Chenaud est Beau

We came in search of France’s most beautiful village. To our surprise, over 150 places claim that official designation. Each one gets to hang a little sign on the edge of town, certifying its membership in the club known as “Les plus beaux villages de France.”

Of course it makes sense to have dozens. How else to reconcile one person’s preference for ramparts, another’s for seaside, and still another’s for vistas?

Over a fortnight, my parents and I managed a pleasing mix of all three while wandering from one Gallic charm to the next. The combination of castle and donkey delighted us at Beynac-et-Cazenac. In Saint Suliac, bordering a splendid estuary, we ordered everything on the menu at La Crêperie Guinguele. The gallettes there were so tasty that when we finished, we almost decided to wait until we were hungry enough to start all over again. Domme’s panorama above the Dordogne River made us want to paint.

We also enjoyed the familiar-as-an-old-sweater kind of village. An old friend invited us to stay a couple of nights in her family’s summer retreat, just outside the Aquitaine hamlet known as Chenaud. About 70 kilometers northeast of Bordeaux, the community is a checkerboard mix of oak forests, purple vineyards, and rolling meadows. Who needs a chateau, we decided, as we drove past a classic old mill, then over a one-lane bridge.

Home to 320 people at last count, Chenaud doesn’t bother with street names or house numbers. Occasional signs point toward beige cottages named with the French-language equivalent of “Hillcrest,” or “Badger Grove.” Our friend’s place, “Bon Jouan,” dates to the 18th century, making it a relative newcomer in the neighborhood. The stone village church has stood for over 800 years.

Bon Jouan’s three farmhouses all feature massive ceiling beams and bats in the attics. A barn stores all the treasures that the extended family can’t bear to discard—bicycles from the 1960s, lawn chairs with only one leg missing, a leaky boat christened “Sauterelle.” Countless styles of windows, shutters, and doors intermingle on each of the structures, all of them effective. Indoor temperatures were several degrees cooler than outdoor during the warm spring afternoons.

At the head of the long drive a waist-high granite Mother Mary protects the compound. Protect from what, you ask? Perhaps from the witch who lives at the bottom of the wellspring. For extra security, we tossed pebbles in that deep hole whenever we passed by, to break the witch’s teeth so she can’t harm any children.

Our friend explained that pilgrims formerly passed through Chenaud while walking the Way of St. James, better known by its Spanish name, El Camino de Santiago. We imagined ourselves doing the same as we took long evening walks along the country lanes, encountering more deer than cars.

I got up early one morning to watch as the sun gradually brought out the yellows and greens of the River Dronne valley. Chenaud’s tile rooftops glistened. Outside the mayor’s office, just opposite the church, nobody else was about. I thought to myself, Those other places can hang out their little signs if they wish—I’ve found the true “plus beau village de France.”