![]() Denis, perceiving it to be “the quiet heart of rural France.”īut alas, as so often happens, there is a serpent dwelling in this Eden, a serpent that periodically bares its fangs. Having survived a difficult childhood, Bruno fought in Bosnia for a time before joining law enforcement. He is Benoît Courrèges, known to his fellow townsfolk as Bruno. The man in that first paragraph surveys the land before him with deep contentment and a certain sense of proprietorship. The Dordogne department takes its name from the river that runs through it:įrance’s green and pleasant land….Don’t know about you, but one look at this picture and I was ready to pack up and move. For more on the sources used to create it, click here.) Denis, a small, seemingly pristine commune nestled in the verdant Dordogne region of southwestern France. And now it had been established that the first bridge over their river dated from Roman times.Īcross the river stretched the new part of town, the Crédit Agricole bank and its parking lot, the supermarket ad the rugby stadium discreetly shaded by tall oaks and think belts of walnut trees. This did not greatly impress the town’s inhabitants, who knew that the upstart emperor had but restored a bridge their ancestors had first built five centuries earlier. A great “N” carved into the rock above the central of the three arches asserted that the bridge had been rebuilt on the orders of Napoleon himself. ![]() ![]() On the far side of the square stood the venerable church, its thick walls and squat tower a reminder of the ages past when churches, too, were part of the town’s defenses, guarding the river crossing and the approach to the great stone bridge. This vivid descriptive passage segues nicely into a short lesson on the region’s history: The grime of three centuries only lately scrubbed away, its honey-colored stone glowed richly in the morning sun. The houses clustered down the slope and around the main square of the Hôtel de Ville where the council chamber, its Mairie, and the office of the town’s own policeman perched above the thick stone columns that framed the covered market. The town emerged from the lush green of the trees and meadows like a tumbled heap of treasure the golden stone of the buildings, the ruby red tiles of the rooftops and the silver curve of the river running through it. A man climbed out, strode to the edge of the road and stretched mightily as he admired the familiar view of St. On a bright May morning, so early that the last of the mist was still lingering low over a bend in the Vézère River, a white van drew to a halt on the ridge that overlooked the small French town. ![]() This is the opening paragraph of Bruno, Chief of Police: “…this strange land they called ‘la France profonde,’ deepest France.” – Bruno, Chief of Police, by Martin WalkerĪugat 12:52 am ( Book clubs, Book review, books, Mystery fiction) ![]()
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