Day 4 - Wednesday

Yet another beautiful day, though somewhat colder. We were also pleased to see that our hotel in Libourne served something other than bread. We dived into the cereal and fruit. 

The horses were waiting for us in a field down a hill from the Belles-Graves winery.

Sadly, Hermann and Dorothee had decided they couldn’t continue riding. Dorothee was feeling exhausted and was bruised where she had fallen, while Hermann’s back was acting up in a way he feared was lumbago; very painful. 

This led to some very interesting horse-logistics issues, as there was no way we could pony two horses. We finally agreed that Dorothee would ride until lunch, at which time Charlene (who we learned later was 15) could come help again after school let out for the Wednesday half-day. So we set up a plan with me as leader, Pierre ponying the two horses and Sue behind them doing the task that Charlene had done the day before: whacking the ponied horse with a stick when he lagged. It was very effective. Dorothee came last.

After a brief stop at the Belles-Graves sales office, where Hermann and I both bought some of that terrific Pomerol, we set off, and immediately discovered the turns life can take. We had just gone through some fields into a forest when we saw a small camping caravan with a couple of vehicles and a small tent that happened to be set up partly in our path. Standing nearby, smoking a cigarette, was a rather surly-looking young man. He approached and said, not, “Give me all your money,” but, “Would you like me to lead your horses through? I know horses really well.” Said Pierre: “Would you like to ride one? We have a spare.” The guy looked at Pierre like he was crazy and Pierre said, “I mean it. I’ll drive you back at noon.” “You don’t have to ask me twice,” said the fellow, who proceeded to put out his cigarette, put on a jacket and get right on the spare horse. 

It turned out that Jeremy, as was his name, had come close to getting an equitation degree and had always loved horses, but now was moving from place to place looking for grape-picking work, which hadn’t come together that day. Off we went, and he turned out to be a lovely rider.

Because I was just in front I could listen to him and Pierre chat as we walked through the gold-lit vineyards. This was one of the busiest days we had seen yet: machines harvesting and then spitting the grapes out into bigger trucks that drove them back to the vineyards, and people with big metal containers on their back walking through the rows picking by hand. You will see very few photos of those things because, as anyone who rides knows, taking a photo of a big loud machine on a moving horse is not all that easy.

We were in the Saint-Emilion region by now. As with Pomerol, the soil varied, becoming more clay-ey and less gravelly as we went along. Then we were walking between two high stone walls leading to the city ahead, a tall spire jutting up from the center and the last remaining wall of a destroyed abbey to the left. Click here to see a video. That grunt at the end must be me stopping at the stop sign.

We rode around the outskirts of Saint-Emilion – it’s mostly a walking city, with parking lots outside, a little precious. Only 150 people live there now, we learned. 

Just on the other side we turned into a grassy courtyard and parked for lunch. (Pierre drove Jeremy home first). Shrimp and pasta salad, ham, cheese, Sarah outdid herself again. Then we walked into town and Pierre, who seems to know a lot about the local areas we go through, showed us the cardinal’s palace and the church, which was beautiful – Romanesque in the old section, where the chairs were, and Gothic in the central axis. 

We then took a guided tour in English of the underground parts of Saint Emilion, which distinguish the city. First, there was the underground lair of the saint himself.

 Legend is that in 750 or so he established himself here in a grotto as a hermit and pilgrims came from all over to be near him. This was, our guide assured us, almost surely a myth thought up to lure the pilgrim trade since the trail to San Juan de Campostela was only 3 kilometers away. Ditto the enormous underground church built by Pierre de Castillon (or something like that). Business is business. She also noted that Emilion was a “local” saint, uncanonized by the pope. No photos of the underground church were allowed so you have to settle for a scanned postcard.

For our afternoon ride we had me ahead, Sarah leading the two horses, Charlene next with the whip and Sue behind. It went very well. At the end part we rode along the wide Dordogne River on a lovely trail that shrank into a little path on the edge of people’s backyards, lots of ducking needed. The village where we were to stay was just across the river in Saint Jean de Braignac, at the end of a big bridge crossed by many trucks. This was looking pretty hairy until Pierre showed up and drove behind us to keep cars from trying to pass us on the bridge. At the horses’ overnight place he loaded up the two now-extra horses, since Hermann and Dorothee were done riding, and drove off to his home base two and a half hours away. He figured he would be back by midnight. Charlene also got home in unknown fashion.

Dinner at the little gite, prepared by the proprietress, began with a thick vegetable soup, followed by incredible mussels in creamy buttery sauce. We were just wiping our fingers and exclaiming what a good dinner it was when she walked in with the main course! It was beef tongue in a thick sauce and whipped potatoes. We did the best we could, but it’s safe to call it work more than pleasure. It's not just riding that require effort on this vacation. Oh, and of course there was the local Saint-Emilion. We got through more than one bottle, let me tell you.

One PS: I asked Pierre the next day how he knew Jeremy could ride. I thought maybe he had some kind of sixth sense or something.

"I didn't," he said. "But I really didn't want to lead that other horse."