Pilgrimages are not uncommon in the Dordogne. The region is on a main Camino de Santiago route and has boasted its own essential holy stop-off for 1, years, Rocamadour.
My quest was of a more earthly nature β to discover if French food really is a shadow of its former self. Surely the Dordogne, bastion of regional tradition, built on foundations of foie gras, confit and every speciality you can squeeze out of a walnut, would uphold the reputation of La Belle France even if for a substantial period of its history it was ruled by England?
It certainly has sublime terroir on its side, yet as it turned out the most interesting meal of the trip was served in a dull street in Brive-la-Gaillarde β what counts as a big city in this agricultural region, its airpor t the gateway to places more immediately touristique. We flew in from Stansted with Ryanair.
Facing it is our introduction to the local cuisine, a bistro called Le Petit Moulin. Even the wine we taste is from his own family vineyard β an organic Cahors. Of course, for starters I had to order a tranche of the family foie gras and it was sensationally creamy. Across the cobbled square sits the turreted Maison Fabri, where in Henry Curtmantle, estranged elder son of Henry II, perished of a fever, thus speeding Richard The Lionheart to the throne of England and the rest is history, as they say.
Hard to credit that medieval pilgrims used to mount it on their hands and knees. The big draw is the miracle-working, walnut-sculpted Madonna in the Chapelle Notre Dame. Tourist emporia tat aside, the whole Rocamadour experience is spectacular, if a mite spurious.
