Lord Colliers Active Retirement Life

This morning began in Vitry-le-François, a town defined by industry and grit. Downtown isn’t a postcard—it’s functional, structured, and visibly shaped by post-war reconstruction. Broad avenues and boxy buildings speak to utility over charm. Open factories, machine plants, and rows of mechanical workshops line the streets. There’s work here, and you can feel it in the bones of the place.

And yet, a surprising contrast: Sunday morning tradition. Well-dressed men and women emerged, making their way toward the central church. Suits, dresses, polished shoes—the kind of attire you rarely see these days outside weddings or funerals. I was struck by the formality, the ceremony. Still, you can sense a shift. Like much of Europe, France is seeing religion fade with the younger generation. There’s quiet dignity in the rituals, but also a noticeable absence—rows of empty pews where young voices once might have sung.

By mid-morning, I left town, bound for Chez Maria in Drosnay. It was a short walking day—just six hours through the countryside—but the transition was dramatic. The noise of Vitry faded behind me, replaced by rustling leaves and occasional birdsong.

Small villages passed by like gentle exhalations—quiet, crumbling, perfectly still. Cobblestone paths, shuttered windows, cats stretched out in patches of sunlight. You could walk through one in five minutes—but you’d miss something if you did.

And then—music. Laughter. Voices rising over garden fences. I had stumbled upon the happy festival, and what a beautiful surprise it was. Families from the village had gathered in full. Generations mingled effortlessly—sharing food, pouring wine, telling stories.

It was one of those rare, honest moments of community—hopeful, human, joyful. People opened their arms to a stranger without agenda or performance. Just celebration, for its own sake. These are the moments that remind you why walking matters. It’s not just going from place to place—it’s about being in the world, fully.

I arrived at Chez Maria in Drosnay around four o’clock, a little early, and what a welcome. The village itself, though small, carries a quiet legacy. Once home to a remarkable 16th-century timber-framed church—Église Saint-Laurent—Drosnay lost that historic landmark to fire in 2020. It was one of the last surviving examples of its kind in the region. Locals still speak of it with pride and sadness—a reminder of how fragile history can be, and how deeply rooted it remains in the landscape.

The hosts at Chez Maria were warm, kind, and generous. You don’t feel like a guest here; you feel like family. Within minutes, stories were being shared, and the tea brewed!

Today was a day of contrast—between industry and countryside, between silence and song, between solitude and celebration. But at every turn, something grounded me. Something asked me to slow down, to notice.

Tonight, I will sleep well—grateful for the road, the people, and the little things that find you when you’re paying attention.