Chapter 22 - angry travel gods, smiling travel gods,
more French cottages.
When the DIckasons arrived back in Nanaimo after the first ‘cottage’ trip to France with the Irvines, Les e-mailed the Australian owners of the cottages, the Richards, thanking them for the chance to rent in the Tarn and Haute-Provence, and somewhat tongue-in-cheek suggesting that the Dickasons could be Canadian agents for the cottages. In a flash, the Richards replied and offered a deal for the Dickasons: for every week’s rental attributed to the Dickasons, they offered a day’s rental in a cottage when the Dickasons chose to return to France.
The Dickasons accepted the terms of the agreement - seven weeks of rental by friends would convert to a one week Dickason rental. Pat and Les soon printed ‘business cards’ and at every opportunity with friends touted the cottages as ideal places to go for a European vacation. This received considerable interest and some early bookings resulted. Feeling the need to be competent to answer questions about other cottages, the Dickasons made a booking for the Gascony and Lot cottages for September 2001, and set about arranging flights and other details.
Another small car, a Fiat, was booked through Andre in Montreal, a charter flight on Air Transat would leave Vancouver on a Wednesday, and a B&B near Gatwick airport was booked for Thursday with a connecting flight to Toulouse for Friday. The cottage rentals began on a Saturday, so a hotel in Auch, west of Toulouse and less than an hour from the Gascony cottage was booked for the Friday night.
The bookings made for the return trip included a small hotel in London for a few days given that Air Transat only flew three times a week between London and Vancouver. The keys for the two cottages arrived in the mail, Les began brushing up his French, lists had been made, and the countdown started.
But the travel gods were very angry that September. On the day before our trip to YVR, a Tuesday, Les woke thinking about packing, and for some reason turned on the TV in the bedroom [rarely used in the mornings] - and saw a video clip of a plane hitting one of the World Trade Center towers! Minutes later, the cameras went live and showed a second plane hitting another tower. This Tuesday was September 11, or 9/11 as it infamously became known.
Pat and Les spent many hours, as did others, watching TV and hearing confusing news of flight delays and re-routing of planes. Our efforts to reach the Air Transat office resulted in busy signals, or recorded messages which advised ticketed travellers to go to the airport for further information. The web-site was no more informative, though it did indicate that further bulletins would follow.
On Wednesday, the Dickasons completed packing, caught a morning ferry, a bus downtown to the main bus terminal, and before boarding the Airporter, phoned Air Transat again. A real person answered, and advised that the flight to the UK had
been delayed, and likely would not leave that day. He did not know when the flight would leave, but suggested we call again the following day. The Dickasons debated phoning Vancouver friends and asking it we could wait out the delay at their house, but decided it would be more comfortable at home. Our logic was that this world-wide disruption to flight schedules would not likely end in 24 hours, and that if necessary, we could take the harbour to harbour float-plane service if we had to be at YVR in a hurry.
Bus, ferry, taxi and back at 3377 with the luggage, faxes were prepared explaining the situation and these were sent to Andre for the car, to the B&B in Gatwick, to British Midland alerting them to our problem making the flight to Toulouse, and to the hotel in Auch.
After dinner, the phone rang. The wife of the Best Man at our wedding had just arrived in Nanaimo after flying into Vancouver from Australia that day. She, Judy, asked if she could come and visit briefly that evening. At least one good thing had resulted from our return to Nanaimo - we would have missed her if we stayed in Vancouver.
Judy’s story of 9/11 was typical of many who had flown that day. As her Qantas flight neared YVR the TV screens all went dark about 30 minutes before landing. When the plane landed, it taxied to an area of tarmac well away from the terminal. The plane remained there alongside several others. The captain eventually announced that there had been an international incident in NYC and it was having a widespread impact on aviation. When the TV screens lit again, those watching the news channel saw the video clips from the World Trade Center. After three hours, the Qantas plane was cleared to taxi to a sky-bridge and passengers were able to disembark to go through Customs and Immigration.
Judy and the friend with whom she was travelling were visiting a local Girl Guide leader, and after a bottle of wine, some cheeses and much laughter, they left to spend the night in Parksville. The Dickasons went to bed after a long, nerve-wracking day wondering what Thursday might bring.
Thursday was a challenge because the recorded message heard when a phone connection with Air Transat was achieved indicated that our flight was categorized as delayed. The lottery of continual dialing eventually won a real person again, and she explained that until Air Transat had a firmer hold on conditions at airports, location of planes and availability of crews, then our flight would be designated as delayed not cancelled. When pressed to say whether any Air Transat flights would leave YVR on Thursday, she reluctantly indicated that it was highly unlikely, but that if a departure time was suddenly announced, the Dickasons would be responsible for reaching YVR in time to board. This news left us feeling powerless, but reading between the lines of personnel interviewed at YVR on the radio news, and checking flight status
sites on the computer, it was obvious that it was chaos over there, and that people were tired, frustrated, and sleeping on every available chair and on the floor.
The Dickasons decided not to travel to Vancouver that day, and settled down for a tense wait at home. A late night attempt to reach Air Transat produced a quick connection and this agent was able to confirm that our flight had now officially been cancelled, and that he would attempt to re-book us on a future Air Transat flight. The next two departures for the UK were fully booked, but he was able to wait-list us for the flight leaving the following Wednesday - one full week later than ticketed - and that a connecting flight to Toulouse on the Thursday was confirmed.
Unpacking took little time, then the Dickasons slept more soundly. On Friday, taking a chance on the wait-listing working, faxes were sent to Andre to change the car, to the B&B in Gatwick, and to Auch to cancel the hotel - and the gods must have been smiling slightly because the revised arrangements all fell into place. We did not rebook the Auch hotel knowing we could drive straight down to the Gascony cottage from Toulouse and take possession of it, with just two days left in our rental. An e-mail was sent to the Richards so they could inform the local manager of our late arrival in Gascony.
Slowly, the days passed, flights were returning to normal, and reports from YVR were of a much calmer atmosphere there. Packing on Tuesday was interrupted by a very welcome phone call from Air Transat - our status had changed from wait-list to confirmed. Wednesday we retraced our steps from the previous week, but this time took the Airporter from the bus station to YVR. There, after check-in, the new security procedures resulted in long lines which stretched out past the shops and food court.
Having been warned by friends of the need for extra time, the Dickasons easily cleared all hurdles and along with some other very relieved passengers boarded our flight to Gatwick.
Air Transat’s arrival in London was too late to transfer to a flight to Toulouse, hence the B&B in Gatwick for Wednesday night. For the first time we stayed at Staith House on an elegant crescent in Horley, a 10 minute taxi ride from the airport. Tina, her husband, their two children and the cat and dog proved to be excellent hosts, and we relaxed, changed, walked to a
recommended pub, and had a jet-lag curing sleep at the B&B. After breakfast, the taxi arrived and whizzed us back to the airport - and our flight to Toulouse.
The Europ-Car desk provided its usual efficient service, and after one false start at a roundabout, the Dickasons were soon heading into the sun west of the Toulouse ring road, bound for Auch where we turned left on the road to Tillac, a total distance of only 120km but because of peak hour traffic around Toulouse, a journey of almost two hours. The Dickasons were completely charmed, as, using the excellent Richard’s map, we passed under the 13th century archway, drove along the cobblestone street, and arrived outside the front door of the cottage, one of several in the ancient arcaded terrace. In the photograph below, the cottage is the one on the left with the window baskets of trailing geraniums.
Tillac was in the centre of the region of the Three Musketeers, the cottage at the end of the arcade had been used in the filming of “The Musketeer,” and postcards celebrating the connection were on sale in the village.
The Dickasons decided to ‘eat in’ on their first of only two nights, and fortunately, after walking back under the arch, turning right, we found the alimentation, and it was still open.
A can of soup, a baguette, a tomato, some sliced ham, two apple pastries - some beer and wine - milk and cereal for breakfast - all in the basket and, after a chat with the owner and his wife [we explained our short stay and promised to return for a full week in the future] it was back to our lovely cottage.
From the entry hall, the stairs led up to a kitchen/dining area, with a large living room, and at the back on the same floor were a bathroom and two bedrooms. Up another flight of stairs was a large loft with a bed, a sofa bed, two cots and access to the balcony from which we watered the geraniums.
Little unpacking was done because our departure was but 36 hours away - showers, a nightcap, and a quick perusal of the journals and restaurant review book were all the Dickasons could achieve that night, and sleep was sound, until the church bells at 7am.
Watching the small village [approximately 300 inhabitants] come to life, with shutters opening, ladies in aprons sweeping their front door mats, the new friends at the alimentation bringing in newspapers, the butcher cutting meat in his shop, and school children arriving at a bus stop provided a series of varied impressions for Les’ pre-breakfast walk. But over breakfast, guidebooks and maps dominated as decisions were made - what to attempt on our ‘one full day’ in Gascony? The skies were not clear enough to see the Pyrenees to the south, so a drive there was eliminated. Similarly, long drives to Pau, Lourdes or Bilboa [many previous visitors had taken two day trips there] were rejected. Instead a loop drive of the nearby bastide [fortified] towns was planned.
Marciac was a first stop, with coffee in the square providing a fascinating surprise. On a rack there were postcards - many of the Musketeers, but there were others with a very familiar face featured. It was Nanaimo’s Diana Krall. Marciac, despite its tiny size [population around 1000] hosted a jazz festival each year in August, and that year Diana had been the headliner and her photo was on posters and postcards.
The road on this bastide town tour continued on the ridges, and every few kilometres there was another town or village. In between, on the hills and in the valleys, grape vines, Armagnac stalls offering tasting, farms with fields of geese [fois gras a specialty], corn and sunflowers. Next was Bassoues featuring a dungeon from the original 13th century castle, and a covered wooden market.
Lunch supplies were purchased in Bassoues, and eaten in a park in Montesquiou which was a short distance along the ridge. We found our picnic spot by passing through the gate in the bastide wall shown below - also built in the 13th century.
A slow stroll around Tillac in the late afternoon allowed the Dickasons to explore a little more. Just outside the arch there was a building which was being renovated so that a pub/restaurant could open; fields just outside the village had goats, many of them. Apparently the region produced cheese as well as fois gras, wine, armagnac and more.
The restaurant reviews in the cottage journal raved about the value and flavours at Auberge de la Vallee in Mielan, just a ten minute drive down a perfectly straight road south of Tillac with plane trees providing an avenue of dappled light and shade as we headed for our only meal ‘out’ in our limited stay. The pate, duck confit, coq au vin, and earthy Gascony red were just what was needed to convince the Dickasons of the need for a return to Gascony - though the TV in the corner was showing the results of the chemical explosion and fire that morning at a huge fertilizer factory outside Toulouse and the traffic chaos resulting from it. Reports of damage to 27,000 houses and apartments, 30 deaths and injuries to more than 2000 people had the eyes of diners in the Auberge glued to the little television set. We returned to the cottage to do what little housework was needed, and to plan a route steering well clear of Toulouse for the next day.
Heading north on Saturday we stayed on ‘yellow’ roads - well marked, but often with different numbers than what was shown on our maps. Our route passed through the oddly named Condom, which a brochure informed us was home to a museum of famous population-control devices, even though translating condom from English to French gives preservatif not condom.
Several times on this circuitous route used to reach Cahors where we joined the ‘red road’ - a national route - we crossed canals. Curious about the name of one where we stopped for a walk, Les asked a local and discovered it formed part of a
canal system which linked the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, hence the two seas name, Canal des Deux Mers.
From the experience on the previous trip to the French cottages, the Dickasons were careful to find a large supermarket at one of the closest towns to the Lot cottage - filled the trunk of the Fiat with staple provisions for the first few days in Le Teuliere - which the Richard’s information sheets indicated had no shops at all.
Despite the detour to avoid Toulouse, in mid-afternoon, the Fiat pulled into the driveway of La Grange, a free standing stone building with tiled roof made from rounded slabs of schist rock.
The cottage was originally built as a barn in the 18th century, and the ceiling in the large living room was supported by original chestnut beams [each inscribed with roman numerals by the builders]. The ceilings were quite crooked but the floors were even. Bedrooms were downstairs along with the bathroom and laundry. La Grange was on a slope so the main door led from the upstairs living room/kitchen out to the car port and a large patio - with an Aussie barbecue.
Unfortunately, as we climbed the steep narrow road to the cottage on that first Saturday afternoon, the clouds descended, and our arrival at the cottage was in mist and rain. We used the firewood provided and soon had warmth from the stove at the end of the living room [the black stove can just be seen at the right of the photo]. When unpacked, the newly-arrived chefs produced a veal stew dish with some fresh beans and zucchini, with local cheeses and fruit to follow - the Cahors wine was very Aussie-like, and the day of travel was soon forgotten.
This cottage provided the first opportunity to relax and enjoy the life-style we had been expecting. There were relatives with us in the first two cottages; there was a rush of just two nights in Gascony - but here, in isolated La Teuliere, there was no rush. There was quiet, and, we discovered from the reading of the journals from previous renters, an almost unbelievable range of potential sites to visit within easy driving distances.
But, first, a phone call was necessary to reach friends and set up a rendezvous for lunch. On the Explorer sailing around the British Isles, we had several conversations over meals with the ship’s doctor and his wife. Correspondence after the cruise had resulted in their visiting Nanaimo while on a vacation from Lake Tahoe in California. They shipped their tandem bicycle to Vancouver, crossed on the ferry, stayed at Edgewood, then cycled to Comox for the ferry to the Sunshine Coast then cycled down to Whistler before reaching Vancouver and flying back to the US. When in Nanaimo, the discussion over dinner revealed that we four would be in France at the same time, and their rental house was just east of Sarlat, also on the Dordogne River.
They, and their two friends, agreed with the Dickason suggestion that we meet for a picnic lunch at the Jardins d’Eyrignac, ninety minutes from our cottage and not far from Sarlat. When the Dickasons arrived at the Manor House Gardens, there was a heavy dew and cobwebs sparkled in the morning sunshine. The morning was cool, but Pat and Les donned coats and followed the guide through some highlights of the buildings and the exquisite gardens which have been owned by the same family for 22 generations. The manor house was built in the 17th century and the gardens
created in the 18th. Originally in the French style, they were converted, following the fashion of the time, to an English style garden in the 19th century.
Our jaws dropped upon seeing the results of the planning, the colours, the pruning [especially of the Hornbeam hedges], the topiary work and the views from the botanical paths. Photographs hardly do justice to this incredible place - the one included here shows the view from the manor house forecourt down a row of pruned hedges, with the original gardener’s cottage on the left.
As we finished our tour, the Bergers and their friends arrived, and we spread our ‘pot luck’ picnic on one of the tables, opened the wines, and enjoyed some of the culinary delights of the Perigord and the St. Cere areas, and of course the conversations which concentrated on 9/11 and our varied experiences reaching France from North America.
Rocamadour was the destination for another day trip. When the Dickasons arrived at a viewpoint over the Alzou, there was mist which covered the valley below so the impressive steep rock cliffs rose out of the fog. The sun eventually broke through; the car parked, we went to the Middle Ages fort/chateau at the clifftop,[see photo at left] and made the descent on the rough hewn stairs past the stations of the cross to the churches along the route down to the town below. Disappointingly, the shops there were little more than a tourist trap, but as we returned up the steps we saw the scallop shells embedded in the concrete and stone symbolizing the pilgrim route through Rocamadour and on to Santiago in north west Spain.
Not far from the cottage were a series of villages where the buildings were constructed centuries ago from the red sandstone quarried in a small region. These villages, such as Collonges La Rouge, were quite a contrast from the colours of
the stone buildings in most of the Lot and the other valleys we visited.
Memorable picnics at some scenic viewpoints were easy to create. The markets of the towns and villages close to the cottage provided a mouth-watering array of local products including walnuts, terrines, goat cheeses, pastries and ripe fruits from the orchards and vineyards. Beaulieu, on market day had a sign proclaiming it the strawberry capital of France, and when we bit into the plump fruit, there was no hint of white flesh at all. Sinful desserts from the bakeries were especially hard to resist when they had local plums or walnuts as main ingredients.
During travels from cottage to village or sight-seeing, walnuts were often seen on the ground on the roadside, and after dinners, such as lamb chops cooked on that Aussie bbq, we enjoyed cracking walnuts to eat with goat’s cheese.
On one day trip we took a detour to locate the Dordogne cottage owned by the Richards. It was on the outer rim of a village which surrounded a castle on the hilltop. This cottage zoomed to the top of our list for another visit to France.
Perhaps the best day of sightseeing included a visit to Castelnoux where we were fortunate to be in the first guided tour of the day. Officially the guide was restricted to French, but she distributed booklets with English translations of her presentation, and because she wanted to practise her English, she leaned towards Pat from time to time and did an ‘illegal’ translation of what she had been saying. The castle and the tour of the grounds, and the view from its ramparts were outstanding. Picnic lunch in the sunshine was followed by rapidly approaching clouds and Plan B was to go to Gouffre de Padirac to go underground to avoid the imminent rain.
The chasm there leads down to a subterranean water system with more than 40km of galleries. Some of the river is navigable, and tours on boats traversed some 2km with lighting available to view the galleries and their colourful rocky formations. While the rain fell outside above ground, the Dickasons gaped at the brightly colourful “hall of rain” from the punt poled forward by a boatman.
The region of the St. Cere valley was criss-crossed with a network of randonnees or marked trails. Maps gave details of the distinct markings for each trail, and posts showed distances to sites of interest.
When the Dickasons explored just a few of these trails, views could be had of ‘most beautiful villages’ - the French had a rating system and the top 100 villages were featured in tourist literature. Rising into the list was considered an honour, and signs were posted on the roads leading into ones so designated. Losing ranking and dropping out of the top 100 was feared, so villagers worked very hard to retain their rankings. The St. Cere region had a very high proportion of these villages, and from some viewpoints, it was possible to see village after village on the tops of the hills above the valley.
All wonderful experiences had to end, and on Friday night after some house-cleaning and preliminary packing, Pat and Les headed to nearby Gagnac to a highly rated Auberge for a celebratory dinner. The trees outside the restaurant were decorated with white bow ribbons - there had been a wedding that afternoon, and the son of the present owner had married a local lady who also worked in the dining room. We met the happy newly-weds as they came downstairs after changing from their wedding garb and prepared to drive off on their honeymoon. Three generations of the Auberge owning family were present and we toasted them with the last of our Cahors wine.
The drive to Toulouse was quick on the autoroute, though there was one incident before we could return the Fiat. The Dickasons had opted to return the car with a full tank, and as we neared the airport, we turned off into the suburb of Beauzelle to find a gas station. It was a festival day in this little town, and we detoured and detoured to avoid marching bands, floats, road closures and animal parades from the circus before finding a corner with an accessible gas station. With some perspiration running down from Les’ armpits, the car was returned, the walk to the terminal completed, and check-in done with minutes to spare.
London was the flight destination - and our temporary home for a couple of nights before heading to Canada. A B&B hotel near Victoria Station had been selected from the dozens of options for an inexpensive stay, but the choice was in a row of hotels, all of which were touting for business given the sudden drop in tourist
traffic due to 9/11. Our room was ‘bare bones’ - tiny, with frayed towels, ineffective plumbing, a small TV which required a good hit to change channels, but a hearty breakfast. We did not need an alarm clock because each morning, the click-clack of suitcase wheels rolling across the pavement cracks as travellers headed to the station was sufficient to wake us.
We had hoped to see the play “Antarctica” which featured the six members of Scott’s Northern Party [one of whom was Seaman Harry Dickason] and their winter in an ice-cave after being stranded by HMS Discovery which could not reach them due to weather and ice conditions, but, like several other new plays that season, it had closed due to poor ticket sales. Instead, a full day was spent at the Victoria and Albert Museum, which was advertising an exhibition of Chihuly’s glass.
Huge pieces were on display, inside and outside, and museum visitors, including the Dickasons, were most impressed.
Other strolls past monuments and landmarks filled the short time before it was time to take a train to Gatwick for the Air Transat flight. A surprise at check-in - suddenly, without warning, the Gatwick officials decided that no carry-on luggage other than purses and handbags would be allowed on board. In the line to receive boarding passes, each passenger was given a small plastic bag in which were to be placed only those items needed on the plane. Normal carry-on luggage was checked along with regular suitcases - the resultant delay and anger caused by such an arbitrary decision [no signs, no public address announcements, no preparation possible before receipt of the plastic bag] created much tension. However, it was a pre-cursor of security measures yet to be developed and experienced in years to follow.
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