Quiet Village at Noon

Somewhere east of Montcuq there is a tiny village that appears to have no name. But it has something else.

Perhaps it is incorrect to call it a village. It may simply be part of another nearby village.

Driving through at noon, we stopped to reset the Garmin and check the map. We had become disoriented by a detour, and we'd confused the GPS system (Listening to the little voice try to speak French is great fun. Her accent is worse than mine.)

We pulled up near a church yard. I jumped out of the car.

"Just let me get a picture of the virgin," I said to my husband. There is enough of the Catholic girl left in me so that I did so solemnly. I was drawn farther into the village. Somewhere a dog began to bark, warning the villagers of my presence. I persevered, even though I am scared of large dogs, finding something - what? - in this small, gray village.

I could not define it. Was it spiritual? Or was it tragic? Or was it my imagination, stirred by the soft breeze, the mortar skies, the abandoned streets?

I shot as many photographs as I could in a vain attempt to capture what I felt here. There was a field of dying sunflowers, and in the distance, a cross on a hill.

The churchyard was eerie. So quiet. Where was the priest? Was it his dog who barked?

There were a few cars parked nearby. But I imagine those who live in this tiny enclave are either very old or work in Cahors or Toulouse. I saw no evidence of children.

As we buckled ourselves back into the Mini Cooper, an old women shuffled past, perhaps drawn outside to discover the source of the barking. She wore a longish colorless dress with a gray sweater and slippers. Her face was sunken and wrinkled, her hair in a bun.

"Classic," my husband said.

I thought she was beautiful.

There was something here that both drew and frightened me, but I felt at peace after the visit. I felt content for the rest of the day.

All these villages, the ancient churches, the iron crosses, the war monuments, the barking dogs: To visit a village in France is like stepping into a book you've read.

Have you had this experience anywhere? At home? Abroad?