Bedtime Journeys
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Bedtime Journeys
Saint-Émilion's Gentle Underground Slumber
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Exclusive access to our premium content and ad-free!Step into the enchanted world of Saint-Emilion, a medieval wine village that exists in multiple dimensions simultaneously. What you see on the surface—honey-colored limestone buildings and cobblestone streets—is merely the beginning of an extraordinary journey through layers of history, spirituality, and winemaking tradition.
Beneath this UNESCO World Heritage site lies an entirely different universe: 200 kilometers of limestone quarries and tunnels, Europe's largest underground church carved from a single massive rock, and wine cellars where tomorrow's vintages age in perfect darkness. As one local winemaker poetically observes, "Each barrel dreams of the bottle it will become."
Our exploration begins with the monolithic church, where 15,000 cubic meters of limestone were removed by medieval hands using nothing but hammers and chisels. This sacred space—with its perfect acoustics and carved decorations still visible after eight centuries—embodies the patience and faith that permeate Saint-Emilion's character.
From religious architecture to the "Cathedral of Wine," we descend into prestigious cellars where constant 13°C temperatures create the perfect environment for aging wine without any modern climate control. Nature, it seems, was making wine cellars long before humans figured out we needed them. In these vast chambers, vine roots penetrate through 12 meters of limestone ceiling like nature's own chandeliers, physically connecting the sunshine above with the cool darkness below.
We discover delicious continuity in the town's famous macaroons, still made using the exact recipe created by Ursuline nuns in 1620. Just four ingredients—Spanish sweet almonds, bitter almonds, fresh egg whites, and sugar—transformed through four centuries of technique into a perfect cookie that pairs surprisingly well with the local wines.
As evening falls, we witness the romantic transformation of the Cordeliers Cloister ruins, where birds nest in stone crevices once filled with Gregorian chants, and end our journey atop the Tour du Roi, where the Jurade Wine Brotherhood has made ceremonial proclamations for 800 years.
Saint-Emilion isn't just a place—it's a philosophy made manifest, a belief that good things take time, that beauty matters, that tradition and innovation can coexist harmoniously. Join us as we explore this remarkable village where every stone has been smoothed by centuries of gentle attention.
Hello there, fellow travelers. Daniel here, welcoming you back to Bedtime Journeys. Thank you so much for being a premium subscriber. Your support means we can continue exploring the world's most peaceful places together, one gentle step at a time. So here we are on our third evening in France, and what a journey it's been already.
Speaker 1:We began in the Catalan fishing village of Collioure, where Matisse and Duran discovered colors that changed art forever, where anchovy workshops perfume narrow streets with the sea, where that remarkable church bell tower doubles as a lighthouse. Then yesterday we explored Ouzesse, france's first duchy, with its truffle markets and silk-making heritage, its medieval arcades and that wonderful Haribo candy museum. And tonight, tonight, we're trading Mediterranean breezes for something altogether different. We're heading inland to Saint-Emilion, a medieval wine village that seems to exist in multiple dimensions simultaneously. You know, I've always found it fascinating how some places manage to be both above and below ground at the same time. Saint-emilion is one of those rare places where what you see on the surface all those honey-colored limestone buildings and cobblestone streets is really just the beginning of the story. Beneath this UNESCO World Heritage Village lies an entirely different world 200 kilometers of limestone quarries and tunnels, europe's largest underground church carved from a single massive rock wine cellars where tomorrow's vintages age in perfect darkness. Where tomorrow's vintages age in perfect darkness, I suppose you could say Saint-Emilion is like a very expensive piece of Swiss cheese, full of holes but somehow worth its weight in gold, though in this case the holes are filled with wine instead of air, which seems like a significant improvement, if you ask me.
Speaker 1:The story of Saint-Emilion begins with a hermit, which already tells you this is going to be a peaceful kind of tale. Around 750 AD, a Breton monk named Emilion settled into a natural cave here. He was originally a baker, and legend has it that he once hid bread for the poor beneath his cloak. When his suspicious master confronted him, the bread miraculously transformed into firewood. Now I don't know about you, but if my bread turned into firewood I'd probably just call it slightly overdone and move on. But apparently this was considered miraculous enough to start a religious community that would eventually carve an entire church out of solid limestone.
Speaker 1:What makes Saint-Emilion particularly special for our evening journey is its remarkable sense of continuity. The same limestone that monks carved into churches now shelters aging wine. The same recipe for macaroons that Ursuline nuns created in 1620 is still being followed today, ingredient for ingredient still being followed today, ingredient for ingredient. The same wine brotherhood that governed the medieval town still processes through the streets in red velvet robes, proclaiming harvest times from ancient towers. There's something deeply comforting about places where time moves this slowly, where traditions aren't museum pieces but living practices, where the rhythms of life follow the seasons of the vine rather than the demands of modern schedules.
Speaker 1:And speaking of wine, saint-emilion produces some of the most prestigious bottles in all of Bordeaux. 800 producers tend vines across this limestone plateau, their roots reaching down through cracks in the rock, sometimes appearing in the ceilings of underground cellars, like nature's own chandeliers. The relationship between the stone and the wine is almost poetic. The porous limestone acts like a natural reservoir, storing water during wet periods and releasing it slowly during drought. It maintains constant cool temperatures year-round 12 to 14 degrees Celsius, creating perfect conditions for aging wine without any need for modern climate control. Nature, it seems, was making wine cellars long before humans figured out we needed them. But Saint-Emilion isn't just about wine, though. Honestly, that would probably be enough.
Speaker 1:This is a complete medieval town, beautifully preserved, where every cobblestone has a story and every building connects to centuries of human endeavor. The village sits on a natural amphitheater, rising from the Dordogne Valley in gentle terraces. From the ramparts, you can see vineyards rolling away in every direction, like a green and gold quilt stitched together by ancient stone walls. Church bells echo off limestone facades, their sound softened and mellowed by the same acoustic properties that make the underground chambers so perfect for quiet contemplation. Tonight, we're going to explore both the visible village and its hidden depths. We'll descend into that remarkable underground church where twelve centuries of prayers seem to have soaked into the stone itself. We'll wander through limestone quarries transformed into wine cathedrals. We'll taste macaroons made from a recipe that hasn't changed in four hundred years. Because when you get something right, why mess with it? Because when you get something right, why mess with it? We'll climb the Tour du Roi for views across the vineyards, explore the romantic ruins of the Cordilliers' cloister and discover artist workshops hidden in ancient caves where the temperature never changes and the light has a quality you won't find anywhere else.
Speaker 1:This is a journey through layers Geological layers of limestone laid down by prehistoric seas, historical layers of human settlement and cultivation and, perhaps most importantly, layers of meaning where the practical and the spiritual, the ancient and the contemporary all blend together like well, like a perfectly balanced Bordeaux wine. You know what I love most about places like Saint-Emilion they remind us that humans have always sought the same things shelter from storms, both literal and metaphorical, community with others who share our values, beauty that makes daily life more bearable and, yes, a nice glass of wine at the end of a long day. The monks who carved that underground church were seeking the same peace we're seeking tonight. The nuns who perfected those macaroons were creating the same simple pleasures we still enjoy. The winemakers aging their vintages in limestone darkness are continuing a tradition of patience and faith in slow transformation that speaks to something deep in the human spirit. So let's begin our descent into this remarkable place, both literally and figuratively. Let's walk these cobblestone streets worn smooth by eight centuries of footsteps. Let's breathe in the mingled scents of limestone dust, aging wine and fresh macaroons. Let's discover why millions of visitors come here each year, yet somehow the village maintains quiet corners where you can still hear the gentle drip of water in underground chambers and the whisper of wind through vineyard leaves. Welcome to Saint-Emilion, fellow travelers, where every stone has absorbed centuries of stories, and tonight we're adding our own quiet chapter to that long, peaceful tale.
Speaker 1:Now, before we begin our journey through medieval stone and ancient wine caves. Let's take a few moments to prepare ourselves with a breathing technique I call the winemaker's patience. Just as wine transforms slowly in the darkness of limestone cellars, we're going to let our breath transform us into a state of deep relaxation. Find a comfortable position, let your body settle like sediment in a wine barrel, finding its natural resting place. Now imagine your breath as wine being poured. Breathe in slowly and smoothly, like wine filling a glass. Hold that breath gently, letting it age for just a moment in the barrel of your lungs, and now release it even more slowly than you drew it in, like wine being savored, not rushed Again. Draw in that breath like you're drawing in the cool air of a limestone cave, let it rest within you, feeling how the coolness spreads through your body. Body and release, letting go of any tension, any hurry, any need to be anywhere, but here One more time. Breathe in the peace of ancient stones and patient traditions. Hold it like a precious vintage worth waiting for and let it go, feeling yourself sink deeper into relaxation with each exhale. Perfect, we are now breathing at the pace of Saint-Emilion Slow, patient, timeless. So let's start our journey.
Speaker 1:We begin our evening exploration at the Place de Créneau, the highest point in Saint-Emilion, where the tourist office occupies a former monastery. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the square and the honey-colored limestone buildings seem to glow with their own inner light. From here, the medieval town spreads out below us in a series of gentle terraces, each level connected by narrow streets called tertres, worn stone steps that have guided footsteps through this vertical village for 800 years. But we're not going down just yet. We're going to go down and in into the most remarkable sacred space. You've probably never heard of the monolithic church of Saint-Emilion. Just 50 meters from where we stand, a modest doorway in the cliff face gives no hint of what lies beyond. This is typical of Saint-Emilion the most extraordinary treasures hide behind the most ordinary facades. Our guide, a soft-spoken local woman who's been leading these tours for 20 years, greets us with the kind of smile that suggests she never tires of sharing this miracle. As we step through the entrance, the temperature drops immediately from the warmth of the afternoon sun to the constant cool of underground spaces. Sun to the constant cool of underground spaces. Twelve to fourteen degrees Celsius. Our guide tells us the same temperature year-round, whether it's blazing summer or freezing winter above, and then our eyes adjust to the dim light and we see it An entire church carved from solid limestone.
Speaker 1:The space is vast 38 meters long, 20 meters wide and 11 to 12 meters high, but these numbers don't begin to capture the feeling of standing in a sanctuary that was hollowed out of living rock by medieval hands. 15,000 cubic meters of limestone were removed to create this space, every bit of it extracted with hammers and chisels between the late 11th and early 12th centuries. No dynamite, no power tools, no modern engineering Just faith, patience and the soft limestone that could be carved like cheese when first exposed to air. Six massive pillars support the vaulted ceiling, each one carved from the bedrock left in place as the space around them was hollowed out. They're not built. They're revealed like sculptures waiting within the stone for someone to free them. On these pillars we can still see the carved decorations. See the carved decorations angels with outstretched wings, biblical figures in flowing robes, vine leaves that connect the sacred and the agricultural in typical medieval symbolism.
Speaker 1:Eight centuries of humidity and human breath have softened the details, but somehow that only makes them more beautiful, like memories worn smooth by contemplation. The acoustics in here are extraordinary. Our guide speaks in barely more than a whisper, but her voice carries perfectly to every corner of the church. A single footstep echoes and re-echoes, creating a rhythm like a gentle heartbeat. When services are held here and yes, this is still a functioning church the singing must be absolutely transcendent.
Speaker 1:We move deeper into the space, toward what would be the altar area in a conventional church. Here, the limestone has been carved into architectural details that mirror above-ground churches Arches and columns, niches and decorative elements, all extracted from solid rock rather than built up from blocks. There's something profoundly moving about this reversed architecture. Instead of reaching toward heaven, the builders descended into earth, creating sacred space by removal rather than addition. It's like they understood that sometimes you find the divine not by climbing higher but by going deeper.
Speaker 1:Our guide points out a curious feature small holes in the walls. At regular intervals, these held wooden beams that supported galleries where additional worshippers could gather. The wood is long gone, but the holes remain, like memory itself. Absence that tells a story of presence. In one corner we find the entrance to the Trinity Chapel, where Saint Emilion himself once lived and prayed. His hermit's cave is here, along with the spring he supposedly created by striking the rock with his staff. The water still flows, a gentle, constant dripping that creates its own meditative rhythm in the darkness. There's also the famous fertility chair, a seat carved directly from the cave wall where, legend has it, women hoping to conceive would sit and pray. The stone is worn smooth from centuries of hopeful visitors, polished by faith and longing into something that gleams even in the dim light. Longing into something that gleams even in the dim light. Our guide mentions that the temperature and humidity in these caves create perfect conditions not just for prayer but for preservation. The catacombs that extend westward from the church contain burials that are remarkably well preserved. Their carved symbols of resurrection still clearly visible after eight centuries.
Speaker 1:As we prepare to ascend back to the surface, I notice how my breathing has naturally slowed to match the rhythm of this place. The constant temperature, the gentle echo of footsteps, the soft sound of dripping water Everything here operates at a pace that predates clocks and schedules. Emerging back into the late afternoon, light feels like surfacing from a particularly peaceful dream. The warmth of the sun on our faces, the bustle of the village streets, the scent of fresh bread from nearby bakeries it all seems more vivid after the monochrome tranquility of the underground church continue our exploration, a sense that beneath the surface of everyday life there are depths of meaning and beauty that only patience and attention can reveal. From the monolithic church we wander down the Rue de Couvent, where the cobblestones are made from ballast stones, the weight that English merchant ships carried on their journey to Bordeaux exchanged for precious wine on the return voyage. These stones from British quarries now pave French streets. Even the ground beneath our feet tells stories of international wine trade dating back centuries, tells stories of international wine trade dating back centuries.
Speaker 1:We're heading toward one of Saint-Emilion's most prestigious wine estates, chateau Canon, where we've arranged an evening visit to their remarkable underground cellars. It's only a ten-minute walk from the village center, but those ten minutes take us from medieval religious architecture to the Cathedral of Wine. The chateau itself is elegant but understated honey-colored limestone, like everything else here, with that particularly French ability to look both grand and completely at home in its landscape. But the real magic as we're learning is typical of Saint-Emilion lies beneath Our wine. Guide for the evening is Philippe, whose family has worked these vineyards for four generations. He has that wonderful quality of someone who loves what they do so much that they can't quite believe they get paid for it. His enthusiasm is gentle, though. This is Bordeaux, after all, where understatement is an art form.
Speaker 1:We descend through a doorway that looks like it might lead to an ordinary cellar, but instead opens onto a vast network of limestone galleries. These quarries were excavated over centuries, providing the stone that built not just Saint-Emilion but much of Bordeaux itself, of Bordeaux itself. Now they serve a different purpose, but one that seems equally fundamental to French civilization. The temperature down here is exactly 13 degrees Celsius, philippe tells us. It never varies by more than a single degree throughout the entire year. The humidity hovers at 85%, perfect for keeping wine corks from drying out while preventing excess moisture that might damage labels or encourage mold. Nature, it seems, created the perfect wine cellar and then waited patiently for humans to discover wine. The galleries stretch out in multiple directions. Some passages wide enough to drive a truck through, others so narrow you have to turn sideways. The ceiling height varies too. In some places we can stand fully upright, with meters to spare. In others even I have to duck slightly.
Speaker 1:Philippe leads us to what he calls the cathedral, a particularly vast chamber where hundreds of oak barrels rest in neat rows. The silence here is profound. Not empty silence, but full silence, pregnant with the slow transformation happening inside each barrel. Silence here is profound. Not empty silence, but full silence, pregnant with the slow transformation happening inside each barrel. Wine is sleeping, philippe says softly, as if afraid to wake it. Each barrel dreams of the bottle it will become. I love the French. Only they could make fermentation sound like poetry. He shows us something remarkable In several places, vine roots have grown through the ceiling. These ancient vines, some planted in the 1920s, have sent their roots down through 12 meters of limestone, breaking through the quarry ceiling in their search for water. The roots hang down like nature's chandeliers, still alive, still connected to the vines above that are still producing grapes. It's a perfect illustration of the connection between what happens above ground and below the sunshine and rain of the surface world, linked to the cool darkness of the caves by these persistent, patient roots.
Speaker 1:We move to the bottle aging section, where thousands upon thousands of bottles rest in specially carved niches. The bottles are covered in a fine layer of dust and what looks like black mold but is actually a type of fungus that thrives on alcohol vapors. The angels share that evaporates from the barrels. Angels share that evaporates from the barrels. This fungus, philippe explains, is actually beneficial. It helps maintain the perfect humidity and is a sign that conditions in the cellar are exactly right. In Saint-Emilion, even the mold is a perfectionist.
Speaker 1:We pause in a smaller chamber where a tasting has been set up just a simple wooden table, some glasses and a few bottles that Philippe has selected to show the evolution of the Chateau's wines. The first is young, from last year's vintage, still sharp, still finding its balance, full of potential, but not yet fully itself. The second is from five years ago, beginning to mellow the various elements, starting to harmonize. The third is from 2010. And here, finally, is what all the waiting is for the wine has become something more than the sum of its parts complex but integrated, powerful but graceful, with flavors that seem to unfold in layers, each sip revealing something new. This is what the limestone gives to the wine. Philippe explains a certain minerality, a structure, a sense of place that you can actually taste.
Speaker 1:We sip in contemplative silence. The only sound, the occasional drip of condensation from the ceiling, a liquid metronome keeping geological time. Before we leave, philippe shows us one more treasure the reserve collection bottles dating back decades, some to before World War II. These aren't for sale. They're the chateau's memory, their library, their connection to all the vintages and vintners who came before. One bottle catches my eye, from 1947, a legendary vintage. The label is barely legible, the bottle covered in decades of dust and that peculiar black mold. But inside, philippe assures us, the wine is probably at its absolute peak, assuming anyone ever has the courage to open it. Some wines, he says, are worth more as possibilities than realities.
Speaker 1:As we climb back to the surface, I think about all those bottles resting in the darkness below, slowly transforming into something extraordinary through the simple passage of time. There's a lesson there about patience, about faith in slow processes, about the value of things that can't be hurried Back in the evening air. The village of Saint-Emilion glows in the setting sun, its limestone walls turned gold and amber. Somewhere beneath our feet, in dozens of similar cellars, millions of bottles rest in perfect darkness, dreaming their wine dreams becoming themselves one slow day at a time. The evening light slants through the narrow streets as we make our way to Rue Gouadet, the main thoroughfare of Saint-Emilion's lower town. This is where the modern village conducts its ancient business, shops and cafés occupying medieval buildings, contemporary life unfolding within walls that have stood for eight centuries.
Speaker 1:We're drawn by a particular scent sweet almonds and sugar, a fragrance that's been perfuming these streets since 1620. This is the smell of Saint-Emilion's macaroons, and we're heading to the shop of Nadia Fermigie, who holds the original recipe from the Ursuline nuns. The shop, at 9 Rue Gouadet, occupies a building from 1612, and stepping inside feels like entering a grandmother's kitchen, where something wonderful is always baking. The walls are lined with blue and white boxes, the traditional packaging for these ancient cookies, and the air is thick with the scent of roasting almonds. Madame Fermigier herself is behind the counter, a woman who inherited not just a recipe but a responsibility to maintain a 400-year-old tradition exactly as it was created. She explains the history with the quiet pride of someone who understands they're a link in a very long chain.
Speaker 1:The Ursuline sisters arrived in Saint-Emilion on June 1, 1620, establishing their convent where the tourist office now stands. They needed protein for their meatless diet, and almonds were perfect, nutritious, shelf-stable and grown locally in orchards that turned the countryside pink every spring. But the nuns did what religious communities have always done they transformed the practical into the transcendent. They created a cookie so perfect that, when the revolution disbanded their order in 1792, sister Boutin supposedly traded the secret recipe for shelter and food. The recipe hasn't changed Spanish sweet almonds, bitter almonds for complexity, fresh egg whites and sugar. That's it Four ingredients and 400 years of technique.
Speaker 1:Madame Fermigier shows us the process. The almonds are blanched and soaked overnight, then hand-peeled in the morning. This can't be done by machine. Each almond needs to be checked, any imperfect ones removed. The perfect almonds are then ground into a wet paste not flour but paste which gives the macaroons their distinctive chewy texture. The paste is mixed with egg whites and sugar, then piped onto baking sheets.
Speaker 1:Here's where Saint-Emilion macaroons differ from their famous Parisian cousins. Where Saint-Emilion macaroons differ from their famous Parisian cousins, these are pressed with special sugar-coated molds that create their characteristic cracked surface. No smooth shells here, no ganache filling, just honest, rustic cookies that look like they've been baked by nuns in a convent kitchen, which of course they originally were. We sample one fresh from the oven, still warm, the exterior slightly crispy, the interior soft as a cloud. The almond flavor is intense but not overwhelming. The sweetness balanced by that hint of bitter almond that adds complexity. It's the kind of simple perfection that makes you understand why the recipe hasn't changed. When you get something exactly right, innovation becomes unnecessary, becomes unnecessary. Madame Fermigier mentions that these macaroons pair perfectly with Saint Emilien wine, a discovery made at the 1867 Universal Exhibition, where both won prizes. The combination seems unlikely cookies and red wine. But she's right the almond and the tannins create a harmony that neither achieves alone. We purchase a small box to enjoy later and continue our evening stroll, the sweet almond scent following us like a friendly ghost. Following us like a friendly ghost, our path leads us to the ruins of the Cordillier Cloister, one of Saint-Emilion's most romantic spots.
Speaker 1:The Franciscan monks built their monastery here in 1338, after their original settlement was destroyed during the Hundred Years' War. The name comes from the cord belt. They wore with their rough robes, the cordillers, the corded ones. For four and a half centuries they lived here in contemplation and prayer, tending their gardens, making their wine, living the regulated life of medieval monasticism living the regulated life of medieval monasticism. Then came the revolution and, like religious communities across France, the Cordeliers were disbanded. The monastery was abandoned and for a century nature began to reclaim it. Ivy climbed the walls, weeds grew in the cloister garden and the buildings began their slow collapse into romantic ruin. But in 1892, the ruins found new purpose. A gentleman named. Monsieur Maynot, after studying champagne production, decided to use the Cordeliers' underground galleries for making sparkling wine. The ruins above became the entrance to a working winery, while three kilometers of tunnels below provided perfect conditions for the méthode traditionnelle.
Speaker 1:Today, you can wander freely through the cloister ruins in the evening, and it's magical. The setting sun streams through empty window arches, creating geometric patterns of light and shadow. On the grass where monks once walked in meditation, the Romanesque columns carved from single blocks of limestone stand like patient sentinels, supporting nothing now but the sky. In what was once the church, you can still see the Gothic arches reaching upward, though the roof they once supported is long gone. The roof they once supported is long gone. Birds nest in the stone crevices and their evening songs echo in the space where Gregorian chants once rose.
Speaker 1:There's something particularly peaceful about ruins at this time of day. They've made their peace with incompleteness, with the passage of time, with the transformation from what they were to what they are. The Cordeliers Cloister doesn't mourn its lost roof or missing walls. It simply exists in its current state. Beautiful in its decay, functional in its new role, honest about the passage of time.
Speaker 1:We find a stone bench in the cloister garden and sit for a while, eating our still warm macaroons and watching the light fade from gold to amber to the deep blue of approaching night. Other visitors wander through, quietly speaking in whispers, if at all, as if understanding that some places generate their own atmosphere of contemplation. A couple sits on the grass with a bottle of the Cordeliers Cremant, those sparkling wines still made in the tunnels below us. They pour carefully into plastic cups glass isn't allowed in the ruins and toast silently to something private and precious. This is Saint-Emilion at its best. Layers of history visible simultaneously, each era's contribution still present and honored contribution still present and honored Medieval monks, renaissance traders, revolutionary abandonment, 19th century innovation, 21st century visitors, all existing in the same space, each adding their own chapter to the ongoing story. As darkness finally claims the cloister, tiny lights begin to appear, subtle illumination that highlights architectural details without destroying the mysterious atmosphere. The ruins become even more romantic in this gentle lighting shadows, deepening the sense of age and mystery. The sense of age and mystery. We leave through the ancient doorway, passing from the medieval past back into the present, carrying with us the taste of 400-year-old recipes and the peace of ruins that have found their purpose in simply being beautiful.
Speaker 1:As full darkness settles over Saint-Emilion, we make our way through lamplit streets toward the Tour du Roi, the King's Tower, which rises above the village rooftops like a finger pointing at the stars. The tower is illuminated at night, its limestone walls glowing softly against the dark sky, visible from every corner of the medieval town. Built in 1237, this is the only remaining Romanesque keep in the entire Gironde region a square tower of limestone blocks that has watched over Saint-Emilion for nearly eight centuries. It served as the town hall until 1720, and even now the Juraid Wine Brotherhood uses it for their ceremonial proclamations.
Speaker 1:The entrance is through a small door at the base and immediately we're in a tight spiral staircase that winds upward through the solid stone walls. The steps are limestone, worn, smooth and slightly concave from centuries of footsteps. Each one is a different height. Medieval builders weren't concerned with standardization and in the dim light we have to feel our way carefully. 118 steps, our guide counted them for us, each one taking us a little higher, a little closer to the stars, a little further from the everyday world below. The stairway is narrow enough that your shoulders nearly touch both walls, and there's something comforting about this closeness, like the tower is holding you as you climb, small windows appear at irregular intervals, just wide enough to let in air and glimpses of light, but not wide enough for medieval attackers to shoot arrows through. Halfway up we pause on a small landing to catch our breath. Through a window. Here we can see the collegiate church, illuminated below its bell tower that famous separate tower we explored earlier, rising almost to our current height. The two towers seem to be in conversation across the centuries, comparing notes on what they've witnessed.
Speaker 1:The final ascent brings us to the top platform and suddenly the confined space of the stairwell opens to the infinite space of the night sky. The view is well breathtaking, seems inadequate 360 degrees of medieval France spread out below us. The terracotta rooftops of Saint-Emilion create a rumpled blanket of tiles punctuated by church spires and defensive towers. Streets that seemed random from ground level reveal their medieval logic from above, radiating out from the central square like spokes from a wheel, following the natural contours of the hillside wheel. Following the natural contours of the hillside. Beyond the town walls, vineyards stretch to every horizon, their neat rows visible even in the darkness thanks to the silver moonlight. Small lights mark the various chateaux scattered across the landscape Oson, cheval Blanc, angelus, cannon names that make wine lovers hearts beat faster, but which, from up here, are just gentle lights in the darkness, no different from farmhouses or cottages, curves away to the west a ribbon of deeper darkness where the river reflects the stars. Small villages dot the landscape, each with its own church tower, its own cluster of lights, its own community settling in for the night.
Speaker 1:This is where the jurad stands twice a year to make their proclamations In June, for the judgment of new wine, in September for the Bain de Vendange that authorizes the harvest to begin. Imagine standing here in your red velvet robes, speaking words that your predecessors have spoken for 800 years, maintaining traditions that connect the medieval past to the modern present. A cool breeze rises from the valley carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers and that particular smell of French summer evenings part cut grass, part wood smoke, part something indefinable. That might just be contentment. We're not alone on the tower. A few other night, visitors share the platform, but everyone speaks in whispers, as if understanding that some moments are too perfect to disturb with normal conversation. A couple stands at the eastern parapet, arms around each other, looking out over the vineyards. A solo traveler sits on the stone wall writing in a journal by the light of her phone. An elderly man with a camera on a tripod waits patiently for exactly the right moment to capture the moonlight on the rooftops. We all share this moment, without sharing words, strangers, brought together by the simple desire to see the world from a different perspective, to rise above the everyday and glimpse something eternal.
Speaker 1:As we prepare to descend, I take one last look around. The moon has risen higher now, bathing everything in silver light that makes the medieval town look like something from a fairy tale. Somewhere below, in dozens of limestone cellars, wine is slowly transforming itself In the monolithic church. Centuries of prayers have soaked into the stone. In small shops, macaroons made from a 400-year-old recipe wait for tomorrow's visitors. The descent is easier than the climb. Gravity helps and our feet have learned the irregular rhythm of the medieval steps. We emerge back at street level, feeling slightly changed, as if we've brought some of that elevated perspective back down with us. The streets are quieter now.
Speaker 1:Most of the day. Visitors have departed and Saint-Emilion is returning to its residence. The day. Visitors have departed and Santa Milione is returning to its residence. Restaurants are closing their shutters, shopkeepers are sweeping their doorways and cats are emerging for their nocturnal explorations.
Speaker 1:We wander without destination, through the medieval streets, following the gentle slope downhill toward the lower town streets. Following the gentle slope downhill toward the lower town, every corner reveals a new perspective a gothic archway framing a distant vineyard, a renaissance doorway with carved grapevines, a medieval well where travelers once refreshed themselves. Near the old wash houses we find a small square with stone benches perfectly positioned to catch the moonlight. The sound of water trickles constantly from the ancient fountain, a sound that hasn't changed since medieval times. We sit for a while listening to the water and the distant sound of wind in the vineyards.
Speaker 1:This is the Saint-Emilion that most visitors miss the quiet village. After dark, when the stones release the warmth they've absorbed during the day, when the only sounds are footsteps and fountains and the occasional church bell marking the hours, a cat appears from the shadows, a grey tabby with white paws, who seems to own this particular square. It inspects us briefly, decides we're acceptable and curls up on the warm stones near our feet. This cat has probably never left Saint-Emilion, never known anything but these medieval streets and the reliable kindness of residents who leave out dishes of milk. What a life to know one place so completely, to have every stone memorized, every sunny spot catalogued, every generous human identified. There's something to be said for such deep, specific knowledge, such complete belonging to a place.
Speaker 1:As we sit in the moonlit square with the cat purring softly and the fountain providing its liquid soundtrack, I think about all the layers we've experienced today the underground church where faith was carved from stone. The wine cellars where patience transforms grape juice into poetry. The macaroons that maintain a nun's prayer in cookie form. The ruins where monks once walked and wine now ages. The tower where tradition speaks to the future from the past. Saint-emilion isn't just a place, it's a philosophy made manifest, a belief that good things take time, that beauty matters, that tradition and innovation can coexist, that the sacred and the secular can share the same space without conflict. The same space without conflict. Tomorrow we'll continue our journey through France, but tonight we rest in this medieval embrace, dreaming of limestone and wine, of patient transformations and ancient traditions, of a place where time moves at the pace of slowly aging wine and every stone has been smoothed by centuries of gentle attention. Sleep well, fellow travelers. May your dreams be filled with the cool peace of limestone caves and the warm glow of medieval stones touched by moonlight.
