Penne was the last stop in a very long, jet-lagged day.

We both agree that the chateau grounds, looming high over town on their rocky prominence, would be a perfect site for boffing someone. One little nudge near the ledge would be all it would take. This being France, no fences or guard rails protect individuals from their own stupidity or lack of judgment.

In fact, our B&B host related how when she and her husband first visited Penne a decade ago, they watched a young couple go up, the woman wearing strappy, heeled sandals to climb the slope and navigate the rocky, broken ground. Later, as B&B hosts were sitting at a café terrace with a view to the peak, he took out his camera and focused on the castle. “What are you doing?” she-host asked. “I’m making our fortune,” he-host responded. “When he pushes her over, I’ll have it on film, and will be able to sell it to the papers for millions.”

Both Gaston and I exited this village intact. But then, we missed opening hours for the chateau by 15 minutes, it being open only from 14h00 to 18h00.

By that time, I, as navigator, was shutting down with jet lag, so we called it a day and skipped Cordes-sur-ciel, the epitomy of a bastide town. As we drove by its attendant and abundant tourist-trap services, we figured we had already seen the best of the villages in the valley.

And it was getting dark, and we were still 90 minutes from our B&B, and I could hardly think or keep my eyes open.