Letters from France: Dying Light, Autumn in the Dordogne

Honey light coats the Dordogne landscape in the autumn. Rolling up and down country lanes basking in the late glow suits me in my vintage years. I prefer the mature sensuality of October( like the Armagnac I wrote about last year) to the brash physicality of August). After a week of writing in the little garret and looking out the window, I needed to soak in the last, long rays of sunshine. With Friday expiring, I went to see what I might see.

Past buxom vineyards, pine forests inhabited by wild boar, tall, dark, tobacco barns, and corn stalks drying in the fields, there are also groves of trees planted in straight lines. I wonder why, other than the esthetics of their uniform crisp bark, and long, horizontal shadows. I muse that with age, the shadows of our experience become more evident; our character and the effect we have had on others around us is undeniable.

Up hill is Chateau de Biron, one of the four noble houses of Perigord. This is the old name of the area, and the one most often associated with truffles and gastronomy. From the thirteenth century on, the lords of Biron spent their money to keep up appearances, to be “in” with the crown, sometimes successfully, and at others, not too much, including bankruptcy and beheading. Too late to walk around inside, but inspiration for the day’s thoughts about age, spirit, and death was abundant.

Reaching for life and light, the last roses of summer. Do it ‘til the lights go out.

Shadow of the crucifix on the stone wall, dead ivy vines.Wallace Stevens came to mind, "I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after."

Dead bird on window sill. When they leave without us, they define their edges, the parts that are them, not us.

The golden, slanted light isn’t going to last much longer, I thought. So, the next day I went for a ride on the bike path between Sarlat and Roufillac. If you’re looking for contentment, you’ll find it here, crunching over fallen chestnuts, through dappled arcades of trees.

Afterwards, the famed Sarlat market beckoned. More about this well-preserved town another time, but there is nothing like a blocks-long market of wares, faces, and hustle to keep you paying attention to the present moment. You may not use the “best nutcracker in the world” when you get home, but you’ll always rememberi how much fun you had buying it.

I drove home afterwards, the dumbdumb TomTom taking me the longest route, as usual. Lucky thing, because in front of me, a yellow hot air balloon took to the air in front of Castelnaud la Chapelle, the 13th century military fortress that faces Beynac, its onetime enemy, along the Dordogne River. I smiled and thought to myself, “ I'm going to die lightly, when it’s time.” Meanwhile, I hope you're rolling through the honey light yourself.