But for tourists, and all other purposes, it’s a canoe, a skiff, or nothing. Well, almost – on our 80km paddle we saw just one rubber boat and two punts with super-silent motors: locals running between rapids and breaking the rules. But the Dordogne has channels and midstream islands and flat wide sections that seem to absorb all these fellow boaters there was never a feeling of it being overcrowded.Īnd no motor boats. Sometimes the river was empty, at other times a small flotilla of 10 canoes would go by. We stopped beneath the cliffs for lunch, on a little micro beach and large rock, like something out of Swallows and Amazons. Where it isn’t wooded, the Dordogne has pockmarked limestone cliffs, brilliantly white in the sunshine, growing upwards from their perfect reflection in the water. Sarlat’s central square © Getty Imagesįrom now on the weather was hot – perfect for river travel when there is shade on both banks. The children went first, tipping out of sight with howls of glee. It was a steep, narrow, concrete slide, something like a log flume at a theme park, that allowed passage from a higher section of the river to a lower one. Now there seemed to be fewer – or so it appeared, out on the river.Īfter a day spent walking in the hills, we returned to our canoes and the prospect of la chute. Then, the Dordogne region had more English tourists than any other French department. Mostly, though, I recalled my father’s disdain for other anglais. I had vague memories of the heat, the shimmering green water, the incredible noise of cicadas. I’d once caught a fish in the Dordogne as a child. Our hotel, the Hostellerie Fénelon, offered a swimming pool and good food, served on a terrace looking back over the river. It was home to a museum of aromas, sadly shut to us and our noses when we tried to visit, though we had fun imagining what smells a French museum would see fit to preserve. That afternoon, we padlocked our canoes to a tree bearing Headwater’s sign and tramped along the wooded riverbank to our first overnight stop, Carennac, an almost too-pretty village. By now the intermittent rain had stopped and the sun was showing through the trees. The kids were more keen on tombstoning off a low cliff. “But we have to avoid the second weir at all costs,” I warned at lunch, with a mouthful of baguette, anxious to maintain a state of fear and awe. But, unlike the gut-wrenching, ice-cold, rapids of the frozen Canadian north, these were friendly, fun, rapids – white water to be sure but so shallow that if the boat tipped you’d graze your knees standing up rather than be swimming for your life. About five minutes later, already around the next bend, my son asked, “Where’s that weir then?”īefore I could answer we were into the first of many rapids. There was a slight bump as we crossed an almost invisible undulation, a mere ripple in the glassy river. The unmistakable roar of white water betrayed its approach. Our canoes were open, Canadian style and robust, I was glad to see, because almost at once we were upon the first weir. The tour company, Headwater, would carry our bags by van to each hotel while we paddled. We had allowed eight days – four of paddling, with a day off for walking, biking and exploring after each. Instead, we would tackle an 80km midsection, between Thezel and the celebrated tourist hotspot of Sarlat. You could canoe it from the source but a series of dams and long lakes make it harder and you’d need your own boat. It rises on the slopes of the Puy de Sancy, a mountain in the Massif Central, then crosses France to join the Garonne, close to Bordeaux, before entering the Atlantic. The Dordogne has to be the quintessential French river – the Loire is wilder, the Tarn has more gorges, the Seine is more sedate but none has the character, grace and interest of this mid-country river. At about 500km, it is longer and wider than the Thames, is more scenic, has shallows and rapids, and a ban on motor boats. My wife, kids and I were going to tackle the Dordogne. There was no one else on the river.Īfter 10 years of hearing about a 2,000-mile journey I made across Canada in a birchbark canoe, my family had agreed to come on another great voyage with me. I decided to take a rest and just drift for a while. Meanwhile the children, 12 and 14, were having fun zigzagging and lagging behind on the empty river, great willow trees bending down to touch the surface, as we slid by on the current. Simply sign up to the Life & Arts myFT Digest - delivered directly to your inbox.Īfter a briefing on paddling strokes, we set off with our life jackets and helmets (only my daughter elected to wear hers) from Thezel in light, very English, drizzle.Īs I was supposed to be an expert already, I tried a few “J strokes”, a rather fancy way of paddling that I recalled had never felt entirely natural.
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