2: Across the Loire to Burgundy

The road goes on and on and I am its prisoner. Somewhere in the valley ahead is the Loire

Backroaders sometimes find frontiers that motorwayists or redroaders don't; thus, the west east route has a series of river crossings which define different Pays or even, historically, different countries. 'Tis thus with the Loire.

Our crossing, was an entry into a different world: Burgundy.
'Twas hard to come there though as the river was in spate, the bridges long since swept away and there was civil war on the other side. Still, we managed to get a rope across the river, though it cost us a few bearers (note to self: remember to reduce food ration by five portions and only take bearers who can swim in future). Then we swam the oxen over in pairs and yoked them up to a raft we had made the previous day on which we placed the supplies and of course Carruthers who was ill yet again with Balihigh fever, though I am now inclined to believe it is syphilis.

All was well until mid-stream when a rain of spears fell on us and we were fortunate to get to the other bank with so few casualties. Bless you Mr Gatling and our own foresight in placing the gun on the bow of the raft. We could hear wounded attackers groaning in pain in the jungle. Pity some of the bearers got in the way, but we did the right thing and put them down of course, though to save ammunition we used a club (note to self: remember to reduce the food ration by 10 more portions and to get the blood off the travel trunks; leather does stain so badly).

At last, into Burgundy, a new country, rich and ripe for the exploring, and a region called Le Puisaye. So kind in the summer sun, so gentle, so friendly, backroading heaven, with ancient churches hidden in tiny villages in tiny valleys, often with an arbre de la Liberté, or hidden treasures such as the wall paintings below. Up in the lonely hills (just look at the map), some villages even with a full set of old fashioned shops; it was a pleasure to take morning coffee on a terrace and watch people going from shop to shop, crossing the square, chattering away, on a perfect morning.

And people seemed so happy to talk of their lives and environment, even do a little troc, as the delightful elderly lady who happily swapped a goodly pile of blackberries for some of my shallots.

But why, oh why, don't doesn't France look after its old buildings; I came across possibly the finest church wall paintings I have ever seen in a scruffy village, at a hot, hot lunchtime when people were guzzling heartily on the terraces of the local pizzeria, but the church was in decay. Reading the visitors book, it was clear that there was much anger directed at this neglect and aimed at the histroic buildings commission in Paris, but yet nobody can do anything about it.

Another old church which was unlocked for my inspection had been restored by a cowboy subcontractor, and as the proud old lady pointed out, they were not even allowed to clean the birdshit off 15th century monastery benches, complete with misericordes, which had been defaced by the Revolution and getting permission took three years!

And then to Joigny on the Yonne; it should be a lovely little town with a mediaeval centre, splendid section of river and overhung by vine fields. But no, the place was empty, sterile and oddly threatening, particularly the narrow lanes of mediaeval houses running up the hill towards the old centre. These were dark and seemed seedy, full of white vans, bikes and cars being repaired, dark corners with piles of rubbish bags, some buildings unkempt,smelling of cat piss. The contrast with other places was startling. We hurried away.

And spent the night in laagered encampment at the end of a steep, twisty lane that the locals said went nowhere, but was possibly the highest point in northern Burgundy, with the whole country splendid in the fading light, next to an old Roman road.

And in a cool autumn breeze, the dogs ran free, the rosé chilled outside, and as the light faded, families of sangliers appeared a few metres from us, and NO, Mildred there is no foto because sitting on the heads of two dogs going berserk, trying to shut the cc door and get the camera was too much. One half strangled bark and they were back in the forest.

We slept deep, accompanied by the sound of Roman legions moving north where there must be some trouble, some silent, some singing dirty songs about ladies' parts, some about their commander who seems to have the prowess of a randy elephant on the little blue pills.

Then early, we take the same route as those troops for 20 kms or so, a road in superb condition, thanks to farmers and plenty of flinty stone, with just enough grass in the middle to clean Missy's bottom a little. Wellllll, a girl needs attention!

The bestest sleeping place ever.

And then we turn south a little, to Chablis and flee fast. A rich little town with splendid wine and not a lot else. But in leaving we stumble on the valley of le Serein, a step back in time as almost every village oozes mediaeval character, topped by Noyers which seems to have been totally untouched by the centuries, except for the tourists, the tat shops and the sheer impossibility of parking a cc.

So we go to Epoisses instead where the dogs sulk and I rubberneck the chateau, once visited apparently by Good Queen Bess the Second, and meet a Parisian couple (yes, Mildred, I do speak to them), who spit out that the aristoctatic owner is also a banker; then coffee with a divine, young thing, all alone, blessed with the best bum ever and the smile of an angel.

And we travel onwards, without the lady who matters, but with Leonard Cohen to remind us of the dark and the light and the space between, and perhaps there are tears in our eyes too for the person missing. But that is another story.