Recently, it seems as though I have had an inordinate number of conversations/situations which have caused me to start really thinking about life in the country as opposed to my ‘former’ life which has largely been spent in major cities.
It all came to a head the week before half term when I went to Badminton as usual (it’s ‘cause I’m serious about sport, yeah) and ended up staying late after being roped into a final match. As we were leaving - sweaty, disgusting and defeated - there was a little gathering in the reception of the sports hall as it had been Caroline’s birthday (the youngest looking 30-year old I have ever seen) the week before. Very kindly, and in tune with the French tradition of giving people things when it is YOUR birthday (so weird), she had brought along some juice, wine, tarte aux pommes for a wee post-badders celebration. Not only was it a welcome change to chat to people I usually just flail about the court beside, the evening actually revealed a lot about life in Sarlat, and the great variation in opinion about notre belle ville. For once, the ‘life in Sarlat’ conversation wasn’t actually directed at me, but at one of the other girls (phew). Originally from Pau (about 4 hours drive South of the Dordogne), she is now a EPS teacher (Education Physique et Sportive) at College la Boitie, Sarlat. Forced to complete a year of training here, she revealed that she absolutely detests life here. Although Pau is no metropolis, with 85 000 inhabitants it is still 8 times more populated than Sarlat. She expressed her astonishment at how ‘little there is to do’ here; how she has found that it is near impossible to even go out for a meal between the months of November and February; how even the roads reflect the state of affairs – no sooner do you pass the ‘Bienvenue en Dordogne’ sign that the white lines disappear, the potholes start appearing, and you are more often than not held up by a stray herd of cows on the road.
Soon everyone was involved, and it ended up with the hors-Dordogne ‘foreigners’ (me included) against the born and bred Sarladais. Most amusing was hearing the postcode wars; 64 (Pau/Pyrenees-Atlantiques) vs. 24 (Dordogne) with 33 (Bordeaux) and 65 (Hautes-Pyrenees) thrown in for good measure. It was all in extremely good taste and humour and not a dark word was passed between the two ‘sides’, but it was very interesting to hear everyone’s opinion, and to see the large divergence between ‘town’ and ‘countryside’ attitude. Although we didn’t reach a conclusion as such, it was generally agreed that if you are raised here, you will undoubtedly have relationships, links and in short, a life here, which is absolutely essential if you wish to avoid a seriously depressing séjour. I completely understand what they mean – having had an extremely difficult time au début with living alone, struggling with the language, struggling to find friends slash human contact as the town all but shut down in the winter, and being miles away from friends and family. The girl from Pau (definitely don’t know her name... shame on me) was right in one way, there really is nothing to do here in divertissiments, but that reflects one (superficial) level of life. Yes there may be a dearth of restaurants, bars, nightclubs, concerts... but there is certainly no shortage of a huge community feeling, relations and (excuse the cliché) general goodwill, humour, and helpfulness between the Sarladais. And here, as in life anywhere, it is these things that actually matter.
Escaping into the night with my head swimming with thoughts of friends, family, home, priorities, town, and countryside, the subsequent journey home seems remarkably fitting. The centre is a good 15 minutes drive from La Croix d’Allon, yet the roads were so deserted that I didn’t once have to turn my full beam off having encountered no other cars. Arriving home, I switched the engine off and got out the car to complete silence and a bath of inky blackness around me. This is a kind of pitch-black darkness that I don’t think I have ever experienced before; far from the pseudo-dark orange glow that I am so used to in Edinburgh or Manchester. Looking up, the sky was plastered with thousands of stars, each startlingly bright against the jet-black sky. I must admit, I had to stop for a moment to revel in the darkness, silence and the seeming remote isolation of the place. Sure Sarlat might not have a Subway on every corner, nor are Plump DJ’s scheduling a quick visit in their next tour, but occasionally, it does manage to arouse genuine feelings of appreciation and awe... definitely not a bad thing.
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