening, but possible.
And will we ever make love again? Patsy shrugged, with a scrunched expression, as if it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. For myself, I doubt it. You have to seek a passionate relationship, which is not something I do—in fact, I’ve never felt the sexual drive that a number of my women friends have—and I don’t deceive myself in thinking that men would find me sexy. If anything, it’s not passion I miss, but being physically touched. I do miss being felt, held, made to feel alive in that way. Patsy understood. The concern is not about making love, but keeping love going with others.
For the last day of her visit, I asked Patsy if she wanted to take a day’s excursion or just relax at the house. She preferred the latter. I pulled up the floor heater between the chairs and we curled up with books for the morning. Around noon, we drove to Collonges-la-Rouge for lunch. The small red-sandstone manor houses built by leaders of the viscountcy of Turenne for their holidays make this town unique. We walked along the blush-red roads, admiring the blush-red houses. It’s as if the town glows from an inner fire. At a small, rustic restaurant, we shared a bottle of wine over omelettes and crusty country bread. It was the end of this journey with Patsy, but the first, I proposed, as we raised our glasses, of other pilgrimages together in France.
