Day 30. Bazas to Le Billon (28 kms) June 28, 2012
The cathedral at Bazas
Berryman and Baxter,
Prettiboy and Penn,
And old Farmer Middleton
Are five big men.
And all of them were after
The Little Black Hen.
Yesterday, I visited the cathedral at Bazas. On the outside, it is rather unappealing. A tower on one side throws it off balance. But inside it is magnificent. It is not in the form of the Latin cross, but a simple basilica, the nave leading to the altar and ending in chapels around the chevet. Some cathedrals move me, others don't. I sat in solemn stillness for half an hour and marvelled at its simple beauty - the columns, the stained glass, the vaulting. How could I be alone in this great work of art for such a long time? Could one do this in front of the Mona Lisa? In the picture, the disrespectful gent in the back row of the cathedral who has not removed his hat is not me. My Tilley is perched on top of my sack.
I spent the night with a very religious couple, and I think they expected a very religious pilgrim. Patrick the Belge had given me their number without telling me this. Catholic mags were stacked on the desk in my room. I could have read them till kingdom come. And they were in the loo as well. At dinner I felt like Holden Caulfield when Catholics would ask him about mass to find out if he was a Catholic. "Are they mainly Protestants in British Columbia?" they asked me.
They lived out of town and were very surprised when I asked to be taken back to the cathedral where they had picked me up. Was I sure?" they asked at least three times. And I was surprised to find that this was unusual. I mean, how can you say to yourself, "I walked to Santiago except for the three kilometres where I rode in a car?"
After leaving Bazas by a main road, I walked for many miles along a discontinued railway line. France had its Beeching too.
As I walked over the buried sleepers and lengths of rail, and kicked the rusty old plates and bolts, I imagined a steam train chugging towards me. I remembered that great film with a sooty Burt Lancaster switching a train onto a different track to save the art treasures the Germans had stolen from the Louvre. One to watch again when I get home.
Then I came upon some chooks scratching happily in the sand. They had wandered over from a neighbouring farm yard, and were scratching for grubs in the dirt.
Ode to a Chook
O happy, happy chook!
Thou peckest, thou scratchest, thou diggest, thou cluckest
In full contentment:
Pook-erk, pook, pook, pook, pook.
Bliss it is to be a chook in the sun in the sand.
Chooks in sand are as happy as pigs in muck. And chooks, like pigs, should enjoy this freedom until it's time for the chop. It is evil to keep them in cages.
I met the French group at lunchtime at Captieux. They were sitting at a bar, having a beer, and about to eat lunch. I asked if they had visited the church. First things first, they said. I said I had met very few people on this route. Ah, they said, but the people you meet "sont les gens de qualite".
We still had about nine kilometres to go in the afternoon sun before we reached our gite. There was no way I would eat a heavy lunch with that ahead of me. But the French are French. First things first.
Tonight the seven of us are at a gite quite literally in the middle of nowhere.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Prettiboy and Penn,
And old Farmer Middleton
Are five big men.
And all of them were after
The Little Black Hen.
Yesterday, I visited the cathedral at Bazas. On the outside, it is rather unappealing. A tower on one side throws it off balance. But inside it is magnificent. It is not in the form of the Latin cross, but a simple basilica, the nave leading to the altar and ending in chapels around the chevet. Some cathedrals move me, others don't. I sat in solemn stillness for half an hour and marvelled at its simple beauty - the columns, the stained glass, the vaulting. How could I be alone in this great work of art for such a long time? Could one do this in front of the Mona Lisa? In the picture, the disrespectful gent in the back row of the cathedral who has not removed his hat is not me. My Tilley is perched on top of my sack.
I spent the night with a very religious couple, and I think they expected a very religious pilgrim. Patrick the Belge had given me their number without telling me this. Catholic mags were stacked on the desk in my room. I could have read them till kingdom come. And they were in the loo as well. At dinner I felt like Holden Caulfield when Catholics would ask him about mass to find out if he was a Catholic. "Are they mainly Protestants in British Columbia?" they asked me.
They lived out of town and were very surprised when I asked to be taken back to the cathedral where they had picked me up. Was I sure?" they asked at least three times. And I was surprised to find that this was unusual. I mean, how can you say to yourself, "I walked to Santiago except for the three kilometres where I rode in a car?"
After leaving Bazas by a main road, I walked for many miles along a discontinued railway line. France had its Beeching too.
As I walked over the buried sleepers and lengths of rail, and kicked the rusty old plates and bolts, I imagined a steam train chugging towards me. I remembered that great film with a sooty Burt Lancaster switching a train onto a different track to save the art treasures the Germans had stolen from the Louvre. One to watch again when I get home.
Then I came upon some chooks scratching happily in the sand. They had wandered over from a neighbouring farm yard, and were scratching for grubs in the dirt.
Ode to a Chook
O happy, happy chook!
Thou peckest, thou scratchest, thou diggest, thou cluckest
In full contentment:
Pook-erk, pook, pook, pook, pook.
Bliss it is to be a chook in the sun in the sand.
Chooks in sand are as happy as pigs in muck. And chooks, like pigs, should enjoy this freedom until it's time for the chop. It is evil to keep them in cages.
I met the French group at lunchtime at Captieux. They were sitting at a bar, having a beer, and about to eat lunch. I asked if they had visited the church. First things first, they said. I said I had met very few people on this route. Ah, they said, but the people you meet "sont les gens de qualite".
We still had about nine kilometres to go in the afternoon sun before we reached our gite. There was no way I would eat a heavy lunch with that ahead of me. But the French are French. First things first.
Tonight the seven of us are at a gite quite literally in the middle of nowhere.
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Day 31. Le Billon to Roquefort (28 kms). June 29, 2012
The Romanesque chapel at Ligaut
Lady in carriage: Sir, you smell.
Dr. Johnson: Madame, you smell. I stink.
The gite last night wasn't exactly a "Gite de France", as one of the French put it. Neither the plumbing nor the wiring would have passed an inspection. The lights dimmed whenever you plugged in an appliance. And there was a lingering odour from the septic field. We were all bitten by mosquitos. One of the French ladies was stung by nettles and pulled off a couple of ticks.
It was run by a very old woman, who, bent double, fussed around, dealing out her supplies very carefully. She was a shrewd businesswoman doing very well out of the pilgrim trade at 20 euros apiece. "Who hasn't paid," she said, after counting her money.
But we made the most of it. The French were kind enough to invite me to dine with them. We ate outside, ham, pasta, fruit salad, a la bonne franquette.
This morning we left just after seven, and made very good time along a sandy track. The only jarring note was the thundering sound of the French air force flying overhead. Apparently we were near a base. I was lucky enough to find a coffee at Bourriot-Bergonce. Thence, it was a steady slog into Roquefort, which, I was disappointed to learn, has nothing to do with the cheese.
The French are taking a taxi tonight to the station to get a train home. Next year they will take up where they left off and walk for another week. They are in no hurry to get to Santiago. More important is the pleasure they take in each other's company and the experiences along the way. I wish them well.
Tonight, together with the Dutch lads, I am in a gite run by the pilgrims' association. No meal provided, but there's a bar up the street offering a pilgrim's menu.
I was unable to see inside the Romanesque chapel at Ligaut, which, I read, has some magnificent frescoes.
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Dr. Johnson: Madame, you smell. I stink.
The gite last night wasn't exactly a "Gite de France", as one of the French put it. Neither the plumbing nor the wiring would have passed an inspection. The lights dimmed whenever you plugged in an appliance. And there was a lingering odour from the septic field. We were all bitten by mosquitos. One of the French ladies was stung by nettles and pulled off a couple of ticks.
It was run by a very old woman, who, bent double, fussed around, dealing out her supplies very carefully. She was a shrewd businesswoman doing very well out of the pilgrim trade at 20 euros apiece. "Who hasn't paid," she said, after counting her money.
But we made the most of it. The French were kind enough to invite me to dine with them. We ate outside, ham, pasta, fruit salad, a la bonne franquette.
This morning we left just after seven, and made very good time along a sandy track. The only jarring note was the thundering sound of the French air force flying overhead. Apparently we were near a base. I was lucky enough to find a coffee at Bourriot-Bergonce. Thence, it was a steady slog into Roquefort, which, I was disappointed to learn, has nothing to do with the cheese.
The French are taking a taxi tonight to the station to get a train home. Next year they will take up where they left off and walk for another week. They are in no hurry to get to Santiago. More important is the pleasure they take in each other's company and the experiences along the way. I wish them well.
Tonight, together with the Dutch lads, I am in a gite run by the pilgrims' association. No meal provided, but there's a bar up the street offering a pilgrim's menu.
I was unable to see inside the Romanesque chapel at Ligaut, which, I read, has some magnificent frescoes.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 32. Mont-de-Marsan. June 30, 2012
And may there be no moaning of the bar
I left the gite at seven-fifteen and took the key back to the Cafe de la Paix. A cat was sitting on the bar sipping milk and a parrot was emitting ear-piercing shrieks. I had a coffee and asked for some croissants. "Il s'en fout," said the woman behind the bar. "Il s'en fout?" I replied. "Non," she said. "Ils sont dans le four." They're in the oven. I often have exchanges like that. Then the croissants arrived and I ate them with my coffee. Half a dozen other customers were bantering with the woman as I left. I had a long way to go.
Tennyson was the rock of Victorian faith and optimism. "Crossing the Bar" would have been heard at funerals as often as "Ulysses" at school graduations. In fact, it isn't quite forgotten yet. I saw it myself in the order of service at a funeral as recently as ten years ago. There is no greater affirmation of faith than that poem:
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I put out to sea
But it also lends itself to parody.
As I left town I faced a typical dilemma: the path or the highway? I yielded unto temptation. Then I redeemed myself. And then I was tempted again.
A road sign said: Mont-de-Marsan 21 kms. I would save up to ten kilometres by walking along the road. Walking along the road is soul-destroying. But ten is a lot of kilometres! I took off along the road. Zoom, zoom, zoom, went the cars. About a kilometre further on, the path rejoined the road. I had a chance to change my mind. I did. I followed the path into the woods. (See picture above.)
I stopped at the little hamlet of Corbleu and sat on a bench on the common. Doves were cooing. It was so peaceful and still, I could have stayed there forever. But I had only covered six kilometres. I pressed on.
And then a jarring note. A man was spraying the ditch outside his property with insecticide. Rather than have a weed in his ditch, he was drenching the soil with cancer-causing chemicals. I tried not to breathe in the noxious fumes as I went past.
Then I passed a dog sign even more threatening than those I had seen before, which ranged in intensity from
"Attention au chien" to "Chien mechant" to "Attention chien de guarde". This one showed a fierce dog above the inscription:
Je veille pour mon maitre. Entrez a vos risques et perils
I stopped for a coffee at the pleasant little village of GailIeres. I asked the barman how far it was to my destination. Eighteen, he said, by the path. Thirteen, by the highway, but very dangerous. Lots of trucks. After a little hesitation, I took the long but safe route.
For the last two days I have been walking in the Departement of Les Landes (the Moors). The aren't rocky and rugged like the English moors, but they are covered with bracken and heather. And pine trees. The only terrain I have seen in France that reminds me of the Yorkshire moors is around Aubrac on the Chemin du Puy.
It was a very long day. I arrived at Mont-de-Marsan late in the afternoon and found the gite. Daniel had kindly saved a bed for me. Anxious to get to Spain, the Dutch are doing a double step tomorrow. They have been good company and I wish them well.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
I left the gite at seven-fifteen and took the key back to the Cafe de la Paix. A cat was sitting on the bar sipping milk and a parrot was emitting ear-piercing shrieks. I had a coffee and asked for some croissants. "Il s'en fout," said the woman behind the bar. "Il s'en fout?" I replied. "Non," she said. "Ils sont dans le four." They're in the oven. I often have exchanges like that. Then the croissants arrived and I ate them with my coffee. Half a dozen other customers were bantering with the woman as I left. I had a long way to go.
Tennyson was the rock of Victorian faith and optimism. "Crossing the Bar" would have been heard at funerals as often as "Ulysses" at school graduations. In fact, it isn't quite forgotten yet. I saw it myself in the order of service at a funeral as recently as ten years ago. There is no greater affirmation of faith than that poem:
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I put out to sea
But it also lends itself to parody.
As I left town I faced a typical dilemma: the path or the highway? I yielded unto temptation. Then I redeemed myself. And then I was tempted again.
A road sign said: Mont-de-Marsan 21 kms. I would save up to ten kilometres by walking along the road. Walking along the road is soul-destroying. But ten is a lot of kilometres! I took off along the road. Zoom, zoom, zoom, went the cars. About a kilometre further on, the path rejoined the road. I had a chance to change my mind. I did. I followed the path into the woods. (See picture above.)
I stopped at the little hamlet of Corbleu and sat on a bench on the common. Doves were cooing. It was so peaceful and still, I could have stayed there forever. But I had only covered six kilometres. I pressed on.
And then a jarring note. A man was spraying the ditch outside his property with insecticide. Rather than have a weed in his ditch, he was drenching the soil with cancer-causing chemicals. I tried not to breathe in the noxious fumes as I went past.
Then I passed a dog sign even more threatening than those I had seen before, which ranged in intensity from
"Attention au chien" to "Chien mechant" to "Attention chien de guarde". This one showed a fierce dog above the inscription:
Je veille pour mon maitre. Entrez a vos risques et perils
I stopped for a coffee at the pleasant little village of GailIeres. I asked the barman how far it was to my destination. Eighteen, he said, by the path. Thirteen, by the highway, but very dangerous. Lots of trucks. After a little hesitation, I took the long but safe route.
For the last two days I have been walking in the Departement of Les Landes (the Moors). The aren't rocky and rugged like the English moors, but they are covered with bracken and heather. And pine trees. The only terrain I have seen in France that reminds me of the Yorkshire moors is around Aubrac on the Chemin du Puy.
It was a very long day. I arrived at Mont-de-Marsan late in the afternoon and found the gite. Daniel had kindly saved a bed for me. Anxious to get to Spain, the Dutch are doing a double step tomorrow. They have been good company and I wish them well.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 33. Mont-de-Marsan to Saint-Sever (21.4 kms). July 1, 2012
The cloister at Saint-Sever
Who would true valour see
Let him come hither
I have been thinking about the pilgrims in whose footsteps I'm following. What were they like? Were they pious ascetics hoping for fewer days in purgatory, or were they a rag-tag bunch, a regular cross section of humanity with its rogues and hypocrites, some along for adventure and others for profit of some kind. I suspect there were some of the latter, if Chaucer's Canterbury Tales is anything to go by.
Unlike today, there would have been a stream of pilgrims coming in the opposite direction, returning home. They would have spoken to the people heading south, telling them about the adventures to come and the places to stay.
And the hospitality? Was it Christian charity or self interest? Probably a bit of both. Certainly, there were many hospitals along the way that looked after the sick, and churches that offered shelter to those who couldn't afford to pay. But the hospitals probably received generous donations from the wealthy pilgrims they cured, and the churches would have sold relics to the credulous. Many gentry, with their servants, would have paid their way at the inns. Others - farmers, yeomen with little money - might have worked for their keep.
All this is mere speculation. I will try to find out what it was really like.
It was cool today when I set out, with heavy clouds which didn't deliver on their promise of rain. Eighteen degrees was the maximum temperature for the day.
One of the advantages, I suppose, of leaving a big town, is that by the time you reach the open country you have covered several kilometres, almost without realising it, and in no time I had reached the village of Benquet. The bar was closed, but I sat outside anyway, and a few minutes later, the patron was kind enough to open up for me.
Then I set a rattling pace for the remaining 13 kilometres to Saint-Sever. I would forgo my soggy cheese and stale baguette for le plat du jour et un quart de rouge. And indeed, I found a restaurant and had a steak and salad. I had earned it. The town is on a hill, and the last kilometre was a punishing climb. I was glad to stop, and thought of the Dutch who would have had another 19 kilometres to go.
The town of Saint-Sever is centred around its huge Romanesque abbey church. Various town buildings abut against one side, and a cloister now occupied by the mairie, the other. The interior is massive, and again I'm overwhelmed by the contrast between the beauty of the place and its emptiness. The church would hold a thousand people, and yet only a handful would attend its services today. And this contradiction is repeated all over Europe, I suppose. In the new world, the pious fill up the ugly glass temples on the outskirts of town, and in the old world, these great works of art stand empty in the centre.
Tonight I'm by myself in the municipal gite, a very comfortable place with ten beds. I suspect I am now alone on this section of the walk, so I shouldn't have any problem finding a place in future.
Click here to continue the journey.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Let him come hither
I have been thinking about the pilgrims in whose footsteps I'm following. What were they like? Were they pious ascetics hoping for fewer days in purgatory, or were they a rag-tag bunch, a regular cross section of humanity with its rogues and hypocrites, some along for adventure and others for profit of some kind. I suspect there were some of the latter, if Chaucer's Canterbury Tales is anything to go by.
Unlike today, there would have been a stream of pilgrims coming in the opposite direction, returning home. They would have spoken to the people heading south, telling them about the adventures to come and the places to stay.
And the hospitality? Was it Christian charity or self interest? Probably a bit of both. Certainly, there were many hospitals along the way that looked after the sick, and churches that offered shelter to those who couldn't afford to pay. But the hospitals probably received generous donations from the wealthy pilgrims they cured, and the churches would have sold relics to the credulous. Many gentry, with their servants, would have paid their way at the inns. Others - farmers, yeomen with little money - might have worked for their keep.
All this is mere speculation. I will try to find out what it was really like.
It was cool today when I set out, with heavy clouds which didn't deliver on their promise of rain. Eighteen degrees was the maximum temperature for the day.
One of the advantages, I suppose, of leaving a big town, is that by the time you reach the open country you have covered several kilometres, almost without realising it, and in no time I had reached the village of Benquet. The bar was closed, but I sat outside anyway, and a few minutes later, the patron was kind enough to open up for me.
Then I set a rattling pace for the remaining 13 kilometres to Saint-Sever. I would forgo my soggy cheese and stale baguette for le plat du jour et un quart de rouge. And indeed, I found a restaurant and had a steak and salad. I had earned it. The town is on a hill, and the last kilometre was a punishing climb. I was glad to stop, and thought of the Dutch who would have had another 19 kilometres to go.
The town of Saint-Sever is centred around its huge Romanesque abbey church. Various town buildings abut against one side, and a cloister now occupied by the mairie, the other. The interior is massive, and again I'm overwhelmed by the contrast between the beauty of the place and its emptiness. The church would hold a thousand people, and yet only a handful would attend its services today. And this contradiction is repeated all over Europe, I suppose. In the new world, the pious fill up the ugly glass temples on the outskirts of town, and in the old world, these great works of art stand empty in the centre.
Tonight I'm by myself in the municipal gite, a very comfortable place with ten beds. I suspect I am now alone on this section of the walk, so I shouldn't have any problem finding a place in future.
Click here to continue the journey.
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