constanttrek

Le Colonel and another 100km

October 29th, 2004

Ah the relief, the wonderful liberation, of a light pack!
We are in Chateau Renault after four successive days of fairly strenuous walking – we have covered over 100km – but it is difficult to convey how vastly different it is with a light pack. I can actually lift mine up all by myself now (VERY exciting) and Gary’s looks more like a pack and less like a strange life form from Mars. The first day we left Chateaudon, we had 30km to do – we were 10km down the road before we had our first chocolate break. That’s a record for us, and the miles really did fly by. Unfortunately, being the gifted and astute map readers that we are, we then managed to get lost, and wandered in useless circles for an hour or so. But at least the packs didn’t hurt.
We were on the way to the house of Le Colonel in Freteval, another of Frank’s contacts who had offered to accommodate us for a night. It was an experience I am unlikely to forget in a hurry.
After an extremely long day, we arrived at Le Colonel’s at around 7.00. We were already on the back foot, as we were nearly an hour after the agreed arrival time, and given that the man has a military background, it wasn’t the ideal beginning. The home of the Le Colonel and his wife, La Colonelle as we can call her from here on, is rather spectacular. It is a 16th century Manor House that has been in the family for several hundred years. It faces the river Loir, and is covered in brilliant red and gold autumn leaves. We were met at the gate by le Colonel himself, the very picture of military efficiency with a plush, trim moustache, silver hair and wiry frame. He was dressed in a neat, well cut suit, and welcomed us with great old world courtesy – all that was missing was the formal bow. La Colonelle met us in the reception hall, and she too looked the very epitome of what a military wife should be – not a hair out of place, well tailored, and composed. The reception hall itself was enough to scare the wits out of me – the paintings alone would have made the curator of the Louvre slather, not to mention the fine Louis 15th furniture and walking sticks in on the stand from the previous 10 or so generations, all with initials engraved. Obviously Gary and I, mud soaked and stinking, perfectly complemented our surroundings.
We de-packed in the hall and were shown into a formal lounge, “for drinks”. We had established by this stage that Le Colonel and the missus spoke nary a word of English, which didn’t bode particularly well for the evening, given that mine is a somewhat tenuous grasp on the language, and Gary’s non-existant.
Horribly conscious of our less than attractive state, we perched on the edge of the antique sofa and sipped timidly at our crystal glasses, whilst the patrician couple perched on high backed chairs opposite and eyed us warily. After a few stilted attempts at conversation, Le Colonel informed us that dinner would be at 7.30 – I got the distinct impression that after being late, messing with the time frame would not be advisable – and showed us to our chambre. It was, of course, absolutely beautiful, a whole wing of the old house with a wonderfully comfortable bed and exposed beams in the ceiling. Unfortunately we had not a moment to appreciate it, as by now we had exactly 15 minutes to get showered, dressed, and down to dinner.
After eyeing the bath longingly – oh, you don’t know how longingly – we threw our sole set of clean clothes on and raced downstairs. La Colonelle showed us to our places around the exquisitely set table – and we sat down to eat.
And it was wonderful. It really was. After five minutes, we discovered that the Colonel had a fantastic sense of humour, even through the language barrier; La Colonelle was tres sympathetique, and extremely patient with my bad French. Gary, lucky sod, got to just sit there and nod, mouthing the occasional “oui” and “merci” due to his total lack of French. I babbled on in my customary fashion, which was a shame really, as the food was truly superb. I would hesitate to call the settings relaxed – I suspect what Le Colonel views as relaxed would, for most of us, be the equivalent of dinner at Buckingham Palace – but they were certainly an education. Blame the fact that I’m Australian if you will, but I am usually utterly terrified of grand surroundings, especially those with the kind of refined hush which makes a ticking clock sound momentous. Sitting at the beautifully laid table, surrounded by a plethora of silver and crystal in the presence of people who have the business of elegance down to an art form, there were endless opportunities for the kind of natural disaster I specialise in. Gary spent most of the dinner eyeing me nervously, terrified that I would smash a century old plate, or fart at an inopportune moment. It was tempting.
But in actual fact the couple were typically French in their innate courtesy, and went to every effort to put us at our ease. The food was absolutely marvellous (the cheese! Oh my god, the cheese!) and they were far from the uptight equivalent in England. After dinner we retired to the lounge again where I made the only bad language stuff up of the night. We were discussing smoking, which the Colonel still does and I have recently quit, and I thought that he offered me a cigarette. Terrified of how much I’d still love one, I shook my head emphatically and said a very strong, “non, merci”. He looked rather surprised and asked me again – at this point I realised his wife was highly amused, and worked out that in fact he had asked if I minded if he smoked. In his own home. To which I had said that I certainly did mind, and would he please not, thankyou. At least they laughed about it.
In the end we had a lovely night, and a wonderful sleep, and the lunch that La Colonelle packed for us the following day was nothing short of sensational. It was a real privilege to stay in such a magnificent ancestral home, amongst members of what I imagine you could call “old France”. If slightly terrifying.
We walked from there to Villiers-sur-Loir, a small village the other side of the town of Vendome. It was a beautiful place, and we had an amazing meal at the small hotel there – ten euros each for an absolutely fabulous four course meal. Man I love this country.
The very kindly hotel owner where we stayed had a daughter who had spent time in Australia – he treated us to a lovely bottle of local wine whilst we sat and chatted to her. She was such an extraordinarily articulate, self possessed young woman that I was utterly gobsmacked to discover she was only sixteen. She told us something that many French people seem to bemoan – France isn’t what it was, the immigration problem is enormous, and the people are stressed. It is something we have heard a lot since we have been here. It is difficult to reconcile that viewpoint with the wonderfully relaxed lifestyle so many seem to enjoy; but it most definitely is a concern here. Taxes are high – the hotel owner told us he pays 55%! – and the social security system is overwhelmed by the immigrants flooding in since the relaxation of European borders. It is exactly the same situation as everybody moans about in England. But I don’t know – the French seem a fairly cheerful lot to me. Particularly those two. It was a joy to talk with them, and the wine was superb!
So two more days of walking has brought us here, to Chateau Renault, where we are having a rest day before heading to Tours. The walk here was absolutely idyllic, along beautiful forest rides, across lush fields, and beside the river. The 30km day yesterday felt more like 20, and the sun shone throughout. Far more exciting, though, was what we discovered in our budget hotel room – it has a BATH! Oh thankyou, there is a God. The groans when Gary lowered his aching bones into it were enough to make every light in town go on and the population suspect we were indulging in a mass orgy. The sublime sensation of a hot, foamy bath after ten hours walking is impossible to convey. Take my word it was gooooood.
We are making good time now and catching up on the long delay. We are also rather excited as we are heading for Vouvray, where the Loire Valley’s most famous wines are produced. You may or may not see me again after I reach the cellars. If not, don’t worry. I will have died a contented woman.

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