Think you know the south of France? There’s a lot you don’t know
It’s late on a Sunday afternoon when I step out of the train at Cahors, deep in southern France, just in time to collect my hire car before the Avis depot across the street closes. I head out of town along the north bank of the river Lot and into a landscape that sings.
Hemmed in by steep limestone walls, the narrow floor of the valley is heavily planted with beans, wheat, corn and wine grapes, rising from the river in broad horizontal plates toward the dark beech forests on the hilltops. At Vers, the road snakes between houses splashed with geraniums and a stream that tumbles from the hills beside a watermill. Now and again a château rears above the trees. At Bouziès the road crosses the river on a suspension bridge to where three canoeists have just emerged spluttering and hooting from an upturned canoe, and there’s my hotel.
Located just south of the Dordogne region, the Lot is named after the river that slashes it from east to west.Credit: Getty Images
Despite its credentials – good looks, warmth, vivacity, natural charm – the Lot is a haven of Frenchness that remains unmolested by foreigners. Located just south of the Dordogne region, the Lot is named after the river that slashes it from east to west.
The local architecture reflects the simple practicalities of peasant life: stout farmhouses made from solid limestone blocks, squat churches, dovecots and the crumbling remnants of fortifications. Most of the towns along the river date from the Middle Ages, when France and England squabbled over these rough hills, the eastern frontier of the rich coastal province of Aquitaine. For defence, they perched their towns high on the cliffs above the river, huddling the houses close together and crowning the hilltops with forts and churches. This architecture reaches its Instagram moment in the town of Saint-Cirq-Lapopie, teetering high on the cliffs above the river in a fairytale riot of towers and terracotta roofs.
The Lot makes much of its rugged credentials. Many of the villages along the river offer canoe safaris. The hills are laced with hiking trails. Horse riding and scenic cruises are popular. The quiet back roads are tailor-made for cycling, and after breakfast one morning I swing into the saddle and pedal into the hills. Even on a bicycle with 15 gears, roads that meander enticingly turn suddenly mean when they leave the valley, but the high road forces me into a slow appreciation of the scenery. I puff past nodding poppies and farmhouses muzzled with pink roses, and stop frequently to sprawl on stone walls and listen to the birds.
By evening I’m exhausted and famished. Food is one of the compensations of the Lot, and there is nothing restrained about the local gastronomy. Lacking anything more than the narrow green fingers in the depths of the river valleys for their sustenance, the locals turned to the production of gourmet foods.
It was in this part of France that the art of force-feeding geese with grains and alfalfa to make foie gras was born. The oak forests that crown the hills spawn the legendary black truffles of Périgord. Goat’s cheeses are another specialty, yet the classic dish of the region is a simple, robust cassoulet, a single-pot dish of haricot beans, sausage and goose fat, left to simmer over a slow fire while the chef works in the fields. With a glass of local Cahors red, cassoulet is a perfect remedy for even the most pedalled-out legs.
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