Day 19. Limoges to Bord (22 kms). June 17, 2012
A chateau near Bord
Creeping like snail unwillingly to... Flavignac
I was sluggish again today and was still in Limoges at nine o'clock. It even crossed my mind to spend an extra day there, but then I thought of my dingy little hotel and decided to move on. The markets were open early so I bought my croissants and had my first coffee. It took me a while to get out of town.
It is interesting how all over the world the local inhabitants enjoy giving directions to strangers. It may even provide more pleasure to the giver than the receiver of directions. People give me detailed instructions, study my map, tell me about their visit to Canada, and even take me where I want to go.
And on the subject of kindness and generosity, at the bar where I stopped for a second coffee, still in Limoges, the patron brought me out a complimentary crepe to go with it. He was Moroccan, and impressed with the fact that I was from Canada. "Morocco, Canada. Like this!" he said with a big thumbs up. Either our present government hasn't totally destroyed our international reputation or he's not quite up with our present policies.
I plodded along the road all day. In the afternoon, the sun came out and I walked along a shady lane past a series of water mills. In some cases the water was still flowing swiftly down the leet and I thought it would be possible to install a turbine and generate electricity.
Towards the end of the day I passed a chateau. You could probably buy it for the cost of a house in Victoria, but then it would cost the same amount each month to maintain it.
So I never made it to Flavignac. I couldn't face the prospect of a rudimentary gite and the can of canard confit which I've been carrying around for ten days now. (I know that if I dump it I will suddenly find myself in a town where I can't get any food.) I'm staying in a B & B at Bord, a hamlet about ten kilometres short of the scheduled stop. So I have a bit to make up.
Once again, a barn which formed part of the same building as the farmhouse, has been converted into quarters for guests.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
I was sluggish again today and was still in Limoges at nine o'clock. It even crossed my mind to spend an extra day there, but then I thought of my dingy little hotel and decided to move on. The markets were open early so I bought my croissants and had my first coffee. It took me a while to get out of town.
It is interesting how all over the world the local inhabitants enjoy giving directions to strangers. It may even provide more pleasure to the giver than the receiver of directions. People give me detailed instructions, study my map, tell me about their visit to Canada, and even take me where I want to go.
And on the subject of kindness and generosity, at the bar where I stopped for a second coffee, still in Limoges, the patron brought me out a complimentary crepe to go with it. He was Moroccan, and impressed with the fact that I was from Canada. "Morocco, Canada. Like this!" he said with a big thumbs up. Either our present government hasn't totally destroyed our international reputation or he's not quite up with our present policies.
I plodded along the road all day. In the afternoon, the sun came out and I walked along a shady lane past a series of water mills. In some cases the water was still flowing swiftly down the leet and I thought it would be possible to install a turbine and generate electricity.
Towards the end of the day I passed a chateau. You could probably buy it for the cost of a house in Victoria, but then it would cost the same amount each month to maintain it.
So I never made it to Flavignac. I couldn't face the prospect of a rudimentary gite and the can of canard confit which I've been carrying around for ten days now. (I know that if I dump it I will suddenly find myself in a town where I can't get any food.) I'm staying in a B & B at Bord, a hamlet about ten kilometres short of the scheduled stop. So I have a bit to make up.
Once again, a barn which formed part of the same building as the farmhouse, has been converted into quarters for guests.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 20. Bord to La Coquille (28 kms). June 18, 2012
Curiouser and curiouser
As I left the gite this morning, I witnessed a couple employing a curious means of locomotion. He was heavily laden like a mule, and she was hitched to a little cart like a donkey. I'm not sure, considering the physics, who had the better of it. She would have been propelled down the slopes, but he would have had it easier going uphill. In any case they would have been limited to the roads.
And in the afternoon, I came upon a curious juxtaposition of signs above a gate which held back a pack of barking dogs. The first said: "Attention au chien". The second said: "Defense d'entrer". The third said: "Bienvenue". I was going to take a photo, but a woman appeared and threatened to set the dogs on me.
Then I passed a field of corn prevented from straying by an electric fence.
I walked a long way today and now I've made up lost ground. And I've got a bed at the municipal gite.
Last night I slept in a feather bed, and tonight I'm with the gypsies, O
So to speak. Last night I had a bed with sheets in my own room. Tonight, I have the last lower bunk in a small room with four doubles.
It was cool and overcast as I walked along the highway in the morning, but in the afternoon the sun shone and I strolled along a shady lane with woods on either side. Once again, I was taken by the magical light.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
As I left the gite this morning, I witnessed a couple employing a curious means of locomotion. He was heavily laden like a mule, and she was hitched to a little cart like a donkey. I'm not sure, considering the physics, who had the better of it. She would have been propelled down the slopes, but he would have had it easier going uphill. In any case they would have been limited to the roads.
And in the afternoon, I came upon a curious juxtaposition of signs above a gate which held back a pack of barking dogs. The first said: "Attention au chien". The second said: "Defense d'entrer". The third said: "Bienvenue". I was going to take a photo, but a woman appeared and threatened to set the dogs on me.
Then I passed a field of corn prevented from straying by an electric fence.
I walked a long way today and now I've made up lost ground. And I've got a bed at the municipal gite.
Last night I slept in a feather bed, and tonight I'm with the gypsies, O
So to speak. Last night I had a bed with sheets in my own room. Tonight, I have the last lower bunk in a small room with four doubles.
It was cool and overcast as I walked along the highway in the morning, but in the afternoon the sun shone and I strolled along a shady lane with woods on either side. Once again, I was taken by the magical light.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 21. La Coquille to Thivier. June 19, 2012
Limoges cathedral
Interviewer: Elvis, what do you like most about Memphis?
Elvis: Everything!
Fog Worsens. Continent Isolated
I set out early this morning along a minor road which soon became so little used that moss was growing along the centre. Eventually it became a stony track. Queen Anne's lace, fern and foxgloves, and what the English call eggs and bacon (or is it bacon and eggs?) lined the banks. When did someone last pass this way, I wondered. And then a jogger appeared. The loneliness of the long-distance runner, I thought. I crossed a bridge and passed a house in an absolutely idyllic setting, complete with babbling brook. Then I noticed the hole in the roof. You could probably buy this place for 500 euros and spend a million fixing it up.
I walked on and sat on a damp log to rest. Absolute tranquility! I walked on, lost in my thoughts.
Then I was lost in the bush. The road came to an end in a field of wheat. No track. I walked right around the field. No way out. At the end of the neighbouring field I could see a line of trees which might have hidden a road or a track. But how to get there? I was barred by a barrier of barbed wire, brambles, and wild roses. I managed to get through with only a few scratches, and pushed on through the long grass to the trees. On the other side was a track which led a line of electricity poles. Ah, a road. Indeed it was. But which way to turn? Left or right?
This was a classic dilemma for me. A bit like the stock market. If I buy something, it goes down. If I sell something it goes up. I have been responsible for major rallies and crashes. I would be wrong whichever way I turned.
I turned left, hoping for a car or tractor to come along so I could ask directions. None. I walked for a couple of kilometres and came to a village. I asked a woman where I was. Saint-Priest-les-Fougeres, she said. I was further from my destination than when I had started.
Of course you're wondering why I didn't retrace my steps until I found where I went wrong. You're right. I should have done, and that's the advice I would give to anybody else. But I find it very hard to go back.
All was not lost. It was still morning and I had only 20 kilometres to walk. I plodded on and eventually reached the town of Thiviers where I am staying at the campsite. I am finally going to consume the can of canard confit that I have been carrying around for two weeks. Tomorrow my pack will be lighter.
At the pub yesterday where I had my customary beer on arriving, I was served by an English woman. Another couple arrived to have a cup of tea. They spoke in an incomprehensible, north-country accent. I wondered whether this little congregation of English speakers would keep the locals away. Only one came in while I was there, and he looked as if he wasn't fussy where he had his beer.
I reflected on the ubiquity of the English in France. The other night at dinner, the conversation turned to the number of foreigners living in France. It seemed that I was headed for a region where many Dutch people lived. "And the English, where are they?" I asked. "Everywhere," was the reply. "And they tend to stick together."
The comment was not meant to be unkind. The speaker went on to say that the English, like the French, find it hard to learn another language. But many, of course, don't want to. I remember our friend Anne in Brittany telling us that her new English neighbours in the village weren't very interested in the free French lessons she was offering them.
Some English make a point of integrating. The couple at one gite where I stayed have sent their kid to school, and he is now, for all intent and purposes, French. But I was horrified to learn that some English still have a Wogs-start-at-Calais attitude. He told me about some people he knew that would go into shops and ask for goods in English and expect the shopkeepers to understand them. No way were they going to make the effort to speak a foreign language!
One of the reforms proposed in the new curriculum for primary schools in England is the compulsory learning of a foreign language. Perhaps this will result in a generation of less-insular English.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Elvis: Everything!
Fog Worsens. Continent Isolated
I set out early this morning along a minor road which soon became so little used that moss was growing along the centre. Eventually it became a stony track. Queen Anne's lace, fern and foxgloves, and what the English call eggs and bacon (or is it bacon and eggs?) lined the banks. When did someone last pass this way, I wondered. And then a jogger appeared. The loneliness of the long-distance runner, I thought. I crossed a bridge and passed a house in an absolutely idyllic setting, complete with babbling brook. Then I noticed the hole in the roof. You could probably buy this place for 500 euros and spend a million fixing it up.
I walked on and sat on a damp log to rest. Absolute tranquility! I walked on, lost in my thoughts.
Then I was lost in the bush. The road came to an end in a field of wheat. No track. I walked right around the field. No way out. At the end of the neighbouring field I could see a line of trees which might have hidden a road or a track. But how to get there? I was barred by a barrier of barbed wire, brambles, and wild roses. I managed to get through with only a few scratches, and pushed on through the long grass to the trees. On the other side was a track which led a line of electricity poles. Ah, a road. Indeed it was. But which way to turn? Left or right?
This was a classic dilemma for me. A bit like the stock market. If I buy something, it goes down. If I sell something it goes up. I have been responsible for major rallies and crashes. I would be wrong whichever way I turned.
I turned left, hoping for a car or tractor to come along so I could ask directions. None. I walked for a couple of kilometres and came to a village. I asked a woman where I was. Saint-Priest-les-Fougeres, she said. I was further from my destination than when I had started.
Of course you're wondering why I didn't retrace my steps until I found where I went wrong. You're right. I should have done, and that's the advice I would give to anybody else. But I find it very hard to go back.
All was not lost. It was still morning and I had only 20 kilometres to walk. I plodded on and eventually reached the town of Thiviers where I am staying at the campsite. I am finally going to consume the can of canard confit that I have been carrying around for two weeks. Tomorrow my pack will be lighter.
At the pub yesterday where I had my customary beer on arriving, I was served by an English woman. Another couple arrived to have a cup of tea. They spoke in an incomprehensible, north-country accent. I wondered whether this little congregation of English speakers would keep the locals away. Only one came in while I was there, and he looked as if he wasn't fussy where he had his beer.
I reflected on the ubiquity of the English in France. The other night at dinner, the conversation turned to the number of foreigners living in France. It seemed that I was headed for a region where many Dutch people lived. "And the English, where are they?" I asked. "Everywhere," was the reply. "And they tend to stick together."
The comment was not meant to be unkind. The speaker went on to say that the English, like the French, find it hard to learn another language. But many, of course, don't want to. I remember our friend Anne in Brittany telling us that her new English neighbours in the village weren't very interested in the free French lessons she was offering them.
Some English make a point of integrating. The couple at one gite where I stayed have sent their kid to school, and he is now, for all intent and purposes, French. But I was horrified to learn that some English still have a Wogs-start-at-Calais attitude. He told me about some people he knew that would go into shops and ask for goods in English and expect the shopkeepers to understand them. No way were they going to make the effort to speak a foreign language!
One of the reforms proposed in the new curriculum for primary schools in England is the compulsory learning of a foreign language. Perhaps this will result in a generation of less-insular English.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 22. Thivier to Sorges. June 20, 2012
Swans sing before they die - 'twere no bad thing
Should certain persons die before they sing.
Able was I ere I saw Elba
This morning I climbed the steepest hill so far on my walk: up from the campsite into town. The Hollanders had gone on, and avoided this little detour, but I needed my coffee.
Thiviers is a thriving little town. Even along the winding streets in the centre of the old town, cars are whizzing by, and at eight o'clock, people are out and about. Dogs are taking their masters and mistresses for their morning walk. One banner across the town square announces that the firemen are hosting a grand ball. Another invites people to give blood on Saturday morning. An ensemble d' accordeons is to give a concert in the church and the Choeur d'hommes du Perigord is to perform as well. I look at their photo and see that they are all old blokes like us in the Arion Choir. Where are the young singers? The sun is shining, and the display on the innovative flashing green cross of the pharmacy tells me that it's 9:10 and 20 degrees. It's time to move on.
After leaving town, I walked along shady lanes and across the fields. In the picture above, you can see alfalfa on the left and barley on the right. An oak stands on the left; a chestnut, on the right. And you can probably see the poppies in the foreground.
For the last part of the day, I walked along la Route Napoleon, presumably the route he followed when he came from exile to meet his Waterloo. I continued on this road into Sorges.
As I did two nights ago, I am staying at a gite run by the pilgrims' association and managed by volunteers. All is included for 20 euros.
By the way, I don't agree with Coleridge. If I did, I'd be dead.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Should certain persons die before they sing.
Able was I ere I saw Elba
This morning I climbed the steepest hill so far on my walk: up from the campsite into town. The Hollanders had gone on, and avoided this little detour, but I needed my coffee.
Thiviers is a thriving little town. Even along the winding streets in the centre of the old town, cars are whizzing by, and at eight o'clock, people are out and about. Dogs are taking their masters and mistresses for their morning walk. One banner across the town square announces that the firemen are hosting a grand ball. Another invites people to give blood on Saturday morning. An ensemble d' accordeons is to give a concert in the church and the Choeur d'hommes du Perigord is to perform as well. I look at their photo and see that they are all old blokes like us in the Arion Choir. Where are the young singers? The sun is shining, and the display on the innovative flashing green cross of the pharmacy tells me that it's 9:10 and 20 degrees. It's time to move on.
After leaving town, I walked along shady lanes and across the fields. In the picture above, you can see alfalfa on the left and barley on the right. An oak stands on the left; a chestnut, on the right. And you can probably see the poppies in the foreground.
For the last part of the day, I walked along la Route Napoleon, presumably the route he followed when he came from exile to meet his Waterloo. I continued on this road into Sorges.
As I did two nights ago, I am staying at a gite run by the pilgrims' association and managed by volunteers. All is included for 20 euros.
By the way, I don't agree with Coleridge. If I did, I'd be dead.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 23. Sorges to Perigueux (24 kms)
Un repas sans fromage est comme une journee sans soleil.
Thus spake the hospitalier as she served the cheese. And a good selection it was, augmented by Daniel's favourite, Comte, which, we decided, smelled like his father's socks. It was a good meal all round. Salad, chicken and pasta.
We were five around the table, along with the two hospitaliers.
Daniel is Dutch, and spent some time studying in Nanaimo. He is very technologically savvy, and spends much of his evening on his iPad, twittering and blogging and planning next day's route.
Carl, his father, whose real name is Carolus, Is a wiry fellow with a gesticular sense of humour.
Louis from Brazil is doing his fourth or fifth camino and is a little the worse for wear. He's the only fellow who arrives after me, sometimes several hours later. When I first saw him I thought, Ah, here's someone older than I am, but it turns out he's only 65.
And then there's Christian, a young German student, doing classics. I was interested to learn that he's going to be a Latin teacher. I asked whether he would easily find a job. No problem, he said, Latin is considered a very important subject in Germany, not only for historical reasons, but because it encourages critical thinking.
Now isn't that interesting! The English-speaking world has replaced Latin with more relevant and practical subjects, whereas the Germans have kept it up because it trains the minds of the future generation? Are they so far behind us or way ahead of us in their thinking?
I spent most of the day walking in the woods, coming out only at the outskirts of Perigeux. I passed a few ladies looking for mushroooms. It wasn't the season (September, October) but they had found a few after the rain. Then I stopped to chat with a friendly fellow with a friendly dog. I make a point of responding to friendly dogs. They are few and far between. He, the man, not the dog, told me where I was on my map.
The problem is that there are several chemins de Vezelay. First, there is the "historic route", which I am following, with my guide. Then there is the route devised by les Amis de St. Jacques in the Limosin-Perigord region. The markers of these two routes are almost the same with the yellow arrow and the Coquille de St. Jacques, but the routes don't always coincide. Then, of course, there is the GR, which joins us for a while on most days, and then grand-old-Duke-of-Yorks it off into the bush somewhere. Ultimately it doesn't matter which route you follow as long as it's direct and avoids the highway. But I like to know where I am, and that's what the fellow with the dog was telling me.
I arrived in Perigeux about two o'clock, visited the cathedral, and then walked out of town to the place where I'm staying. Having stayed here a few nights ago, Patrick had put me on to it.
Click here to continue the journey
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Thus spake the hospitalier as she served the cheese. And a good selection it was, augmented by Daniel's favourite, Comte, which, we decided, smelled like his father's socks. It was a good meal all round. Salad, chicken and pasta.
We were five around the table, along with the two hospitaliers.
Daniel is Dutch, and spent some time studying in Nanaimo. He is very technologically savvy, and spends much of his evening on his iPad, twittering and blogging and planning next day's route.
Carl, his father, whose real name is Carolus, Is a wiry fellow with a gesticular sense of humour.
Louis from Brazil is doing his fourth or fifth camino and is a little the worse for wear. He's the only fellow who arrives after me, sometimes several hours later. When I first saw him I thought, Ah, here's someone older than I am, but it turns out he's only 65.
And then there's Christian, a young German student, doing classics. I was interested to learn that he's going to be a Latin teacher. I asked whether he would easily find a job. No problem, he said, Latin is considered a very important subject in Germany, not only for historical reasons, but because it encourages critical thinking.
Now isn't that interesting! The English-speaking world has replaced Latin with more relevant and practical subjects, whereas the Germans have kept it up because it trains the minds of the future generation? Are they so far behind us or way ahead of us in their thinking?
I spent most of the day walking in the woods, coming out only at the outskirts of Perigeux. I passed a few ladies looking for mushroooms. It wasn't the season (September, October) but they had found a few after the rain. Then I stopped to chat with a friendly fellow with a friendly dog. I make a point of responding to friendly dogs. They are few and far between. He, the man, not the dog, told me where I was on my map.
The problem is that there are several chemins de Vezelay. First, there is the "historic route", which I am following, with my guide. Then there is the route devised by les Amis de St. Jacques in the Limosin-Perigord region. The markers of these two routes are almost the same with the yellow arrow and the Coquille de St. Jacques, but the routes don't always coincide. Then, of course, there is the GR, which joins us for a while on most days, and then grand-old-Duke-of-Yorks it off into the bush somewhere. Ultimately it doesn't matter which route you follow as long as it's direct and avoids the highway. But I like to know where I am, and that's what the fellow with the dog was telling me.
I arrived in Perigeux about two o'clock, visited the cathedral, and then walked out of town to the place where I'm staying. Having stayed here a few nights ago, Patrick had put me on to it.
Click here to continue the journey
______________________________________________________________________________________________________