For a place that occupies so little space in the pages of Baedeker, Périgueux is unique. Numerous remains from the different epochs of history may be found. The Roman period, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and modern times have all left their imprint. There is the massive tower of Vesône, once part of a Gallo-Roman temple. The Château Barrière has one curious feature: a railroad runs through the deep moat of feudal times. We shall need all our superlatives to describe the Jardin des Arènes. Where else will you find a public garden laid out on the site of an ancient Roman amphitheater, keeping the same size, the same circular form, and even preserving some of the original arches to admit the modern public? A French journalist once wrote that "even without its bright sunlight, even without imagination, Périgueux remains one of the quaintest towns in the world and one of those places which the French people would visit in crowds if it were situated in another country." Viewed from a distance, the cathedral of St. Front makes a striking appearance; the five huge domes might have been transplanted from St. Sophia of Constantinople.
[CHAPTER XII]
PÉRIGUEUX TO TOURS
From Périgueux we followed the Isle for some distance before turning to wind over the hills. It was a region of chestnut trees, the marronniers for which the province is so celebrated. For miles the trees formed a stately hedge along both sides of the highway, and groves of them were in the near distance, their spreading branches reminding us of English oaks.
The ascent continued to Thivièrs, a tiny village of the Dordogne. One of the vieux citoyens pointed out the Hôtel de France as the best place to lunch. "On mange très bien lábas," he said. The lunch was a chef d'œuvre. We had never tasted such poulet au casserole or such cotelettes de mouton grillées. The lievre had a delicious suc de viande which went well with the pommes frités. There was vin à discrétion, and, besides, different kinds of fromage and the French melons, golden and juicy and always the best part of the repast.
Nothing is more delightfully characteristic of these small towns like Thivièrs than the delicacies peculiar to them. These little communities, so different from each other in local customs and mannerisms, are just as unique and original in their cooking. It was always interesting, when we had lunch or dinner in a new place, to scan the ménu for some new dish that we had never tasted. Whenever the garcon or maître de l'hôtel pointed to an item on the ménu and said, "C'est une specialitè de la maison," then we knew that something good was coming. One never tires of these French delicacies. Our regret at leaving them behind was usually tempered by the consolation that something equally new and delicious was awaiting us in the next place en route. Each one of the following names recalls experiences that we shall not soon forget. These are simply samples. The list would be too long if we named them all; the truites of Chambéry; the mushroom patties of Pierrelatte; the jambon of Bayonne; the truffes of Périgueux; the rillettes and vins of Tours; the miel du Gatinais of Orléans; the fried sole of Chartres and Dieppe. In Normandy, sweet cider was often placed on the table instead of the mild vin du pays. The cheese, patisserie, and fruits were good everywhere.
Another item, which we cannot overlook, never appeared on the ménu and yet always flavored the whole repast. That was the geniality, the provincial hospitality, which greeted us in every little inn and hotel. The welcome was just as hearty as the farewell. If there was some one dish that we especially liked, the patronne was never satisfied till she was sure that we had been bountifully served. After so many experiences like these, it is easy to understand why the foreign motorist feels so much at home in France.
It was a splendid run to Limoges. The long grades were scarcely noticeable, the easy curves rarely making it necessary to check our speed. Donkey carts were fashionable, and sabots, as usual, in style. There was always a shining river or green valley in sight. Haute-Vienne, arrayed in flags and evergreens, awaited the coming of the president. Here, as all along the route, we saw the same joyful picture of festal preparations. The bridge over the river Vienne was like a green arbor.