Cahors in December is three things: it is the grey-green clouds over Mont Saint-Cyr that cast turquoise shadows on the river; it is my friend perched on a rickety stool peeling onions by the kitchen window; and it is the bells of St Stephens Cathedral singing for Christmas Mass. It is not a bad place to wait out the festivities.
And we are waiting. Having arrived on the 22nd we quickly realised that whilst there is little to do in Cahors there is always much to see. I began by looking out the window. A friend of my friend's family loaned us their 19th century apartment on the banks of the River Lot, with an old wooden door whose lock is as defective as its rusted hinges. The window in the living room looks out onto the Pont des Maures du Bon Voyage, which at this time of year is wrapped in blue Christmas lights that glow fluorescent in the thick twilight air. There are seven of us in this three-bedroom house: my friend, her mother, father, sister and brother-in-law, and her high school friend who recently joined us from her own gallivanting through Europe. Before dinner we say grace – my friend's father is an Anglican pastor – and have a single glass of prosecco with our meal. It's the first time in a long time that I've missed my family.
On the 23rd we walk the perimeter of Cahors. My friend and her high school mate walk ahead of me in a pair, laughing and talking about things I can't quite hear. We make it to the Pont Valentré, which juts out of Cahors' eastern side like a spinal fragment reflecting on the water. There are concrete steps on the side of the bridge's walls that we climb, gingerly, and awkwardly hobble down when the height becomes too much. I take a photo of the other two pointing out at something to the north that I can't see. By the afternoon the sun has come out and we decide to hike Mont Saint-Cyr; my friend's father accompanies us, and before long we have stripped down to t-shirts and wished we had brought more water. We stop at an observation spot at the top of the mountain which looks down onto the south-west of Cahors – the medieval quarter – where glittering red roofs are nestled tightly into a meander cut by the river's curve. On the walk back we weave through the old town's cobblestone streets and admire the colourful shutters on the beige apartments. At the bottom of a window with blue shutters I spot the little eyes and ears of a cat peeking down at us.
Nothing is open on the day before Christmas, so we play card games and watch movies. I'm terrible at picking up the rules, and excuse myself after repeatedly losing. When it's just my friend and I at the table, I explain that I don't like doing things I'm bad at, to which she replies that she can tell, and if that's the case I’ll never learn anything new. I agree. I drink a glass of sangria and spend the rest of dinner staring at the jug. I'm told my friend's dad went to Midnight Mass but didn't wake anyone else to come. I'm not religious, nor do I speak French, but I think I would have liked to sit and listen.
On Christmas morning I sit by the Statue de Léon Gambetta and call my parents on spotty Wi-Fi. There's nothing to do on Christmas Day. My friend's sister gifts the three of us chocolate. When things open back up again on the 26th we peruse a food market outside the cathedral before venturing inside. It's cold and beautiful and very old, the way all good cathedrals are. My friend's mother makes a remark about Catholic gaudiness. My friends and I laugh.
On the 27th my friend walks me to the train station – she is staying another night with her parents. Our other friend is already headed to Lyon, where I'll meet her this evening. Tomorrow is my birthday. We walk quietly through the newer part of Cahors, where 1980s apartment buildings shatter any façade of medieval charm, though I appreciate the occasional stone cottage that survived the death march towards modernity. My friend and I don't hug goodbye. The train will pass through the fields of Southern France, the empty summer homes on the edge of the Étang de Thau, and a dozen other towns where there is little to do but much to see. I have eight hours of time to kill before I reach Lyon. I begin by looking out my window.
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Bella Rough is a journalism and English student in Sydney, Australia. She spent six months of 2022 travelling Europe and enjoying a semester exchange, which she has since never stopped talking about. These days she can likely be found in your nearest second-hand bookshop.
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