Lord Colliers Active Retirement Life

Dampierre-sur-Salon to Gy

Last night turned out to be one of the most memorable so far. I had dinner with four others at my accommodation. Everyone was a bit reserved at first, but that changed quickly.

Within an hour, we were swapping stories about tours, vacations, mishaps, and hilarious travel fails. The wine definitely helped—maybe a bit too much. We even sampled a strong local beer called Via Francigena, brewed nearby. It was a warm, easy evening full of laughter and great conversation. Two of my dinner companions were a cycling couple headed south—funny, sharp, and clearly in their element.

This morning, I set off for Gy with a light heart and a heavy head. The landscape is changing again—shifting from central France into more rugged terrain. Hills are getting steeper, climbs longer. You can feel the land pulling upward, with peaks rising in the distance. The walking feels more purposeful now, as if the path is preparing me for something ahead.

Along the way, I found myself thinking about the early pilgrims who walked the Via Francigena—no GPS, no proper shoes, no showers. It must have been brutal. My own complaints—blisters, sore feet, bad sleep—seem trivial in comparison.

Just as I was lost in those thoughts, a group of unruly farm dogs charged at me. Thankfully, I had my walking sticks, and after a few tense exchanges, they backed off—looking confused and, I like to think, a little defeated. Out here, where towns are few and people even fewer, the dogs rule the fields. Can’t blame them—I’m the intruder.

After arriving in Gy and wandering around—mostly just a worn-down château and quiet streets—I decided to take it easy. I spent the afternoon by the pool, stretched out under the sun. For some reason, people kept handing me beers—and out of politeness (or maybe gratitude), I accepted every one. It was exactly the kind of lazy, peaceful afternoon I needed.

Gy is a quiet village in the rolling countryside of eastern France. Once the seat of the archbishops of Besançon, its faded château still looms over stone streets and weathered houses. Life here moves slowly. Locals gather at the small market, and the surrounding vineyards and woods give it a timeless, lived-in charm—not curated for tourists, just real.

All in all, a big day: new scenery, deep thoughts, good people, too much wine, a standoff with dogs, and a perfect poolside nap. Tomorrow it’s Besançon—and whatever else the road decides to offer.