Day 9 Moulins to Chantelle. “Bouge ton Bouble”

A wealth of experiences today, what travel is all about.The picture at the top is someone I met on the way.

Competing spires viewed from the bridge leaving Moulins, perhaps the cathedral holds delights, but I found the place charmless, look at that traffic.

An early french iron bridge, lacks the elegance
of Brunel’s effort I think.

The river Allier, tributary of the Loire, which created this flat plain across which I am moving.

I’ve seen so many f these charolais bulls I had to get a picture of one, handsome beasts.

It’s France, must be vines, the appellation here is called St. Porcain, haven’t tried any yet.

After following the Allier river, oak woodland.

The ground starts to rise a bit, there are some old churches in this area.

and the door between, I want to live here.

As the ground rises and perspectives are possible, that faint line above the horizon is the outline of the Massif Central mountains, where I’m headed.

I’m starting to take pictures of churches now, something about them, a sense of age, of centuries.

and around the front a beautiful romanesque arch and an open door …

The pride of this church is this column capital carved in 1164 of St. James. Patron saint of pilgrims, he has his staff, cloak, beard. But no cockle shell, perhaps that came later? He has one shoe off and one on. Bare feet mean an apostle of Christ, the shoe indicates his pilgrimmage (can’t do the miles on bare feet).

I didn’t take a picture of the inside, six massive pillars holding up a high roof, that special sense of dark quiet you get, and all those centuries of worship in the atmosphere.

Finally I dive down a steep gorge, a river called “Bouble” sliding and slithering over wet rocks and mud, then climb the other side to this platform, for a nice long rest in the sun, I’m nearly at tonight’s BandB.

Which is a house full of curiosities and artworks, my room was Parrot themed, with one guarding the tissues.

The host was worried that I would not find a restaurant to eat at because of an event in town – “I can’t explain what it is” he said. So on his advice I rushed out at 6:30 in search of a restaurant seat.

He was right, there was not a restaurant seat to be had. The festival was “Bouge ton Bouble” which broadly translated probably means “shake your funky stuff”

Five or six brass bands, in various bizzare get-ups performing pop songs and jazz standards in wild styles, three at once along the main street. It was glorious fun.

I was starving, but there were stalls selling sausages and chips. I took a large portion and wandered down to the bottom of the gorge to find a peaceful seat and eat by the river. Down there I was alone except for a teenage boy, bent over his mobile phone, he looked up and gave a polite “bonjour” as French kids do. Later a girlfriend appeared, followed closely by a mother – I couldn’t understand the whole ensuing conversation but “You are only 14 years old” came across clearly.