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On leaving Neuvic I noticed a woman carrying to the baker's a large dish of edible boleti, known to the French as cepes. This excellent fungus during the late summer and autumn is a very important article of food in France wherever there are extensive chestnut-woods.
Next I passed a bare-footed cantonnier breaking stones, and he told me that if I made haste I might reach Neuvic before dark.
The light and colour of the day are now gone, but there is one beautiful star flashing in front of me like a lamp of the sanctuary when the vaulted minster is filled with shadow. The rest of the walk to Neuvic was by night. The first auberge I entered in this small town of some three thousand inhabitants was a little too rough even for me.
Then I met the road to Neuvic, and following it came to the Artaud, a tributary of the Dordogne, threading its way through deep ravines, amidst wild rocks, dark woods, and bracken-covered steeps. The road crossed the ravine upon a bridge of three arches. The scene was one to raise the mind above common things.
I have not been able to overcome my English dislike of the practice, which is annoying and useless, like much more that belongs to the French administrative system. By daylight I found Neuvic to be a cheerful, pleasant little town, with a venerable-looking old church, apparently of the twelfth century.
I had walked many miles since the morning, but had made very little way according to the map, so full of deception is this wild Limousin country to the wanderer who does not know it. I had still some eight miles to walk before reaching Neuvic. There was a little mill at the bottom of the grassy valley, but it seemed deserted by all living creatures save a dog.
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