Sarlat-la-Canéda
is a medieval town that developed around a large Benedictine abbey. A wealthy
trade centre during the Renaissance, it was later forgotten by history thus
remaining essentially unchanged. It is today the French town that boasts the
largest concentration of historical buildings by the square meter.
The
town’s central streets are car-free, the scars of modern life are accurately
hidden, and night comes with the glow of gas-lit lanterns. As in medieval
times, Sarlat comes alive with sprawling weekly markets and imaginative street
entertainments – jugglers, magic acts, organ grinders and so on.
People
tend to be sensitive, often dogmatic, about boundaries - in particular those
not set in stone. Historical Périgord – coinciding with the modern province of
Dordogne – is loosely divided into four color-coded parts: green for its
bucolic scenery in the north; white for its chalky hillsides in the center;
purple for its vineyards in the south-west; and black for the thickness of its
forests in the south-east.
When
you look at a map the colors blend at their margins, making it hard at times to
determine where to locate a particular village. And yet realtors are very
trenchant in that regard. There is only one Périgord they speak of – black! –
and the Sarlat area is its epicenter, home to the most spectacular course of
the Dordogne River, to the most impressive castles, to the most beautiful
villages, and the most sensational food.
I
realize that we skirted Sarlat during our earlier Périgord years – especially
in summer – because of its tourist appeal. La Placette Haute, our first project
in France, was found in frenzy for authenticity and seclusion, set in the exact
middle of thirteen hectares of forest. It was therefore odd to consider buying
in Sarlat, even if we were now aiming at something a bit less ‘undiscovered’.
Yet when a hotel particulier of the 17th century, tucked in one of the narrow
streets of the prized protected enclave, came on the market we could not help
reviewing our criteria.
Dan
saw the building first although he could not visit entirely because the agent
did not have all the keys. ‘There is no garden,’ he told me on the phone. ‘But
it has a delightful balcony large enough for a table for four.’ We visited
together on Easter Monday when the town was showing off in spring colors and
swarming with the first flow of the season. As we studied the composite façade –
slightly curving along the street and defensively compact at its end – and
roamed around the vacant rooms inside I was taking photos. A good sign compared
with previous house visits when we would exchange gloomy looks behind the agent’s
back.
The
honey color of the stones cut from the local quarries is the house’s warmest
welcome. The irregular pattern of its tall paned windows opens with an
impressionist effect of the wavy glass onto the stony lauze roofs and the spire of the cathedral. No garden, but the
balcony solidly resting on medieval corbels and fenced with a wrought iron
railing of naïvely entwined hearts is where the house takes a breath of fresh
air and mixes with the smells of nearby bakeries and the cries of swallows.