Today, I invite you to walk in the footsteps of your ancestors, right where they once lived.

Join me in a medieval village—mostly silent now, its stone walls weathered by time—but once humming with life, laughter, and stories.

Even if your European ancestors didn’t call this exact village home, they lived in one very much like it.

Stone by stone, their hands built the houses, barns, and walls that still stand.

They hauled water from the well, baked bread in wood-fired ovens, and gathered by candlelight after a long day’s work.

Children chased chickens through cobblestone streets while elders spoke of saints and sinners, betrothals and births, seasons, harvests, and of course, hardship.

These places weren’t just settlements—they were ancient communities, shaped by shared survival and sacred ritual.

Church bells marked the hours and the holy days.

Bells also tolled for imminent death, a plea to pray for a happy death for whom the bell tolled, and then when they passed, one toll of the bell for each year of their life. The third and final tolling was a summons to the funeral.

Footpaths led to neighbors’ doors and fields tilled for centuries.

The bones of your ancestors now lie beneath the local chapel, in the churchyard or in an unmarked meadow nearby, but their spirit lingers—in the whisper of the wind between crumbling stones, in the lichen-covered gateposts with rusty hinges, in the silence of twilight.

As you wander these ancient lanes—physically or in your mind’s eye—you’re not just visiting a village.

You’re returning home.

The Visit

Let me set the stage a bit, then I’ll let their spirits do the talking.

I’ve always had an unexplainedly strong attraction to abandoned villages. Like the people who once lived there are calling me.

In a way, these villages are living cemeteries, ghostly apparitions in silent streets still echoing with children’s laughter, joyful wedding processions, and the church bells calling the faithful to worship or announcing that someone had died.

That someone was always a family member, because everyone was related here.

Later that day, or the next, the muffled sounds of leather shoes on cobblestones, and the creak of a wagon wheel – if a wagon was available – ushered the dearly departed to the church, then to the cemetery where they rest forever. Even now.

The sounds and stories of their lives saturate the stones, soaking in to whisper in our ears as we pass by – if we can hear them.

Their eyes and mine share the same vistas.

Their spirits can reach us yet today.

They can ease our suffering, because they suffered too.

Years ago, when my daughter died, I was drowning in immeasurable grief. I know I certainly wasn’t the first mother to lose a baby, but the crushing grief of the moment overwhelmed everything.

I could barely breathe, and I wanted to die along with her. I could see no light.

Dad, a man of very few words, arrived alone, wearing his overalls from the farm, to sit by my bedside.

I looked up at him as he entered the room, tears blurring my view. I had cried so much that my skin burned.

He sat down, reached over, and his weathered, calloused hand patted mine. It felt so good. I held on to his hand, clutching it for dear life, hoping, in some way, for a lifeline – or just a sliver of comfort.

I didn’t realize I needed his visit, or his hand, but once he was there, I was incredibly grateful.

More tears.

“Dad, I don’t know what to say.”

He replied, “Sometimes you don’t need to say anything. I just came to sit with you. To share your grief.”

We sat in blessed silence for a while, then he offered such simple, profound words of wisdom.

“Honey, you’ve already survived the worst – utter Hell. Now you need to heal.”

God love that man.

He sat for a while longer, wordlessly, in bonding silence, beside me.

Just sitting.

His mere presence expressed a love that doesn’t need language. Such immense comfort to me. I knew he understood. He, too, had lost a daughter.

At the end of an hour or so, he stood up, leaned over and kissed my forehead, and as his tears mingled with mine, told me he loved me. He turned, looked back and smiled reassuringly through his own silent tears, and left.

Sometimes we need to sit with grief.

Sometimes we need to sit with our ancestors, those who came before us who suffered their own immeasurable loss.

Each birth brought joy.

Each death summoned the entire village to say a final goodbye.

Great grief equal to great love. It’s the universal human condition.

In the days and years in-between, they laughed here, loved here, herded goats here, walked to church here, played here, prayed here, and grieved here. They sought solace here. They held hands to say, “I’m here.”

They sat with each other..

Today, and perhaps on other days when you seek solitude or are watering the earth with your tears, come walk with your ancestors in this medieval village. They are here to welcome you, sit with you, and comfort you.

They will eventually meet you.

They bring light and hope. Gifts from those who came before and experienced what you are feeling now. Human emotions transcend space and time. In both directions.

They offer a sacred call to ancestral connection and healing.

Walk with them, reach out, take their hand.

Look at these photos slowly. Meander through them – just like you were walking in the village. Click on each one – enlarge it. Focus on the details. What is the story being told?

Let your imagination run wild.

Who has come to join you in Perouges?

Perouges

Welcome to the medieval village of Perouges, a walled, fortified village strategically placed on top of a mountain.

Rocky mountaintops were easiest to defend.

Perouges, a mostly abandoned medieval village high in the French Alps lies between Italy and Switzerland and was probably founded by a Gallic colony.

Humans have lived here, or near here, for at least the past 4000 years, and probably longer. Country lines were political and fluid. People moved from place to place as settlement advanced or land disputes were “settled”, and not necessarily amicably.

The fortress around the city was built in the 1100s. When the town, then Italian, was attacked by the French in 1568, they managed to repel the invaders. Ironically, in 1601, Perouges became French, but of course, the people remained the same.

Everything is uphill approaching Perouges.

Perouges was challenging to get to, and as modern conveniences and the industrial revolution intruded into village life, it was difficult to earn a living, and most people left, especially the younger generations. Eventually, the town was all but abandoned, but retaining its beautiful medieval flavor, frozen in time.

Walking Perouges is a literal stroll through history – in the footsteps of those who lived there. Our ancestors, or those like our ancestors who lived in similar medieval villages scattered across the continent.

The residents may have been “simple” tradesmen and craftsmen, but the architecture and Perouges’ resilience tells a different story.

The back side of the fortified church along with one of the city gates. The church serves as one portion of the city wall.

Imagine the stonemasons constructing this nearly impenetrable structure, all without scaffolding, one stone at a time.

Roses always sooth the soul. Now as then.

A secret cave.

Arrow slots carved in the walls to defend the village

The church steps, at left, along with a gated tower.

Who’s that I see?

Welcome, my child. Come, walk with me.

Let me tell you about our life here.

We are your ancestors, you know.

We built this village with our own hands. Well, ours and those of our ancestors, too, and our descendants as well.

We’ve lived here since time immemorial – and our spirits remain.

We laid these cobblestones, all of them, one by one. Over the centuries, the feet of your ancestors have worn them smooth.

Cobblestones prevented the earth from washing away, and people and animals from falling. Sometimes goats and livestock roam the streets as well. Everyone knows whose cow is whose.

Watch your footing, though, because wet cobblestones are slippery and you wouldn’t be the first to trip or slip and fall here.

If you break something, one of our farmers can probably patch you up. Or, the cemetery is right over there, by our beautiful church. You wouldn’t be the first to die of “death by cobblestone” either.

I swear, half of our life is lived in this church. We are probably in here once every day, crossing ourselves with Holy Water as we enter and leave.

We have no medicine, as you know it, so prayer is our only defense against suffering of any kind, and death. So, yes, we pray a lot and seek comfort in the silence here.

Let’s visit the church, through the door under the statue of the Mother Mary and child.

You can hear the Benedictine monks chanting, here, to help set the mood.

Our baptismal font. Ahh, all of our babies are baptized as soon as they are born to protect their souls.

One man and one woman stand with the parents, that is, if the mother can make her way to church. They swear before God and the village to raise the child in the way of the Church and of God if their parents should, God-forbid, perish.

Many a baby was baptized after their mother had already transitioned to the other side – but we, here, in the village, are masters of grief.

Navigating life after grief, actually.

There is life after grief, you know.

Listen! Can you hear the babies cry when the cool sacred water touches their skin?

A font for Holy water. Your ancestors touched the water and blessed themselves. And the Priests, well, they blessed everybody.

A basin with a hole in the bottom is a Piscina, into which left over holy water or consecrated wine was poured so that it drained directly into consecrated ground.

Just touching these sacred relics made your ancestors feel better, so reach out and touch them too.

The church walls, along with the city walls, were thick to protect the villagers.

Although our town of craftsmen and tradespeople was located high above the river plain, we were attacked from time to time.

The women and children took shelter here.

No one would ever get through these walls. Our strongest men guarded the gates.

If they should die in the service of our town, or of the Lord, they were venerated as heroes.

The collective community grief was assuaged by pride and love.

We touched this statue of Mary Magdalene thousands of times. She was our protector, giver of comfort, God’s mother.

Listen!

Can you hear the songs echoing in this vaulted ceiling through time?

The priest, perhaps, speaking in Latin, his voice resonating?

Can you imagine the tradesmen who built this roof, these vaults and gables?

The thick walls kept the church cool even in the summer, and it was always cold in the winter.

Only the outer chapels were bathed in sunlight through beautiful stained-glass windows.

The interior was subdued, cool and somber where we hear echoes of the past.

We lit candles and prayed to the Blessed Virgin and a variety of Saints in chapels dedicated to them.

So did travelers who came our way and stopped in our village for the night.

Saint Anne is venerated as the mother of the Virgin Mary and the grandmother of Jesus.

Our beautiful carved statue of St. Anne in her chapel.

St. Georges, our Patron Saint, was a Roman soldier.

He is said to have slain a dragon, and of course, our lives were full of dragons to slay.

Saint George helps and protects us, and since you are our blood and part of us lives in and through you – he will protect you too.

Come sit, rest, on the hard-carved benches in the chapels.

Leave your sorrows here.

We sit with you.

The Virgin and the cloak. She gathers us all for protection and salves our souls.

After the service, or for whatever reason we visited the church, we enter the heart of the village through the gated tower.

Stones were used for building everything.

Houses abutted one another, forming another circle of protection.

Many weavers and winemakers lived in town.

The streets dipped slightly in the center for drainage.

Many homes were two or three stories high. Spreading out was a luxury we didn’t have.

Gardens inside the village were rare, but not unheard of.

Go ahead, open the gate.

Here is my garden. Can you smell the lavender and ginger?

The lavender smells a LOT better than the streets where chamberpots, livestock, baked goods and the varioius wares of craftsmen all blend together in a unpredictable melody.

Indeed, we share everything here.

News, smells, food, and sometimes, the plague brings grief.

The salt granary.

The Dukes of Savoie lived here beginning in the 1300s when Perouges was Italian. We don’t know for sure who the first residents were, but we think they may have come from the Italian city of Perugia in central Italy.

Whoever they were, we’re still all related to them today, so it doesn’t matter. Just like it doesn’t matter where you live today, or under what flag. You are still ours, and we are yours.

The Savoie Princes were good neighbors, bringing money, craftsmen and tradesmen with them. 

Houses didn’t stand alone, so fire was an ever-present risk.

We knew grief. Lost homes. Lost family. Lost dreams.

We made it though.

Shops and shopkeepers plied their wares on the bottom floor. Families lived upstairs.

Craftsmen’s wares are displayed on the windowsills along the main street.

Well, we only have two streets, and they are both circular so pretty much all streets are main streets here.

Look good?? Galettes – a Perougian delight. A sweet, thin, round pastry made with a rich, buttery dough, topped with sugar and spices, and baked in our brick ovens.

Homes and shops were one and the same.

Our village is walled, for safety, so we use every available inch, and everyone works from before sunup to after sundown.

We grow grapes along vines that line the houses.

Our trades, homes, family and religion define us.

Every town has a market square for trade.

Bring what you have. Take what you need after some good-natured bartering.

Our village was a stop on a major trade route, so we often had overnight travelers.

They needed food, some ale of course, a good bed without bugs, and a place to rest their beasts.

Ay, just keep yer eyes off our daughters!

Villagers and travelers alike gathered in the center of town.

We discussed all sorts of things.

Women came to exchange produce and perhaps a wee bit of gossip.

Who is ill, who is expecting, whose husband drank a bit too much of our fine wine, and might need to go visit the priest and confess.

We didn’t have clocks, but there’s a sundial in the wall of a house on the market square so you can tell what time it is.

You don’t have to worry about forgetting to go to church, though, because the church bells ring to remind you.

Peasants didn’t know how to read. It wasn’t a problem, though, because the priest could read and told us everything we needed to know.

Our businesses and trades were known by our signs.

This fine establishment was the hostel or inn of the rooster.

You can’t get lost in Perouges. The walls are gated, and the streets all connect via alleyways between houses.

The same house was occupied by the same family for generations.

Fathers taught sons trades, and daughters married boys in the village.

Nothing is flat or level, not even the houses.

Massive timbers were meant to last for centuries. We don’t just build for ourselves, we build a foundation for the next generation, and the next. For others to follow.

We used whatever size stones we had available. Sometimes we had to make repairs.

Unexpected curves and blind corners. Move slowly and hold my hand. I know the way.

Every house tells the story of its inhabitants.

Let’s sit a spell. Smell the mountain air.

Drying corn. No space is wasted.

Come on in.

When it cold, we sit close to the fire. Beer, wine and soups are available, plus whatever is roasting on the spit. There’s always someone to sit with here.

Imagine if these floors could talk.

So many boots have trod these floors.

There weren’t a lot of houses in the village, but our families were large. We buried half of our children before they were of age to marry, and a quarter before their first birthday.

We knew grief upclose and personal.

We sat with each other, and we know how to sit with you.

Just to be safe, sometimes we named our houses after saints, too, for extra protection. This is known as Little St. George’s house. It sounds much better in French though – Maison de Petit St. Georges.

Here we are, full circle and back to the home of the Princes of Savoy’s, or where they lived off and on at one time.

You don’t need to stand outside the gate. Come sit with us.

Our light still shines for you.

The love in our hearts for you is as warm as the southern French Sun.

As eternal as the moon and the rain.

Walking down the street we walked up when we arrived.

The lower city gate in the wall, but this gate holds a message on top.

Hmmm…who is it for? What does it say?

This Latin inscription translates into French as: “Perouges of the Pérougians, an impregnable city, the rascals of Dauphiné wanted to take it but they could not. However, they took the doors, the hinges and the fittings and fell down with them. May the devil take them.”

Who says the French don’t have a sense of humor. Rascals of Dauphiné!

We villagers go about our trades, but the watch towers remind us that someone is always watching.

It’s always someone’s turn.

Someone always has our back.

We have yours.

The path behind the rampart tower is indeed difficult terrain and belies the tranquil beauty of village life inside the protective walls.

Sometimes our lives escape into untamed land from inside our walls, too.

No worry, we got you!

The Barbican high gate, incorporated into the church wall, was designed as a chokepoint, trapping would-be attackers before they reached the actual city gate.

Outside the city gates, we have a wonderful stream. Lifegiver of the community.

Outside the city walls, the vistas of the Ain valley open wide, beckoning.

Many of our young people left over time, seeking their fortunes in places they cannot see. Across those mountains.

Our hearts ache for them, with longing to hear their voices.

Yet, we know they went on to become you – and we would not, could not wish them back from across those mountains.

Au revoir, my child!

Not goodbye, never goodbye. We will meet again.

All you have to do is reach out your hand…

Our language of love is you.

Sometimes we’re drawn to places without knowing why—maybe because part of us remembers something we can’t name.

Our ancestors walk with us.

We do not walk alone.

Those who came before also wept, hoped…and healed.

And now they reach out to us, just as their ancestors did for them. Whether the extended hand is on this side, or the other.

Reach out.

Clasp a hand.

_____________________________________________________________

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