Day 5 - Thursday

We said a sad goodbye to Hermann and Dorothee this morning, then set off as three: Sarah, Sue and me. Pierre was taking Hermann and Dorothee to where they had parked their car an hour and a half away. It was quite cold at the beginning, maybe in the low 40s, though sunny. We had a wonderful ride, through forests and vineyards, with a lot of trotting and galloping. By this time, most of our aches and pains had disappeared. I really felt like those years of riding retired Thoroughbreds had paid off: I sat better and more securely in the saddle and even my highly unstable lower legs were a bit more under control.

Maybe this is a good place to mention how well the horses are kitted out. The saddles are good brands – mine is a Forestier – and they come with two Velcro-opening saddle bags on each side where we can put sun cream, water and the camera that I always fumble for and rarely get in time.

Two special Pierre touches: a metal carabiner-type clip in the front of the saddle that you use for the reins whenever you get off, so they don’t slip over the horse’s head or tangle his feet, and a leadrope (they wear halters under the bridle) that we learned to tie in an amazing spiral knot under their neck.

                                                                                        The trailer as well is carefully arranged and stocks everything from extra bridles to red wine.

After about 2 ½ hours we reached the Abbey of Saint-Sauve (I don’t know if he was a real saint or not) in the town of La Sauve. It is a total ruin, having been destroyed several times after it was built in the 12^th century, especially during the Revolution but also by a subsequent fire. We could see the walls rising from the hill of the city as we approached. We rode right into the grounds and found the trailer all parked and table set up. The van itself had gone with Pierre. 

Sue and I visited the abbey grounds while Sarah made lunch. (We tied the horses up to a line hooked on the wall and, as always, watered and fed them).

The abbey was lovely. About 70 percent of the walls were still standing, as was the bell tower (except for the very top). The church columns were topped by intricate Romanesque sculptures of appetizing subjects like St. John the Baptist’s head being served to Herod on a platter. The parklike grounds were silent (click here to hear and see) except for the sound of birds singing. Christians seem to choose really nice real estate.

Sarah managed to whip up a sausage omelet, with cucumber and tomato salad, fresh plums, more cheese and dark chocolate. And hot herbal tea, of course. Not to mention a Muscat sweet-wine aperitif and white AND red wine with lunch. While Sue and I were in the abbey she had discovered Pierre had forgotten to buy bread and raced at top speed (on foot, not horse) into town, getting to the bakery seconds before it closed at 1. This was after, you recall, leading us riding that morning.

We were back on the road by 3 and stopped on the way only to pick up some chataignes in the forest. I think chataignes are chestnuts, though marrons are also chestnuts. Pierre and Sarah explained that some marrons could be eaten and some not, while all chataignes could be eaten. It was confusing.

Dinner and overnight was at the Chateau de Grand Branet, a gorgeous structure atop a hill near the village of Capran. There was a pasture for the horses as well. Dinner, again prepared by the proprietress, was St. Jacques in a cheese cream sauce, blanquette de veau, cheese course and homemade crumble (I forget the fruit). Pierre, prompted by us, recounted being sued by American customers for 1. dangerous hotels (they were working on the windows) and 2. not enough galloping on the ride (after they had told him what a lovely time they had). (This reminds me of an earlier conversation, where we asked Sarah about the distinguishing characteristics of their international clientele. Swedes drink the most and Americans show up the latest for meals.) And we drank the local wine, like, produced on the chateau’s 3 hectares. Rich people take note: The place is for sale.