Haute Limosin / Vienne: The Walk

“It’s only four kilometres. Turn left here, then go straight. At the crossroads turn right. The bar is on your right, two hundred yards down there. It’s run by a couple from Manchester.”

With that I set off happily in the spring sunshine, without my phone and its locational databank. It needed charging up, as its ageing battery is beginning to deteriorate. Regardless, 4km is less than an hour’s walk for me, but I did take my notebook, with pencil and two pens, in case one ran out of ink.

Two hours of ambling passed as I headed due North, punctuated by stops to look at flowers and trees, watch the lambs and ewes, cattle with calves, birds, help a huge caterpillar off the road, consider the rocks that lie randomly about heathland and piled up around oak trees.

An hour out, I came across an abandoned football field with one rusting steel goal frame and two crooked stanchions at the far end from a securely locked club house. A single rail barrier ran down the right-side half of the overgrown pitch.

The low clubhouse had steel shutters and metal grill over the doorway, showing it may still be used. A two wheel agricultural trailer loaded with wooden benches and folded tables was neatly parked in the sheltered left end of the building. Although no longer used for football, the building and field were still valued as a good site for regular community events, if only on an annual basis.

The condition of the playing field suggests that the young people have moved away from the area, or that a better standard of sports facilities are available within an easy drive. It was reassuring to see the pavilion has a life.

It dawned on me that, even at a relaxed pace, I should have reached the village by now. The absence of power lines draped from posts along the roadside was also a clue. I had passed no houses since the railway crossing. Farmhouses were prominent from time to time on the brows of the softly rounded hills. Woodland was thickening.

Rather than turn back, assuming that the road would reach a village soon enough, I pushed on, upping the pace. The road began to dip and finally I could see a collection of cottages. Thankfully it had a road-sign pointing to my destination. It said 3.5km. Another finger of the signpost pointed to the source of la Brâme river. This meant that I was now 8km from my start.

A woman was leading an old nag by a rope. I checked with her that I was now on course and she assured me the village I sought was “straight ahead”. Which it was this time.

I now realised my original guide had meant follow the main road along, not go straight. Not being a walker per se, he drives everywhere. Straight to him meant stay on, not literally go straight.

I had enjoyed every step of the way, but was now quite thirsty. I was aware the Sun was much lower in the sky. Thick shadows were stretching across the fields and road now and the temperature was beginning to fall.

Just as I was losing touch with good humour, I caught sight of a small bird with a pale chest, swoop onto a tree to my left. Its nimble movement to the underside of the bough, then down the tree, identified it unmistakeably as a Tree Creeper.

I managed to grab the binoculars and could clearly see its slender downward curving beak. The last Tree Creeper I had seen had been in Bois de Boulogne, one Easter when visiting Paris. That bird took an age to deal with a very wriggly millipede, which kept twisting itself around the beak in its fight for life. The bird eventually won. This sighting today, fleeting as it had been, made the whole 7km detour worthwhile.

I passed signs to a bar at Chevaliéres. The indications were this was patronised by English speakers. A BMW Mini, a Range Rover both passed me heading there. I pressed on and eventually found the place I was looking for. This too was creaking at the seams with anglophones, including a pair of self-exiled Australians. I knocked back a small beer and took a while to explore the village.

I was hoping to find another bar, one possibly less Anglicised. I wanted to feel that I was away from talk of property. and online dating, I had heard enough of that in the Somerset pub. Down one street I saw a young woman sitting at a bench, chatting on her mobile, outside a likely venue. A large man, bearded with weathered face, hopped off his bicycle and strode in. A white metal table with a couple of matching chairs, was positioned on the far side of the doorway, ideally placed to savour the evening sunshine.

“Excuse moi. Un bar?” I interrupted the woman. She laughed heartily.

“Non! Mais…” she continued cheerily in French, indicating by waving into her house, that I may go in and have a drink if I wished. A little embarrassed, I thanked her for the spontaneous offer, apologised for my misconception and headed back up the road. The cottage would have made a lovely village bar, shame.

I decided not to follow the twisting main route directly home. It had no pavement, was lined with high hedgerows and embankments and the vehicles I did see seemed to be all in a rush. Instead, I walked out of the village past the white walls of a surprisingly large cemetery for such a small settlement. I turned at the first crossroads beyond the water and phone towers and retraced my path on the straighter, undulating lanes.

I met a much older man, wrapped in a walking jacket, wearing a scarf and wool hat. He had a hiker’s walking stick, which he leant on for a moment as we greeted each other.

“Le printemps. Spring is here.” he said with a smile.

As I headed on, I wondered how many springtimes he had enjoyed. I wondered how many I would have left to enjoy.

Today certainly looked like Spring had arrived, but a cold wind persisted throughout and an even colder night was drawing in.

~

CLP 14/03/2026