Reflections on a Medieval Cobblestone Gem

No cars are allowed in tiny Perouges, a medieval village that hunkers on a hilltop in southeast France.

But still you must watch your step when crossing streets.

The crooked, narrow lanes are formed of small cobblestones, upturned like eggs in a carton. It is no place to run or skip, although schoolchildren do.

I had come to Perouges from Lyon, a trip of just 20 miles.

The surrounding land glowed with mustard-yellow stripes of the forage crop called rape. Frisky colts danced through tall grass that swayed in the cool morning breeze. It was a Van Gogh day and not far from Van Gogh country.

As our bus parked in the shadow of ramparts, near a massive iron-studded gate, the guide raised his hand and said:

“We will meet at the tree in the center of town when the church bells strike 12.”

In Perouges, you do not need to ask which tree.

The mighty, 200-year-old linden that shades the Place de Tilleul is called the Tree of Liberty because it was planted during the French Revolution. It is surrounded by buildings of golden stone and half-barrels spilling with pansies.

I shivered as I stood there and admired the facade of the Ostellerie de Perouges, a wisteria-draped 14th-Century inn. If the wooden beams, plank floors, thick walls and canopied four-poster beds are not enough to charm you, there is an extraordinary kitchen. The hostelry--a bona fide historical monument--boasts a Michelin star for cuisine.

But I did not know that when I walked in. I simply thought I had stumbled into a fine auberge where red-and-green tapestried chairs were pulled up to wooden tables set with brass candlesticks. The wine list was on a parchment scroll. Sideboards gleamed with pewter. Two logs crackled in the massive hearth.

We dined on roast chicken and wild mushrooms with a zesty green salad. The teen-ager who served us wore a traditional frilly white cap with her black dress and white apron. Her smile was shy.

From a lavish board I chose a local goat cheese crusted in black peppers and a winning Fourme d’Ambert from Auvergne. For dessert there were rich, ripe strawberries and a slice of galette , the pizza-shaped sweet cake of Perouges.

The hostelry’s 27 guest rooms are tucked into four medieval buildings, with views of sloping vineyards, apple orchards or a neighbor’s red tile roof.

Across from the inn, in a princely house and tower, is the town museum with dank rooms full of medieval weapons, chests and hand looms, which were used here to weave linen.

In the 13th Century, Perouges was a bustling village of weavers and craftsmen. Yet its most important historical date may be 1910. Factories--and new roads--had passed it by. The population had dropped to 80. Crumbling walls and towers were threatened with demolition.

A group of archeologists, artists, celebrities and historians banded together to save and restore Perouges. The French government joined the cause.

What you see today is a well-kempt town of the Middle Ages, a place that seems to have been poured from an old rock-filled mixer. Honey-colored walls flow into cobblestone streets without pausing for curb or sidewalk, and then rise again to form other pebbly houses, terraces and stairs. High above are diamond-paned windows with heavy shutters.

Sundials, old wells with ropes and buckets, broad eaves and overhanging wooden balconies add to the sense of intrigue in this setting that lured movie crews for “The Three Musketeers” and more recently “Monsieur Vincent.”

In Perouges you do not see electric lines, power boxes or signs for fast food or film.

You do see mail peeking from hole-in-the-wall slots (I hap- pened to notice a letter to M. and Mme. Bruno de Magli), and you suspect that wealthy French and Italians and Swiss have invested in weekend hideaways. You do see bakers rolling out dough for galettes , and artists working with metals at a forge.

I am sure that Perouges can be cheek-by-jowl with tourists on a summer weekend. I know that it is a favorite destination for the pageantry of Christmas.

But on a hushed spring morning, you can hear the purr of a tabby cat dozing on a windowsill. You can hear the snip of shears as an elderly woman gathers herbs and flowers from her garden.

You can even hear the echo of your steps as you walk--very carefully--over ancient cobbled lanes.