On the walls of Saint Genest in Troo, John baptises Christ in the Jordan river and St. Francis speaks to the birds. But devils also throw the eternally condemned into cauldrons licked by flames, and faces writhe in pain.

Arriving in the 12th century church in the tiny village of Lavardin, the low-pitched drone of the shawm seemed more than appropriate given the surroundings. There are few who would recognise the object – a medieval instrument which looks something like a strangely shaped flute and produces a slightly mournful but deep and rich timbre. Monsieur Heudier, long recognised as the all-singing, all-dancing and profoundly knowledgeable tour guide of the area, was practicing what he frequently plays at the local chateaux, monasteries and county fairs.

It was a charming albeit novel welome to the pretty medieval village which the French have officially classified as one of the most beautiful in the country. Lavardin is a one-horse town nestled into the heart of the Loir Valley, a hidden gem in what is still a relatively undiscovered and utterly unspolit part of France. Make no mistake, here you are in the surrounds of ‘Le Loir’ river - the absence of two ‘e’s’ denotes the important distinction between it and its more famous neighbour ‘La Loire’. Le Loir Valley lies south of Paris, north of Bordeaux and just above its larger cousin. Dotted along the river banks are the towns of Vendome, Mointore sur-le-Loir, Le Lude and La Fleche, and a multitude of smaller villages lies in between.

Although the area is as rich in history and culture as La Loire, where towns such as Saumur and Blois are so well known, it is more modest in scale and secluded in nature. More importantly, the loaded tour buses that block up the narrow streets in the better known areas are nowhere in sight, and there is an almost deserted feel to some of the villages on the route. We were told that the majority of locals like it that way – our musically gifted guide suggested that we keep the place under wraps by referring to it as ‘Village X’ in public.

This is a land of ruined medieval fortresses and renaissance chateaux, reminiscent of childhood fairytales. A terroir of formal gardens on a smaller scale, but equal in beauty to Versailles, and of local markets where artisan producers sell their goods. But a word of advice - bring a warm jumper. In early summer this year it was what you might call ‘temperate’ weather. Yes, it is lush and green, but it can also be wet and damp, when the dawn frequently brings what the Irish call a ‘soft day, thank God’ – roughly translated as ongoing rain and damp.



Every good region has its poet, and Le Loir is no exception. All self respecting locals can quote a line from a Ronsard poem. Known as ‘the prince of poets’ by his contemporaries, and probably one of the most famous Renaissance writers, Pierre de Ronsard was born in La Poisoinniere Manor House, located just outside Couture-sur-Loir. The architecture is impressive; dating from 1480 the Latin inscriptions on the façade were inspired by the motifs of the Italian renaissance, the first of many French buildings to adopt the style. A gothic archway leads to spectacular gardens beyond, a collection of fragrances and long forgotten vegetable varieties, where ‘La Rose de Ronsard’ has pride of place. Any serious gardener will know that this is a rose famed for its tightly packed and multi layered petals, and they appear throughout the valley, draped on walls and lining the sides of walkways.

Le Loir is a place of churches, artists and artisans. Back in Lavardin, the church of Saint Genest has some of the oldest surviving frescoes and mural paintings from the middle ages. The murals, detailed and ocasionally gory, were covered over in the so-called ‘enlightened’ times, when they were considered to be excessively graphic. Now restored, it seems that the  ‘dark ages’ were in reality not always so dark, and the lovely ochre and green colours of these true frescoes are magical. On the walls John baptises Christ in the Jordan River, St. Francis speaks to the birds, and Saint Pierre leads the chosen into Paradise. But yellow and brown devils also throw the eternally condemned into enormous cauldrons licked by flames, and rows of faces writhe in pain.

Further down the valley, the village of Troo is known for one of the more bizarre but fascinating features in this area. The name Troo comes from ‘trou’, meaning hole, an allusion to the caves which burrow through the hillside. The region was occupied by the English during the plantagenet era and ‘troo’ was the old english spelling. You could easily drive through the village and out the other side without ever realising that there is a whole world built into the hills behind. Known as troglodytes, or cave dwellings, what were once simple cavities in the tufa rock were later carved further with flint tools. Today they are owned and inhabited by a fashionable crowd hailing from different corners of the world. The troglodytes have much in common with ‘the mews house’ found at the end of the garden of a red brick Georgian – they are small, compact and tucked away, but now worth a tidy sum. Owning one has become a fashion, and many are in the posession of artists, musicians and Parisian ‘bobos’. Previously devoid of all modern features, today the more sophisticated dwellings are gentrified and electrified and in some, perched on top of the tradional façade, you can see a satellite dish with numerous antennae.

The Yucca Caves, inhabited in their original state until 1965, are now maintained as a museum with artifacts from the old troglodyte dwellers. Through the narrow entrance there is a view out over the Loir. If you want a taste of the real thing, you can also stay in a troglodyte cave hotel or eat in a troglodyte restaurant. At the very top of the hillside, on a plateau that you would never suspect exists when looking up from below, is the Collegiate Church of St-Martin. Constructed between the 11th and 14th centuries, it is worth a visit to see the romanesque and gothic ornamentation, the12th century capitals and the statuettes.

On the banks of the river a few kilometers away, Mointoire-sur-le-loir is a sleepy town known for its love of music. It is host to the colourful Folklore of the World festival in August each year, when musicians and dancers from all over gather to party into the late hours. It is also the spot where Hitler met Petain in October of 1940 while Europe fell into the throes of war.

Vendome, one of the larger stops on the valley route, is dotted with bell towers and slate gables overlooking the remains of a feudal castle. The pretty square, Place Saint Martin, is not far from the former Oratories college where Balzac built the foundations of the knowledge he would later share with the world through his writing. From his sheltered environment at the Oratories he would never have envisaged the curious scene that met us the day we passed through. Given its proximity to Le Mans and the 24 hour race held there that weekend, the town was populated by several thirty-something English men in racing cars, some shining and others battered (both the cars and the men), making a stop off in the French countryside. It didn’t seem to fit well with the turrets of the old castle or the Balthard-style covered market. But everyone was welcome and they topped up with supplies and sped off again on the route, by now a familiar sight to the locals at this time of year. The men in leathers on the Harley Davidsons didn’t raise many local eyebrows either.

This article was published in Business and Finance Magazine in 2007.