The journey between the permaculture farm and the Chateau was around forty miles, and turned out to be quite eventful. I set off early, walking by the roadside with my thumb out-stretched to hitch a ride. After walking for about twenty minutes, a suave looking couple in an electric Renault slowed down and pulled over. They were only going as far as the next village so, after a brief chat, we arrived in Preuilly-Sur-Claise where they parked, wished me luck and headed off to the market. We were early, but the market was already active. Vendors were selling local goats cheese (chevre), wine and charcuterie. The smell of freshly baked baguettes drifted out of a small pink boulangerie whilst a waiter arranged tables outside a nearby restaurant, chair legs scraping noisily against the pavement.
On the outskirts of town, a hedge-lined road carried cars off into the fields and on to the next village; Le Grand Pressigny. Standing where the footpath ended, I attempted to hitch another ride but after half an hour of disapproving frowns, I decided to check the bus timetable instead. There was time to pick up a croissant before the bus pulled in and I hopped on, hopefully waving a card. The card machine was broken but, since I was going just one stop, the driver let me on for free. By the time the bus arrived at Le Grand Pressigny, the morning was getting hot, and with a heavy rucksack I walked again to the outskirts of town. I found another spot that looked like a promising place to hitch a ride, this time to a town called Descartes. Just as I arrived at a fork in the road, another Renault, this time a beaten-up hatchback, pulled up next to me.
The driver was a dance teacher named Lucile. Lucile would often come by the vegetable farm to chat with the workers and pick up free vegetables – she was a long-time friend of the farmer. The previous week, Lucile had been visiting the farm whilst her car was being repaired and she had needed a lift to the garage. After discovering that I had a driving license, she happily concluded that I could give her a lift in Pauline’s car. So, leaving a slightly bemused looking Pauline behind, I drove Lucile to the garage, attempting to speak French whilst navigating the narrow country roads. Roads in the French countryside are only wide enough for one car. Whenever someone drives the other way both drivers have to veer onto the verge to make space. It was whilst navigating such a road that I came to know Lucile.
She offered to give me a lift to Descartes, “if it was problem, I no offer”, so for the second time I found myself in the car with her, trying to converse in French. After a quick circle around the centre of Le Grand Pressigny, during which time we blocked a bus on the one-way system and nearly reversed into a parked car, we headed out towards Descartes. She dropped me off at lunchtime, and we wished each other good luck and safe travels before going our separate ways.
Descartes was a large, uninteresting town built along the river Creuse. Several large highways passed nearby, so I selected one that seemed like good point to hitch a ride from and set off walking again. Hitchhiking in France isn’t illegal, but if you’re spotted walking beside major roads, the police (or ‘Gendarme’ in the countryside) will likely pick you up and drop you off at a bus stop. Conscious there was a large Gendarmerie not far away, I walked a large loop out of the town and along the highway. After more disapproving frowns at much higher speeds, I moved off the highway and onto a less exposed bit of road. With no ride forthcoming there either, and the sun beating down hard, I went back into Descartes to find a place to refill my water bottle. French afternoon had arrived by this point and nowhere was open. I roamed around for a while getting worryingly thirsty until I found myself passing through an industrial estate near the Creuse. There, beside a half-finished road bridge, I came across a cycle track where a group of people were gathered around a barbecue.
The road bridge was actually a starting ramp, and at the end of it the track extended out before winding back on itself to make four adjacent lines connected by sweeping banks. People were whizzing around the track with varying degrees of success, and I was informed that this was the end of year barbecue for the cycling club; BMX Descartes. After explaining my situation to three or four beer-wielding dads by the barbecue, my bottle was immediately filled and I was offered various bits of food, including andouillette, a sausage made entirely from pig intestines. A delicacy in southern France, andouillette has a heavy, peppery smell and looks delicious until you cut into it, causing greasy, grey intestines to collapse over the plate. My new hosts seemed a little disappointed that this wasn’t my new favourite food, but graciously stopped insisting that I take a plateful. We started talking about the cycle track and before long I had a helmet thrust into my hands and was given a bike to take around the track.
After Descartes I gave up on hitchhiking and chose instead to walk along the Voie Verte. The Voies Vertes were a network of cycle paths that snaked through the French countryside, far from main roads. Most of France is accessible one way or another via the Voie Verte, and a portion of it connected Descartes to Port-de-Piles; the next town over to the West. I messaged Jeff who agreed to collect me from there by car.
Seven kilometres of open fields broken up by the occasional barn passed by quickly after the stop in Descartes, and the sun was much more bearable in the late afternoon. When I arrived in Port-de-Piles, I stopped off in a cafe to refill my water bottle. A elderly server sat alone behind the bar smoking a small cigar. After asking him to fill my bottle, he unsmilingly filled it up with bottled sparkling water. Expecting a scam, I gave a suspicious “merçi” and took a sip, eyeing the man for a reaction. When he gave none, I asked how much it would cost. He shook his head and said “non”. Tables turned, I insisted on paying the generous man who had gifted me not one but two bottles of sparkling water. He practically shouted when I put a couple of euros on the counter, so I thanked him and moved on quickly.
The time was around six in the evening, but the Boulangerie was still open and there was one pain au chocolat left. Otherwise the town was quiet, so I waited on a bench beside the Mairie (mayor’s office), sunburnt but content, for my lift to arrive.
