For anyone who doesn't know the story, in 1940 four boys were walking in the woods and their dog fell down a hole. When they went in to save him, they found a cave -- not unusual, since there are over 130 Paleolothic caves in this region. But when they came back to explore, with lights, they found a series of chambers filled with paintings. They were quickly opened to the public and became very popular, so popular that the effects from people's breathing and warming up the caves began to cause calcification and ruin the paintings, so they were closed, and a replica made.
That's what we went to see, on a drippy wet day last week, Lascaux II in nearby Montignac. It's true that you miss being able to say to yourself, "A caveman actually painted that!" but it's impressive all the same. It's dark in there. The paintings loom up on the walls of the cave and it's easy to imagine the nomads stuck in there on a cold day with nothing to do but paint. The fact that the artists used perspective, which disappeared until practically the Renaissance, is astonishing. The animals have a sense of movement -- they aren't simply stick figures, not at all. The artists integrated the cracks and bulges of the wall into the figures, and it's a bit like being in the woods surrounded by beasts, romping and dashing all around you.
After culture comes lunch, which we found in Sarlat, along with the house of Montaigne's best friend:
Lunch was as good as ever. The potage was very plain, just chicken broth with big chunks of carrot, potato, and parsnip. But the simplicity is a virtue. Nothing canned, no ingredients except....food. Ahh. The confit de canard that followed was falling off the bone and full of flavor as well, and I had too much food to poach from the Périgourdine platters that Hoppy and Dan ordered, or the stuffed cabbage Jean had. Everyone had the satisfied smiles that come from a terrific lunch in a cozy dry place after walking in the rain. And the crème caramel is worth another trip to Sarlat, even if the children whine the entire way and fight like cats.
On the way home we passed the chateau in Beynac, and considered being a soldier, standing on the plain, in the valley, and looking up at what you were going to attack. Eventually we'll drive up to the chateau and imagine looking down from the ramparts at the approaching army. This region has a long, bloody history, but when you eat confit de canard and crème caramel at least you have some idea of what they were fighting over.
