Travel Program

Travel Log

Discovering the Dordogne:
Rediscovering Mount Holyoke

by Holly Tank ’70

It’s been 30 plus years since I graduated from Mount Holyoke and about 10 since I began saving Alumnae Association travel brochures. They come throughout the year with enticing color photos. Over time, I accumulated a lovely box of dreams. But they were dreams deferred by the demands of a flourishing career and the challenge of balancing work and play.

I kept on saving and hoped some day a trip would fit in. In 2003 it did! After a particularly full year for both Ed and me, the idea of planning a vacation, usually fun, was just too much. I wanted someone else to take care of everything and I wanted to keep unpacking to a minimum.

And so—I emailed Nancy Lech, director of travel programs for the Alumnae Association. I remember the subject line: “Is it too late for the Dordogne?” I was resigned to a no, but there was still room and we were soon hearing from the travel company about airline dates and times.

We began to rethink our decision as we read about spiking temperatures in France (it was 104 degrees on the day we finally arrived), but the trip filled another “need.” We had often talked of retiring in Europe, or at least spending some months of each year there. This was a time to find out whether a week in a small town would be delightfully relaxing or whether we’d eventually be bored. Just in case, we decided to balance our time in the country with a few days of museums and long walks in Paris. What I didn’t realize is how the trip would reconnect me with Mount Holyoke.

The Trip

Village Life in the Dordogne (August 14-22) was part of a series of moderately-priced cultural experiences (no special cruises with upper deck cabins), in this case a week in a small town in France’s Périgord Noir region. Why “Noir”? The name comes from the dark foliage of the area’s many pine forests, chestnut coppices, walnut orchards, and tobacco fields. The area is also known for its prehistoric caves, meandering rivers, and medieval pilgrimage sites. A list of suggested reading materials appeared with our tickets, works on Southwest France, Paleolithic art, the Middle Ages, and regional food and wine. For example, we were reminded that this was the land of Eleanor (Aliénor) of Aquitaine (c. 1122-1204), an exceptional (do I hear “uncommon”) woman, who was to become Queen of France and then of England. At age 15 (when I was filling out college applications), she was married to Louis VII. Fourteen years later, after that marriage was annulled, she married Henry Plantagenet, the future Henry II. We also learned that there are three other Périgords: Blanc, so named for its prevalent white limestone; Vert, a land of fertile valleys and chestnut trees; and Pourpre (purple), for the vineyards (especially red grapes) and orchards around Bordeaux.

The Group

There were 28 of us—17 alumnae, and an assortment of husbands, relatives, and friends. From ten states and the District of Columbia, we were a congenial band of fairly like-minded adventurers and there were no travel companions from Hell. We ranged from the Class of 1937 to the Class of 1974, with representatives from every decade in between. In fact, with a shared MHC past, from French professors to milk and crackers, it was like a mini-reunion. As always, it was interesting to see where our Mount Holyoke educations and fate had taken us. The group was composed of many educators: college professors, deans, and trustees. The health field was also well represented with two medical doctors, a nurse-midwife, and an assisted living administrator. In addition, there was a wedding planner, a computer programmer, and grant makers for the arts and humanities.

Almost everyone had a French connection. Two sisters had been raised by a French mother and there were many French speakers, albeit mighty rusty from lack of practice. Some of the French majors had experience as exchange students, one even with a family in the Dordogne. Others had French friends or had lived in France at different times, as I had, and one had owned a French restaurant.

Getting There

A base group of 15 people were flying out of New York City. However, 13 of us had elected to meet in either Paris (9) or Bordeaux (4). Ed and I were part of the Paris contingent. Standing in line at De Gaulle airport, we heard our names called over the Air France loudspeaker. Another alumna was paging the first name she saw on the passenger list because she had heard about the electrical blackout in New York the night before and realized that those coming out of Kennedy would be delayed. All of a sudden the Paris heat seemed irrelevant and I was so grateful we weren’t the ones spending the night on a cold airport floor with thousands of others similarly stranded without much water or food. What a way to start a trip!

The 9 of us continued to Bordeaux (on the original schedule) where we were met by the other fortunate 4 and by the Tour Director, who showed us to the motorcoach that took us three hours inland to Sarlat-la-Canéda, our home base for the next week. The weather was comfortable by this time, but the countryside was parched. Many leaves had turned prematurely yellow and brown, making it seem more like a warm October than August. That evening we were welcomed by the hotel’s proprietor and chef, who has long championed the architectural preservation of Sarlat. Still active on the town council, he once served as Mayor. We discovered he had honed some of his restaurant skills in the U.S., but 20 years ago decided to take a chance on this hotel. A converted 19th century townhouse with 39 guestrooms, it sits across from a public park, just outside the ancient walls of Sarlat’s medieval quarter and about a five-minute walk to the center of town.

More a town than a village, Sarlat is the capital of Périgord Noir and quite busy in the summer. It is noted for the honey-colored stone and grace of its Gothic and Renaissance buildings, and on a wooded hillside above the main square are pleasant public gardens. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, merchants flock to town to set up their wares in every nook and cranny of the shaded alleys and courtyards near the cathedral. Even when they leave there is still plenty to buy. Every third or fourth shop seems to specialize in foie gras, with truffles and walnuts a close second. There is even a monument to geese—three of them in shiny bronze standing in a market square.

On the second day, we enjoyed a walking tour of medieval Sarlat with a superb guide, who was to join us on all major excursions. Extremely well versed in the history and culture of the area, she was fluent in English, French, and German, with an engaging delivery style and approachable personality. We all appreciated her transitions, contrasts, comparisons, and reading suggestions. She was fun.

Following the walk, our “advance” group of 13 met for lunch in the hotel’s airy dining room. Midway through the salad course, we watched through open windows as The Blackout Group poured off the bus onto the cool tiles of the hotel’s lobby—bedraggled but surprisingly chipper. We listened to their tale and marveled at their stamina and lack of complaint. (See “Caught at Kennedy” by Marianna McNees Heaney ’37 below)

The ordeal was traumatic, no doubt about it, with the inevitable delayed luggage. The silver lining was that we got the chance to “bond” in two small groups before we convened en masse. It’s part of the fascinating psycho-sociology of groups. More than once along the way, I was reminded of Laurence Wylie’s classic text, Village in the Vaucluse, assigned reading in my freshman anthropology class. I’ve forgotten the professor but the book remains in my library and mind. Unfortunately, for one couple, their bags and cameras would not turn up until we were headed back to the States. After two days they were dispatched to the village market and doctor to get clothes and medical supplies. It seemed an especially rigorous test of the first of Nancy Lech’s excellent Ten Commandments for All Tourists: “THOU SHALT NOT expect to find things exactly as they are at home… for thou hast left home to find things different.”

The Places

On the third day we set off (finally, as a full group) for two caves to the northwest of Sarlat. Rouffignac was the first. Also known as The Cave of the Hundred Mammoths, there are five miles of caverns to explore by electric train. Next came Lascaux. Discovered in 1940 by two young boys at play, the caves at Lascaux, sometimes referred to as “The Sistine Chapel of Pre History,” are decorated with lively representations of bulls, deer and horses created nearly 18,000 years ago. The original grottos have been closed to the public to prevent deterioration of the original paintings, but painstakingly exact replicas, using the same methods, are on display at the neighboring site called Lascaux II. There are many theories, but no one knows for sure why people painted in the caves. What struck me most is how faint and faded they are, not at all the clear, bright reproductions in books or on postcards. You could barely see the yellows, reds, and blacks. I found it fascinating, too, that the animals at Rouffignac are monochromatic line drawings, far less intricate or “sophisticated” than those at Lascaux. Since the people at Rouffignac lived after those at Lascaux, apparently this was an aesthetic choice.

On the bus ride back to the hotel, we learned that the suffix “ac” on so many town names of the region comes from the Latin acer, originally meaning a field, later more generally a place. Hence, e.g., Rouffignac, Beynac, Salignac, La Roque-Gageac, Siorac, Cazenac, and yes, Bergerac (of Cyrano fame). Another Latin holdover is the Occitan language (also called Provencal or Languedoc). Transmitted first by Roman soldiers and traders, then by troubadors, the language has long been in decline but is now being taught in the schools.

On day # 4, we headed for Rocamadour, leaving Aquitaine proper for the Midi-Pyrenees region. A celebrated pilgrimage site, Rocamadour is on the route to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. It is built against a cliff and appears as a cascade of roofs and rocks. From the 12th century onward, pilgrims would crawl on their knees to reach an ascending series of chapels. Of particular significance were the shrines to the Black Virgin and to St. Amadour. Now there is also a Museum of Sacred Art, a very modern structure peeking out of ancient rock, with state of the art labeling and wall text. Far above the shrine to St. Amadour is a clifftop chateau that holds the legendary sword of Roland. (Remember plowing through Le Chanson de Roland in a Mount Holyoke French lit class?)

A few days later, we visited one more cave, near the little village of Les Eyzies-de-Tayac. Located between a limestone cliff and the Vézère River, Les Eyzies is where Cro-Magnon man was discovered in 1868. Rising above Les Eyzies is the Font de Gaumme, discovered 33 years later, in 1901. Its cave drawings suggest that the artists understood something about contrast and perspective, using the contours of the cave walls as they formed their images, i.e., the rounded hump of a bison, the eye and mouth of a charging reindeer, all shaped by the curves of the cave wall. Just a few yards down the road is the National Museum of Prehistory. Here we viewed a wide array of hand axes and the skulls of a Neanderthal child, a wooly rhinoceros, and a cave bear. There were also numerous portable art objects and body ornaments, traces of what seems to have been a booming bone and antler industry.

By now, the entire group had drawn together. This was reinforced a few days later in St Amand de Coly, an outsized Abbey Church, built like a fortress, by 12th and 13th century Augustinian monks. Colluding with one of our party, a former member of the Mount Holyoke a capella group known as the V-8’s, the tour guide had arranged for something special. The result: a gorgeous voice, a beautifully performed Gregorian chant, and spectacular church acoustics. The singer then taught everyone another chant that the group sang in two parts. Other tourists stopped to watch, to listen, and to smile. A lot of people were touched. It was a magical experience.

On our final full day, we headed for Beynac Castle, another cliff top wonder above a small village on the Dordogne River. According to a treaty signed in 1259, the river traced a natural border between French lands and the duchy of Guyenne, property of the King of England. Totally protected by the sheer drop on the side facing the river, the castle has an all-encompassing view of navigation on the river and was an important stronghold throughout The Hundred Years War (1337-1453). Now in private hands, the castle and grounds have been used for scenes in several feature films, e.g., two on Joan of Arc, including The Messenger and the 1978 version of Les Miserables. For us, the ramparts served as the site for another kind of media event—a group photo.

After cruising the river on a traditional 19th century barge (or gabare) we stopped for lunch, at a spot lined with graceful swaying willow trees. In a scene reminiscent of Renoir’s The Boating Party, we were served simple but delicious fare, family-style at long tables.

On the bus back to Sarlat, the guide and several alumnae recommended Michael Crichton’s novel Timeline (now also a movie), in which a group of young scientists travel back to 14th century France. As Crichton himself writes, “I chose the region because the Dordogne River was the frontier, where fighting was intense and continuous.” With all the cliffs and caves, it was also easy to understand why this area was attractive to Resistance fighters during World War II.

There was, of course, much more to the trip. Among other highlights, were: the gardens at Manoir d’Eyrignac; the hilltop town of Domme with its spectacular views of river and valley below; a distillery of fruit liqueurs; a talk on aging, or rather how to cope with it, by one of the medical alumnae; and a performance of traditional dance and song by a group that performs in 19th century period costume.

Final Thoughts

There was also time to pursue individual interests. For example, Ed and I slipped away one evening to visit a friend who recently purchased a 300-year old farm complex, with swimming pool, only 15 minutes from Sarlat. She has restored the main house and rents it to Americans seeking escape. There are 18 acres of meadows, walnut groves, meadows, and sweet smelling honeysuckle. Conveniently, there was a Century 21 real estate office not far from our hotel. We stocked up on their handouts—to read about the various local houses for sale and rent.

So—I not only experienced a part of France, I reconnected with Mount Holyoke. The trip took me gently back to scenes of campus, dorms, friends, classrooms, and picking asparagus for local farmers. I was even able to learn the whereabouts of a long lost campus friend. I emailed her on Mountain Day, to our shared delight.

Would we sign up for another MHC tour? Mais, bien sur. You bet. But no power outages or heat waves please.

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Caught at Kennedy

By Marianna McNees Heaney ’37

Fifteen of us, traveling with Nancy Lech to France for a week in the Dordogne area, gathered at John F. Kennedy airport the afternoon of August 14 to get acquainted with each other, and wait out the three hour stretch till Air France was scheduled to take off around 7 p.m. The spacious ticket area was cool and quiet, and we stood second in line to check our bags through to Bordeaux and go get a drink.

A blue uniformed attendant appeared and lifted her voice: “The computers are down” she said, “There will be some delay.” A general sigh went up and a few people decided to rest on their suitcases. It marked the beginning of five or six hours staying in place in expectation that something good would surely turn up. Phone calls to hotels for possible reservations yielded nothing and it seemed wiser to stay put. The blue uniform reappeared to announce that power was out throughout New York City and later, that the same was true up and down the East Coast.

As the area darkened and we began to feel lack of air conditioning, a generator started up and some lights went on as well as a roaring fan to stir the hot air. Our intrepid leaders, Nancy and Lydia from Gohagan and Company who arranged the trip, went to work for us. With no chairs or benches anywhere, they miraculously turned up with several wheel chairs in which a few of us could acquire several hours’ sleep. About 2 a.m. Lydia and an accomplice slipped out and found a 24-hour food supply store where, aided by flashlights, they picked up loaves of that cotton-soft Bond bread that your mother told you never to eat. With it they bought jars of peanut butter and jelly, small cans of tuna fish, boxes of cereal and milk and soft drinks. Nothing ever tasted so good. To give credit to Air France, distributors started to appear with bottles of water and Pepperidge Farms cookies.

Most of the hundreds in Terminal One slept on the marble floor, with heads on rolled up jackets. More adventurous ones stretched on the baggage belts and the slanted weighing platforms. A few climbed the long stalled escalators and lay down on the cafeteria tables upstairs. When you couldn’t sleep you slipped outside into a slight breeze and counted the stars plainly visible over the vanished New York skyline. One of our husbands, unaware that his wallet had slipped out onto the floor as he slept, found it intact in the morning. You might wonder how the restrooms fared. Somehow cleaning women with carts and fresh supplies of paper made the rounds steadily. If you followed them in you had nothing to worry about. Dawn came and we washed our faces and began to look hopeful again. Our leaders went to work, and by midmorning we found ourselves again in a ticket line, wheel chairs and all to impress the agents, and the possibility of a flight out at noontime. This time we cleared, and laden with baggage we couldn’t check through, we descended endless steps out across a field, up endless steps (a little ninety pound Japanese girl helpfully lifted my bag at this point) and into the arms of an Air France 747.

More to come. With French time six hours ahead of ours, our arrival at Paris de Gaulle airport came after midnight. We bussed to an airport hotel for all of two hours’ sleep, or shower and tooth brushing, and a dawn flight to Bordeaux where we were only a three hour bus ride away from our destination Sarlat. That was small potatoes after Kennedy.

I must report the Mount Holyoke spirit prevailed throughout, and we had a wonderful trip.