Thursday, 16 June 2005
Distance 20 km
Duration 3 hours 55 minutes
Ascent 175 m, descent 144 m
Map 40 of the
During the night the gentle rain continued, but by morning it was gone.
At the café, whilst drinking our splendid large coffees, we realised that we were in single-kiss country, a very unusual thing in France. On our travels we have encountered two kisses, three kisses, even four kisses, but never anything as cursory as one. There must be too many Englishmen around.
It was 10 o’clock before we departed and we walked three uneventful hours on the little road to Villefagnan, the only sight of interest being a windmill with the skeleton of its sails still attached.
At the village there were signs pointing to the Office of Tourism but when we followed them up a flight of stairs, we found ourselves in a rural museum with some hayforks and drays.
The two attendants, who could well have been exhibits themselves, said that the Office did not open until the first of July, but that there was camping “à la ferme” about a kilometre away.
It was hot by now and we had lunch with our backs against the shady wall of the Mairie, then coffee at a hot little corner bar before setting off to the camping. We did not like the sound of camping “à la ferme” – it reminded us of the squalid place on the pilgrimage near Figeac – but we were pleasantly surprised.
Quite quickly we arrived at the farm and found what amounted to a holiday village there, with cabins and tent enclosures, a fine swimming pool and a barbecue area half-constructed. The holiday season had not begun yet and most of the place was empty.
We found the owners in the cool interior of the house, bottling produce from their farm. The woman was straight-haired and fine-featured, dressed in conservative style. When we said we were walking she assumed we meant hitch-hiking (le stop).
After a swim we rested in the shade of a tree. Our farmer host excused himself politely as he drove past us, probably to some destination three or four days’ walk away.
A drunkard suggested we could eat 8 km away, but we explained we were on foot, and the woman kindly relented. She would feed us but there would be little choice, just crudités, boeuf bourguignon and cheese. We accepted gratefully.
Then we had to decide where to eat – in the bar, the dining room or the courtyard. “Amongst us!” roared the lout at the bar, “Amongst the French!” (he was Belgian).
We decided on the courtyard, as the evening was mild. We were awaiting the first course when a group of people came through the wide archway from the road and recognised us.
They were the four British cyclists we had met at Melle, who were staying in a house nearby. We thoroughly enjoyed their company with dinner and made sure they were grateful for our part in getting the woman to open her kitchen.
At the farm we found the woman in her kitchen, which took up most of the ground floor. Although it was only built in 1925, it had all the traditional virtues, such as a stone floor, thick walls, low windowsills with the glass opening in and the shutters out.
We paid our €9, as we would be leaving very early in the morning, we said.