The refuge at La Chapelle Baloue was so dark and ill lit that once the four of us were up we decided not to bother trying to make breakfast there, but to get on the road. The little grocers in town was shut, but very kindly opened to give us an excellent cup of coffee and a slice of a nutty cake. This fortified, off we went.
Marijka from Holland, Serge, a Frenchman living in Austria, Cécile from Dijon, and moi. It was cold in the morning and we settled down to some steady walking. The countryside was beautiful, but strangely empty. Cécile said that it was one of the poorest parts of France, offering few opportunities for young people, no big industries. The farming all seemed to be fairly small-scale, and there were large expanses of what looked like parkland. Hunting is still a thing in this part of France, and we saw signs for hunting grounds.
We also surprised a beautiful roe deer, which went leaping away, her white tail bobbing, followed twenty seconds later by her young.
Much of the walking was on lanes or bridle paths, and was very pleasant indeed. Here is charming little woodland rest point made for pilgrims.
We stopped in Saint Germain Beaupré after nine kilometers, where we had been told there was somewhere to get coffee. But it was closed. Behind the Mairie was a public toilet in a terrible state, and some seats, equally tatty, where we stopped for snack from our own resources. The church had a very unusual belltower
On our way out of the village passed a waste ground which was filled with broken remains of family tombs. It felt very disrespectful to see them all smashed up with names showing by the side of the road.
Five kilometers further along glorious pathways we got to St Agnant de Versillat. We hadn’t walked together as a foursome; we recognised that everyone had their own rhythm and so we stretched out along the path and regrouped at various points. It so happened that I got there before the others, just as children were coming out of school for lunch. I asked a young couple if there was somewhere to get a coffee, and found myself invited back to their house. As we stepped through the door it was clear that all was ready for lunch. They pressed me to stay with them, so I had salad, a pot au feu, and a big mug of coffee with Jean-Cédric, Lorraine his painter wife, and their three children, Léah, Louis, and Landry. Here they are.
It was such a privilege and a surprise, and a blessing to meet them.
We had been warned that it was very uphill to La Souterraine, our end point, and so it proved, but the pathway was good, and the views magnificent. Nearly at La Souterraine we met some workmen clearing up fly-tipping. They were able to explain the town’s peculiar name. It is 1020 years old, and much of the old town, in a valley has two stories of cellars which are connected by tunnels, so for all the town you see above ground there is as much beneath, La Souterraine!
Our hostel tonight is an excellent one, a great improvement on last night’s rather grim refuge. This is my view
Trashed tombs and family hospitality left me reflecting on the importance of respect today. It may be that the village with the smashed tombs has carefully noted all the lost details, but I would not be surprised if they hadn’t. We are all dust in the end, but who we were and how we passed through is not uninteresting, as we each put our atom of influence into human development.
By contrast, my lunchtime family were as gracious and respectful and as interested as you could hope for, from little Landry, keen to show me how she could count to ten in English, to her father, who told me that he liked welcoming passers-by, and had applied to the Mairie to reopen the cafe. I hope they let him, society needs more people like him creating community.
From The Quire 