Though the administrative capital of the Dordogne lies in one of the French regions best known to British holidaymakers, it manages to remain relatively innocent of tourism. It is, after all, at the heart of a proudly gastronomic region. In Place du Coderc, the market hall is open every morning except Monday.
Twice a week, bright stalls cram the square outside. This is Occitan, ancient language of the Midi, the Pyrenees and parts of north-west Italy. Spoken particularly by older country people, who use it against the vergonha shame that French centralisation traditionally inflicted on native speakers, this language is no middle-class fetish either.
In Occitan a stroll, una passejada , is close to the Italian passeggiata , and a reminder of what a public business it is to amble these streets. The object is see and be seen: passersby call morning greetings. Today, the narrow medieval lanes of its town centre are infilled with small-scale 18th- and 19th-century shops, all faced in gleaming limestone. In reality, this apparent somnolence bespeaks a pragmatism about quality of life, which here is shared by everyone, from postal workers to railway labourers, council office clerks to showroom assistants.
And with good reason: they share an architect, Paul Abadie. Towering above the slow-moving river, the cathedral is also what fills the rearview mirror when you set out into the deep countryside which starts at the edge of the city.
The result is an unusual, old-fashioned urban-rural community and an interdependent sufficiency from which we might learn much as we face the stresses the climate crisis will put on food security and global supply chains. Until Brexit I lived here myself, in a hamlet some 20 miles west of the city. In fact, though, greenery and pale limestone characterised our district too. This is life off the beaten track — not that it lacks either charm or awareness of that charm.
