For ten years the monk performed his duties. Then, when no one suspected his intentions, he was honored with the quardianship of the Little Saint. As soon as the other monks' backs were turned, he stole the bones and fled.
The tiny village of Conques is made of the rock on which it sits. High on a hill it overlooks the Lot River Valley, an east to west sliver in the southwestern part of France. The ancient houses, their sharply peaked roofs, the magnificent Romanesque abbey, the very streets are pieced out of the local stone. It was here, back to his own Benedictine order, that the monk brought the saint in the year of his lord, 866. From that day forward she performed her miracles in Conques, bringing sight to the blind, freeing prisoners and making the village a major place of pilgrimage.
How many had preceded us in the eleven and a half centuries since the bones had been spirited away we have no way of knowing. We are only the most recent. But like them we marvel at the golden reliquary that contains part of the skull of the 12 year old girl who, in three hundred and three, was beheaded by the Romans for refusing to abandon her Christian faith.
We're staying at the Hotel Sainte Foy, a lovely historic inn named for the saint. But the conversation at dinner is not about religion. "The whole idea of Backroads is about taking the roads you can't see," says Jamila, one of our leaders. "Actually, someone called it 'snack roads' on our Ireland trip," says Lynne. Like most of the group, she and her husband, Bruce, are repeat customers of the American tour operator specializing in active vacations.
There are 11 of us, not counting our leaders, come to bike one of the most beautiful areas of France. For me it is a long awaited revisiting of a region that stunned me as a 19 year old on my first trip to Europe. For the rest, from Colorado. Maryland, Chicago, San Francisco and New York, it is a combination of great exercise, fine cuisine and lodging, glorious scenery and, perhaps, hard work. At least it seems that way to me as we bus up and down a series of hills from our meeting place in Cahors. The trip description said "moderate," but I wonder about that. The others are strong, seasoned bikers, mostly husbands and wives, and have tales of strenuous biking and hiking and skiing and even, for Cynthia, the triathlon. How will an occasional biker and the oldest of the group make out? Tomorrow will tell.
The good news is that there are at least three route options. And a thorough orientation after our first breakfast. "Be safe and take it easy," says Jamila, a strong young Canadian with a fund of local knowledge. "There's absolutely no reason to go all out, unless you want to, of course."
Monica, blond, American-friendly, another great athlete, does the "Route Talk" for the day. She describes the basic route and the short and long options. "Today's ride is up the Lot River to our picnic stop," she says. "Until lunch the route's flat." Music to my ears.
Well informed, we sedately walk out of Conques. Then when its dignity is far enough behind us, we hop on our bikes and fly. My 27 speed Canondale is a revelation. Custom- made to Backroad's specs, I love its shock absorber seat. At $1,000 retail, it beats the heck out of my $89 Toys R Us.
By Viellevie we've split into two groups of almost equal numbers. The slower, mine, stops to admire the hamlet's massive medieval castle and the rest of the village which could easily fit inside. Just out of town, Robert, an avid fly fisherman, stands on a bridge gazing longingly at a large trout feeding in the shallows. "Do we have to ride by the river?" he asks plaintively. "We'll throw you in if it will make you feel better," one of the women replies, quite possibly his wife.
At 11:30, less than an hour later, we've covered half the 20 miles to lunch, a ride that's been allotted 3 hours. The route, with few exceptions, really is flat. A well paved two lane road, D170 according to the yellow road markers, has almost no traffic. It traces the slowly flowing river, hugging its gentle curves. From the far bank, hills thick with oak and chestnut trees rise to a cloudless sky. The sun rises, too, turning up the temperature this September 11, from downright chilly to almost hot. There's little sign of habitation except for a handful of houses and shops, perfectly designed for the landscape.
At Entraygues, an hour early for lunch, Monica
is already overburdening a folding table by the
river with thick loaves of crusty baguettes, truly
vine-ripened tomatoes, sweet melons, local
cheeses and pates, smoked salmon, charcuterie
meats, fresh lettuces, tantalizing pastries and
bottles of red and white. To my immense relief I
dismount feeling wonderful. With one exception.
The circulation seems to have been cut off to an
important part of my body and it isn't my brain.
It's after lunch, when your belly is full of the kind
of food that kills Americans but has no effect on
the French, that you want the route to be flat. It isn't.
"Turn right immediately after the bridge," reads the
itinerary. "Begin uphill."
Beginning is easy. It's not knowing when the hill
will end that's hard. How many times I think as I
pedal endlessly upward that if I'd chosen the short
option I'd be in the support van now, driving to the hotel. But no. Even when Monica pulls up beside me and asks if I want to get in I cry, "Yes! But I'm not going to."
And do you know why? Because as slowly as I'm going, there are still two people behind me.
It's a hard burden being male.
After ten kilometers, count 'em, 6.2 uphill miles, I reach the top to be greeted by cheers and applause. The gang is there with congratulations and encouragement. Jamila and Monica offer drinks and fresh fruit. A very nice welcome.
Rested and refreshed, all but four choose the optional ten mile loop. Those of us with more sense have a fabulous downhill glide through rolling pastures dotted with fat white and brown cows.
Of course what goes down must go up. Once more the road climbs, much shorter this time. So why do I find myself walking the bike? No matter. I hear Jamila's, "Take it easy" again. So instead of struggling, I stroll up until the road levels out. Besides, this isn't a race. If it were, I'd opt out. (But there are still two people behind me.)
By 4:30 I've wheeled into Conques and am sitting on the balcony gazing up at ancient houses. I've completed my moderate 38 miles, including the longest climb of the week. But moderate is a relative term. For those taking the long option, what I've done is a breeze. For me it's the toughest workout in recent memory.
You'd think that people who thrive on hard physical exercise would not be fussy about such mundane matters as sleeping and eating. Not this group. After two nights at the lovely Hotel Sainte Foy, we find our bags, after the day's ride, in our rooms at the Chateau du Viguier du Roy in the town of Figeac. The hotel is comprised of parts of buildings dating from the 12th, 14th and 17th centuries. I imagine that my room was once dark and dreary. Now is is flooded with sunlight pouring in from glass panels overlooking rust-red tile rooftops. The network of beams suspended over my bed may be old, but the bathroom is 21st century.
The hotel surrounds a gem-like garden within a
Gothic cloister. Above one corner, slits for archers
pierce a tower bearing the marks of ancient attacks.
On the other side is the bell tower of the church of
Saint Saveur which took two centuries to build. I
think I know the contractor.
For me the fifth day is the fullest. After a short climb out of Figeac we descend into the Cere River Valley. As we roll into Corn the landscape suddenly changes. Sheer limestone cliffs pockmarked with caves shoot above us. The few houses we see are massive blocks of stone, capped with orange roofs that flair, almost pagoda-like, at the edges. And there are vineyards laden with dark purple clusters just begging to be plucked.
In Espagnac there's an 11th century church with a watch tower too picturesque to be true. 900 years ago it was not a pretty decoration but a very necessary early warning system. Next to it is a slightly younger monastery that has been converted into a "gite," a modestly priced inn. When we're ready to leave someone asks, "Where's Robert?" One by one we stop on the bridge and look down. There he is by the Cere, casting toward a school of trout. Today is Robert's 40th birthday. Last night he was given a Big Mouth Billy Bass, a plastic fish that wiggles its tail, opens its mouth and sings, Take Me to the River."
At the town of Cabrerets, where houses are built smack into the cliff and a castle looms over the road, I finally take the long option and follow the river for several easy miles. Then I round a bend and on the other side see a magnificent church sitting high on the very edge of a precipice. Years ago, driving the region, I'd come across the medieval village of Saint Cirq-lapopie completely by chance and had never forgotten it. But that was in winter and it was empty except for a friendly old man who proudly gave me a tour. Now I meander the tiny streets from smart boutique to fine restaurant to galleries of art and feel a twinge of sadness at its chic allure. But the houses have been beautifully restored with great respect for their origins. And the site is still a miracle.
A young French professor from the University of Bordeaux waits for us after lunch. In front of the entrance to the Grotto of Peche Merle he gives us a fascinating introduction to prehistoric art. Then we descend into the frigid interior to gaze at mammoths and bison and almost life-size horses drawn on the walls and ceilings. Though 25,000 years separate us from the artists, we are told they had exactly the same DNA. We are basically the same.
The Chateau de Mercues began life in 1212 as a fortified castle. How it will end - well I hope it never does. In its present incarnation it is a member of the Relais and Chateaux group of exclusive small hotels. Perched high on a bluff above swaths of vineyards and a ribbon of river, its great crenellated walls culminate in round turrets capped by pointed conical roofs. Rapunzel, Rapunzel!
For the last three nights we are ensconced in a series of ideosyncratic suites. Mine is "le Colombage," named for its interior walls of soft rose brick and half timbers. Anne's and Adam's door opens onto a spiral staircase, down to the bathroom with its huge stone fireplace, up to the bedroom with its huge stone fireplace. If ever there was a place for fantasy, the Chateau de Mercues is it.
Here as everywhere the food is formidably French. Somehow the chefs take ordinary ingredients and transform them into spectacular tastes. Fortunately the portions are reasonable in size which may explain the dearth of overweight natives. (They also leave room for dessert.)
On our rides so far I've usually stayed with the group. Mainly because it's more fun. In Cransac-les-Thermes a ruddy-faced man drives up and demands our attention. In a southern French accent he tells us that a line on a nearby memorial divides two administrative districts. "On my side," he says, "is France. On the other, Auvergne."
One morning we pull over at a country crossroad, presumably to group up, actually to rest. "That's the toughest three kilometer bike ride in France," Randy says, indicating the sign to Cardaillac. "You know, Cardaillac arrest?" Multiple groans.
"My wife's mad at me," a husband says as she comes panting to a halt behind him. "How may times a week is semi-annually?"
"You're about to find out," she says.
Occasionally after lunch when we split into those taking the long route and the rest of us I find myself riding alone in a countryside empty of sound. The locals are taking their midday break so when I stop at the medieval church in Senac it is all mine. On the last day I pull back until I'm cycling by myself through acres of vines precisely pruned to exactly the same height and width. Bordering the vineyards are orchards of peach trees and everything is encircled by soft green hills. I stop at a 14th century chapel, then at a deserted farm building. Since there's no one to see, I steal a couple of grapes. Sweet. Finally, prolonging the ride as much as possible, I drift slowly home.
Home to the castle of course.
BACKROADS INTERNATIONAL offers biking, walking and multisport vacations for all levels of fitness from beginner to expert. Longer and shorter route options are available on all trips. Rest days may be taken when desired. Guides are thoroughly trained and speak the local language. Trips of various lengths run throughout the United States and Canada, Latin America, Europe, Africa, Asia and the Pacific. For Information call 800 GO-ACTIVE. Web site: www.backroads.com.
HOW TO GET THERE: Delta Airlines, 800 221-1212, flew me non-stop from New York City to Lyon, France. I was especially impressed by the Delta Concierge whose sole job is to assist passengers. In Lyon I picked up a rental car at the airport.
AUTO-EUROPE: 800 223-5555, who made the reservation, guarantees the lowest available prices. Especially helpful is their 24 hour, toll-free number to an American customer representative should assistance be needed. Flying Delta to Lyon and renting a car enable me to enjoy a ...
SPECIAL EXTENSION: The Lot and Dordogne River Valleys are full of fantastic scenery, architecture, and history. If at all possible, Backroads bikers should spend more time in the area before and/or after the cycling trip. Cars can be picked up in Lyons and dropped off in Montauban (or vice versa), a half hour by train from where the biking trip begins and ends. The return flight can be from either Lyons or Paris on Delta's round trip fares.
RECOMMENDED READING: I used the driving routes in the Michelin Guide to Dordogne, Perigord-Quercy and found them excellent.
