Day 7. Bourges to Villeneuve-sur-Cher (16 kms). June 5, 2012
And on the seventh day, thou shalt rest
Well, that was my intention, to rest my weary body and blistering foot by spending an extra day in Bourges. Patrick has gone on and will make good progress on his own. His pace is faster than mine and I think he was holding back to keep me company.
Farewell, Patrick. You have been a good companion. Bon chemin!
With a maniacal sense of humour, Patrick is as extroverted as I am introverted, a man of strong opinions and not at all reluctant to express them. But his views are balanced: for example, he is contemptuous of wishy-washy left-wing government policies that allow minorities to take advantage of tolerant laws, but abhors the right-wing extremist parties that capitalise on the public dissatisfaction that results.
Speaking four or five languages, he is in many ways a typical European, not an academic but an intelligent man with a keen interest in culture and history. He thinks of himself not as Belgian or Flemish, but European, or perhaps "Antwerpian". I refrained from asking if that meant he was a Twerp.
I have included a photo of one of our last meals together. The lady looking after the gite had cooked a meal for us and we ate it outside. She kept detailed statistics of the pilgrims who passed through. I was pleased to notice that I was not the oldest.
I had planned to take today off, but then decided to leave later in the morning and walk a shorter distance. I visited the cathedral again, had a coffee, picked up a few things at the pharmacy, went to the post office, and then set out for the little village of Villeneuve-sur-Chere, 16 clicks away, and 10 clicks short of the next recommended stop. I will make up the distance tomorrow.
For most of the day I walked along the road. The agglomeration of Bourges extended to the village of La-Chapelle-Saint-Ursin where I had lunch.
Side by side were three of the institutions central to the life of the village and supported by the state: l'eglise, la poste, and la mairie.
As I left town, a kind old lady thrust some lollies into my hand. "They'll do you good," she said.
I continued along the road past an industrial zone. Only for the last four kilometres of the day did the path leave the road to enter the woods and take me into Villeneuve.
I am staying at a camp site. Like last night at the youth hostel, I am sleeping on a mattress on a floor in a common room. My companion is a retired maths teacher on a bicycle tour. Fortunately for me, for the restaurant in the village was closed, he had a camp stove and heated up a can of ravioli that Patrick had left me. We ate together and chatted. I learned that there is no Nobel prize for mathematics because Nobel detested mathematicians. His wife was unfaithful with one. Or so the story goes.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Well, that was my intention, to rest my weary body and blistering foot by spending an extra day in Bourges. Patrick has gone on and will make good progress on his own. His pace is faster than mine and I think he was holding back to keep me company.
Farewell, Patrick. You have been a good companion. Bon chemin!
With a maniacal sense of humour, Patrick is as extroverted as I am introverted, a man of strong opinions and not at all reluctant to express them. But his views are balanced: for example, he is contemptuous of wishy-washy left-wing government policies that allow minorities to take advantage of tolerant laws, but abhors the right-wing extremist parties that capitalise on the public dissatisfaction that results.
Speaking four or five languages, he is in many ways a typical European, not an academic but an intelligent man with a keen interest in culture and history. He thinks of himself not as Belgian or Flemish, but European, or perhaps "Antwerpian". I refrained from asking if that meant he was a Twerp.
I have included a photo of one of our last meals together. The lady looking after the gite had cooked a meal for us and we ate it outside. She kept detailed statistics of the pilgrims who passed through. I was pleased to notice that I was not the oldest.
I had planned to take today off, but then decided to leave later in the morning and walk a shorter distance. I visited the cathedral again, had a coffee, picked up a few things at the pharmacy, went to the post office, and then set out for the little village of Villeneuve-sur-Chere, 16 clicks away, and 10 clicks short of the next recommended stop. I will make up the distance tomorrow.
For most of the day I walked along the road. The agglomeration of Bourges extended to the village of La-Chapelle-Saint-Ursin where I had lunch.
Side by side were three of the institutions central to the life of the village and supported by the state: l'eglise, la poste, and la mairie.
As I left town, a kind old lady thrust some lollies into my hand. "They'll do you good," she said.
I continued along the road past an industrial zone. Only for the last four kilometres of the day did the path leave the road to enter the woods and take me into Villeneuve.
I am staying at a camp site. Like last night at the youth hostel, I am sleeping on a mattress on a floor in a common room. My companion is a retired maths teacher on a bicycle tour. Fortunately for me, for the restaurant in the village was closed, he had a camp stove and heated up a can of ravioli that Patrick had left me. We ate together and chatted. I learned that there is no Nobel prize for mathematics because Nobel detested mathematicians. His wife was unfaithful with one. Or so the story goes.
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Day 8. Villeneuve-sur-Cher to Issoudun (23 kms) June 6, 2012
A field of barley with wind turbines in the distance
it's an ill wind...
I slept well and set out early at a brisk pace. I had applied compedes to the heel of each foot, each a huge version with a tail that goes under the heel and wings that wrap around the ankle. So I was walking more briskly than yesterday.
The compede is a peculiarly French, or perhaps European, plaster that one applies to blisters. I've tried them before. More effective than moleskin, they do have a downside. They are somewhat gooey and can turn themselves inside out and leave a gummy residue on your socks. I hope to escape that fate this time. In the meantime, my feet are feeling better.
Speaking of French peculiarities, we discussed at breakfast the anti-radar measures taken by motorists. Didier, the French cyclist, belongs to a League against Violence on the Roads. Understandable, since he's a cyclist, but I wondered if he'd been touched by some personal tragedy as well. He spoke vehemently against the absurdity of the road signs that warn motorists that they are approaching the radar that is supposed to catch them speeding, and the legality of the anti-radar device that many motorists use for the same reason.
My friend Paul in Lyon has one of these. "Slow down, radar ahead," it says. And then, "OK, now you can speed again." Well, not quite, but the effect is the same. Why have a law and then permit a device which nullifies the effect of that law?
It's a bit like the water-saving taps that waste more water than a regular tap. They're supposed to save water by turning themselves off, but you press them to turn them on and then you can't turn them off, and they run for five minutes after you've finished. I just washed my hands in a French toilet, and the tap was still running as I left. A French peculiarity!
Mind you, all peoples have their peculiarities. I suppose that ours is our tendency to apologise when the other person is in the wrong. I remember a Canadian in Caen who said "Excuse me" after being almost knocked down by a car.
I walked all day into a strong wind, and I thought of Didier who must have been having a difficult time of it. The wind turbines were making the best of it, though, except for the usual three or four which were standing idle. Together in the wind they make a low growling sound; individually, they sigh in short spasms, rather like a jet taking off far away.
Why do the dogs always bark at me in France? As I walk past, they come tearing out into their yard, longing to leap over their fence and take a piece out of me, whereas in Canada, they wag their tails politely and say "Excuse me" when I intrude into their space.
Today, as I walked past a farm, a huge, black brute leapt out of a barn, fangs bared, lunging towards me until it was stopped short in mid-air by its chain. It swung to the left, fell to the ground, and then retreated, ready to begin again. It repeated this manoeuvre several times as I approached the narrow opening between the wall and the end of its chain. I knew, and it knew, that one day the chain would break, and the pilgrim would be a tasty morsel. Fortunately, it wasn't today. I got through safely and walked on into Issodun.
I am now drinking a beer at a bar on a square planted with plain trees that remind me that I am heading south. The church bells are sounding, a deep, resonant ring. I can hear the "ng" in the ring. "Ding" and "dong" are such perfect onomatopoeic words while the "din" and "don" of "Frere Jacques" are poor comparisons. The sun is shining. Didier said that the Loire tends to form the boundary between good weather and bad in France. I hope he's right.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
I slept well and set out early at a brisk pace. I had applied compedes to the heel of each foot, each a huge version with a tail that goes under the heel and wings that wrap around the ankle. So I was walking more briskly than yesterday.
The compede is a peculiarly French, or perhaps European, plaster that one applies to blisters. I've tried them before. More effective than moleskin, they do have a downside. They are somewhat gooey and can turn themselves inside out and leave a gummy residue on your socks. I hope to escape that fate this time. In the meantime, my feet are feeling better.
Speaking of French peculiarities, we discussed at breakfast the anti-radar measures taken by motorists. Didier, the French cyclist, belongs to a League against Violence on the Roads. Understandable, since he's a cyclist, but I wondered if he'd been touched by some personal tragedy as well. He spoke vehemently against the absurdity of the road signs that warn motorists that they are approaching the radar that is supposed to catch them speeding, and the legality of the anti-radar device that many motorists use for the same reason.
My friend Paul in Lyon has one of these. "Slow down, radar ahead," it says. And then, "OK, now you can speed again." Well, not quite, but the effect is the same. Why have a law and then permit a device which nullifies the effect of that law?
It's a bit like the water-saving taps that waste more water than a regular tap. They're supposed to save water by turning themselves off, but you press them to turn them on and then you can't turn them off, and they run for five minutes after you've finished. I just washed my hands in a French toilet, and the tap was still running as I left. A French peculiarity!
Mind you, all peoples have their peculiarities. I suppose that ours is our tendency to apologise when the other person is in the wrong. I remember a Canadian in Caen who said "Excuse me" after being almost knocked down by a car.
I walked all day into a strong wind, and I thought of Didier who must have been having a difficult time of it. The wind turbines were making the best of it, though, except for the usual three or four which were standing idle. Together in the wind they make a low growling sound; individually, they sigh in short spasms, rather like a jet taking off far away.
Why do the dogs always bark at me in France? As I walk past, they come tearing out into their yard, longing to leap over their fence and take a piece out of me, whereas in Canada, they wag their tails politely and say "Excuse me" when I intrude into their space.
Today, as I walked past a farm, a huge, black brute leapt out of a barn, fangs bared, lunging towards me until it was stopped short in mid-air by its chain. It swung to the left, fell to the ground, and then retreated, ready to begin again. It repeated this manoeuvre several times as I approached the narrow opening between the wall and the end of its chain. I knew, and it knew, that one day the chain would break, and the pilgrim would be a tasty morsel. Fortunately, it wasn't today. I got through safely and walked on into Issodun.
I am now drinking a beer at a bar on a square planted with plain trees that remind me that I am heading south. The church bells are sounding, a deep, resonant ring. I can hear the "ng" in the ring. "Ding" and "dong" are such perfect onomatopoeic words while the "din" and "don" of "Frere Jacques" are poor comparisons. The sun is shining. Didier said that the Loire tends to form the boundary between good weather and bad in France. I hope he's right.
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Day 9. Issoudun a Deols (32 kms). June 7, 2012
Have thunder and lightning their fury forgotten?
I got caught in a storm today. As the rain came down and the thunder rolled around, I remembered learning at school that sound travels at 1100 feet per second and for every five seconds between the flash and the crack the lightning is a mile away. Fortunately, today it was further than that, and I passed through without incident. It wasn't much fun being the tallest object in a flat field during a storm!
I would love to sing the St. Matthew Passion again in English, but it's not likely to happen. These days, choir conductors are purists, and don't realise that the English translation might sometimes be as good as the original, especially when the choristers don't understand the original. In the Passion much of the text comes from the Bible anyway, and it doesn't get any better than the King James. And as for the rest, well, lines such as
The Christian soul bewails the frailty of mankind
have a nice ring to them. I would love to sing them again.
Last night I stayed in a garret at the St. Catherine's Hotel in Issoudun. 23 euros. It was a good deal, but to reach my room I had to climb one of those circular staircases with long, narrow, triangular steps which come to a point at the axis. I was on the second floor, and the second series of steps was even more treacherous than the first. I had to cling to the rail and keep to the outside. Evidently, the price of the room went down as the steps went up. Had there been a third floor, the price would have been 13 euros.
I ate breakfast in the bar at seven o'clock. Various regulars appeared, shook hands with each other, shook hands with me, and chatted about the day's events.
I set out. As I sat on a bench in front of the little church at Thizay, another pilgrim appeared, a Dutchman, Rinie, who had set out from Holland in mid-April. He is only the second walker I have seen since Vezelay. We walked together for a while, parted company, and then met up later at the gite.
In the afternoon, I walked into a fierce wind. It tugged at my Tilley, and twisted my map holder into a frenzy until it had me by the neck in a stranglehold. I escaped, and from then on, held it in my hand, reciting my mnemonic to myself every time I stopped, to make sure that I wouldn't leave my map behind. "Please, God. Where am I? Help a lonely traveller."
In the late afternoon I walked along an interminable highway, and through a military complex that stretched for at least a mile on both sides of the road. I noticed a building dated 1939. They must have built it for the Germans.
Finally, I reached Deols. We are staying at a municipal gite - very comfortable and only five euros. I am absolutely buggered. Today was the hardest day.
As I walk through fields and fields of grain, I am struck by the simple beauty of the red poppies, blue cornflower, and white daisies along the verge. Here's a cluster against the barley (above).
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
I got caught in a storm today. As the rain came down and the thunder rolled around, I remembered learning at school that sound travels at 1100 feet per second and for every five seconds between the flash and the crack the lightning is a mile away. Fortunately, today it was further than that, and I passed through without incident. It wasn't much fun being the tallest object in a flat field during a storm!
I would love to sing the St. Matthew Passion again in English, but it's not likely to happen. These days, choir conductors are purists, and don't realise that the English translation might sometimes be as good as the original, especially when the choristers don't understand the original. In the Passion much of the text comes from the Bible anyway, and it doesn't get any better than the King James. And as for the rest, well, lines such as
The Christian soul bewails the frailty of mankind
have a nice ring to them. I would love to sing them again.
Last night I stayed in a garret at the St. Catherine's Hotel in Issoudun. 23 euros. It was a good deal, but to reach my room I had to climb one of those circular staircases with long, narrow, triangular steps which come to a point at the axis. I was on the second floor, and the second series of steps was even more treacherous than the first. I had to cling to the rail and keep to the outside. Evidently, the price of the room went down as the steps went up. Had there been a third floor, the price would have been 13 euros.
I ate breakfast in the bar at seven o'clock. Various regulars appeared, shook hands with each other, shook hands with me, and chatted about the day's events.
I set out. As I sat on a bench in front of the little church at Thizay, another pilgrim appeared, a Dutchman, Rinie, who had set out from Holland in mid-April. He is only the second walker I have seen since Vezelay. We walked together for a while, parted company, and then met up later at the gite.
In the afternoon, I walked into a fierce wind. It tugged at my Tilley, and twisted my map holder into a frenzy until it had me by the neck in a stranglehold. I escaped, and from then on, held it in my hand, reciting my mnemonic to myself every time I stopped, to make sure that I wouldn't leave my map behind. "Please, God. Where am I? Help a lonely traveller."
In the late afternoon I walked along an interminable highway, and through a military complex that stretched for at least a mile on both sides of the road. I noticed a building dated 1939. They must have built it for the Germans.
Finally, I reached Deols. We are staying at a municipal gite - very comfortable and only five euros. I am absolutely buggered. Today was the hardest day.
As I walk through fields and fields of grain, I am struck by the simple beauty of the red poppies, blue cornflower, and white daisies along the verge. Here's a cluster against the barley (above).
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Day 10. Deols to Velles (20.2 kms). June 8, 2012
8 June, 2012
There's a prodigious stench in here
I slept like the proverbial log, got up, ate a couple of croissants, packed up, and then dropped the keys to the gite in the letter box at the tourist bureau.
I have sung the praises of the Offices de Tourisme before. They really go out of their way to be helpful. They find and book accommodation for you at no cost, and at Bourges, they copied 120 pages of my guide for Patrick for the nominal cost of two euros.
In England, however, the tourist bureau would find me a bed and breakfast, charge me 10% of the cost, and I would then pay the balance to the host. The tourist bureau had to have its cut, even if its role was to serve the tourist and support local business.
Similarly, in England you pay an obligatory voluntary donation to enter a cathedral whereas in France you enter freely because the state maintains the churches as part of its heritage.
You can see where I'm going with this. There are two philosophies here. One says: we are going to tax you more and provide you with services; you are paying for them so get out and use them. The other says: we are going to tax you less; if you use the services you can pay for them. The one promotes community; the other, individuality.
Just after I left the Office de Tourisme, I passed the Lycee Jean Giradoux. Outside was a sign: "The regional council is building a gym for your lycee." It seemed to confirm what I was thinking.
I am having my morning coffee on a busy street leading in to Chateauroux. Two mechanised street-cleaners rumble by, the first removing debris, the second depositing them. I kid you not. Well, perhaps I'm stretching it a bit. Strings of school kids cross the road, shepherded by their teachers. A couple of municipal policemen stroll by, greeting the citizens. Ah, there goes another street sweeper on the opposite side of the road. Very noisy place this. And smelly. Cigarette smoke wafts over from the neighbouring table, and I'm assailed by the stench of perfume from the women who go in and out of the bar. There goes a fourth street-sweeper. This isn't getting me to Velles. I had better move on.
And speaking of stench, back in the gite, after his shower, one of the pilgrims applied some kind of nauseating body lotion which pervaded every part of the gite and especially the toilet. I am relieved that he is going further on today, but I'm sure I will know during the days ahead if he has gone before me. (He won't be reading this.)
All this reminds me of the Welshman with whom I stayed in residence at the University of Leicester many years ago. I'll call him Taffy. He was accustomed to having a weekly bath in the kitchen at home in the Valleys. He continued this weekly practice at the residence, and made up for missing daily ablutions by applying some kind of foul-smelling talcum powder. The stench grew as the week progressed. How we longed for Sundays!
I'm sure I stink too, but it's an honest pong, unalloyed by sweetly-sick body powder.
Now I am 12 kilometers further on, sitting on a bench having lunch in the forest of Beauregard. Didier told me that there is more forest in France than anywhere else in Europe. I am eating a ficelle and a rather ripe Camembert which will be even riper tomorrow. The sun is shining and the wind is soughing in the trees. The birds are chattering faintly. (I left my hearing aids in Canada.) All is right with the world.
A mosquito bites me. As I get up I realise the bench was damp. I have a wet bum. That's life.
I reached the little town of Velles just after two o'clock. It was a delightful walk, most of it in the woods. I am all alone in a huge gite with room for 30 people.
Last night I cut my alcohol consumption by 50%. I think that's why I slept so well. I'll try and do the same tonight.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
There's a prodigious stench in here
I slept like the proverbial log, got up, ate a couple of croissants, packed up, and then dropped the keys to the gite in the letter box at the tourist bureau.
I have sung the praises of the Offices de Tourisme before. They really go out of their way to be helpful. They find and book accommodation for you at no cost, and at Bourges, they copied 120 pages of my guide for Patrick for the nominal cost of two euros.
In England, however, the tourist bureau would find me a bed and breakfast, charge me 10% of the cost, and I would then pay the balance to the host. The tourist bureau had to have its cut, even if its role was to serve the tourist and support local business.
Similarly, in England you pay an obligatory voluntary donation to enter a cathedral whereas in France you enter freely because the state maintains the churches as part of its heritage.
You can see where I'm going with this. There are two philosophies here. One says: we are going to tax you more and provide you with services; you are paying for them so get out and use them. The other says: we are going to tax you less; if you use the services you can pay for them. The one promotes community; the other, individuality.
Just after I left the Office de Tourisme, I passed the Lycee Jean Giradoux. Outside was a sign: "The regional council is building a gym for your lycee." It seemed to confirm what I was thinking.
I am having my morning coffee on a busy street leading in to Chateauroux. Two mechanised street-cleaners rumble by, the first removing debris, the second depositing them. I kid you not. Well, perhaps I'm stretching it a bit. Strings of school kids cross the road, shepherded by their teachers. A couple of municipal policemen stroll by, greeting the citizens. Ah, there goes another street sweeper on the opposite side of the road. Very noisy place this. And smelly. Cigarette smoke wafts over from the neighbouring table, and I'm assailed by the stench of perfume from the women who go in and out of the bar. There goes a fourth street-sweeper. This isn't getting me to Velles. I had better move on.
And speaking of stench, back in the gite, after his shower, one of the pilgrims applied some kind of nauseating body lotion which pervaded every part of the gite and especially the toilet. I am relieved that he is going further on today, but I'm sure I will know during the days ahead if he has gone before me. (He won't be reading this.)
All this reminds me of the Welshman with whom I stayed in residence at the University of Leicester many years ago. I'll call him Taffy. He was accustomed to having a weekly bath in the kitchen at home in the Valleys. He continued this weekly practice at the residence, and made up for missing daily ablutions by applying some kind of foul-smelling talcum powder. The stench grew as the week progressed. How we longed for Sundays!
I'm sure I stink too, but it's an honest pong, unalloyed by sweetly-sick body powder.
Now I am 12 kilometers further on, sitting on a bench having lunch in the forest of Beauregard. Didier told me that there is more forest in France than anywhere else in Europe. I am eating a ficelle and a rather ripe Camembert which will be even riper tomorrow. The sun is shining and the wind is soughing in the trees. The birds are chattering faintly. (I left my hearing aids in Canada.) All is right with the world.
A mosquito bites me. As I get up I realise the bench was damp. I have a wet bum. That's life.
I reached the little town of Velles just after two o'clock. It was a delightful walk, most of it in the woods. I am all alone in a huge gite with room for 30 people.
Last night I cut my alcohol consumption by 50%. I think that's why I slept so well. I'll try and do the same tonight.
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Day 11. Velles to Argenton-sur-Creuse (20.2 kms). June 9, 2012
Argenton-sur-Creuse
Thou hast put me on the rack
Sometimes I have a bounce in my feet, but not today. Yesterday in the woods I felt like jogging, but today, it was a steady plod. Perhaps because I missed out on my morning coffee.
I set out early, just after seven, picked up a couple of croissants for breakfast, and hoped to get a coffee at a little town ten clicks on. But when I arrived there, I found that the town was 1.7 kms off the path. Was it worth trudging an extra three kilometres for a cup of coffee? I decided not, and plodded on.
I walked mainly along minor roads today. The terrain is becoming more hilly, and smaller paddocks are replacing the huge fields of grain. I am seeing cows again. I heard my first cuckoo, and a donkey. I passed several chateaux including one, le Chateau de Mazieres, with a 12th century donjon (tower).
My spirits revived when I reached the little town of Saint-Marcel, just short of Argenton. I had a grand cafe noir at a bar in the main square.
Then I visited the church. It's dedicated to the saint who was tortured by the Romans in 260 AD in the town of Argentomagus, which later became Argenton. I was impressed by le tresor de Saint Marcel, a collection of religious relics (not body parts of the saint, fortunately, but crosses and statues) which had been hidden by the villagers to survive plundering during the Revolution.
If the Romans were clever enough to keep their people happy with bread and circuses, why didn't they realise that making martyrs of the Christians who refused to renounce their faith would be counter-productive? As indeed it was.
Argenton-sur-Creuse is a delightful town. It has been called the Venice of Berry (the Departement) but that's stretching it a bit. The town straddles the river and houses line the banks. No gondolas, but I did see a little rowing boat. It may be in the photo.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sometimes I have a bounce in my feet, but not today. Yesterday in the woods I felt like jogging, but today, it was a steady plod. Perhaps because I missed out on my morning coffee.
I set out early, just after seven, picked up a couple of croissants for breakfast, and hoped to get a coffee at a little town ten clicks on. But when I arrived there, I found that the town was 1.7 kms off the path. Was it worth trudging an extra three kilometres for a cup of coffee? I decided not, and plodded on.
I walked mainly along minor roads today. The terrain is becoming more hilly, and smaller paddocks are replacing the huge fields of grain. I am seeing cows again. I heard my first cuckoo, and a donkey. I passed several chateaux including one, le Chateau de Mazieres, with a 12th century donjon (tower).
My spirits revived when I reached the little town of Saint-Marcel, just short of Argenton. I had a grand cafe noir at a bar in the main square.
Then I visited the church. It's dedicated to the saint who was tortured by the Romans in 260 AD in the town of Argentomagus, which later became Argenton. I was impressed by le tresor de Saint Marcel, a collection of religious relics (not body parts of the saint, fortunately, but crosses and statues) which had been hidden by the villagers to survive plundering during the Revolution.
If the Romans were clever enough to keep their people happy with bread and circuses, why didn't they realise that making martyrs of the Christians who refused to renounce their faith would be counter-productive? As indeed it was.
Argenton-sur-Creuse is a delightful town. It has been called the Venice of Berry (the Departement) but that's stretching it a bit. The town straddles the river and houses line the banks. No gondolas, but I did see a little rowing boat. It may be in the photo.
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Day 11. Argenton to Gargilesse (13 kms) June 9. 2012.
Paintings above the altar at the church of Gargilesse
Just a singing in the rain,
Getting soaking wet
It started gently enough as I left Argenton, but got steadily heavier during the morning, and continued all day. The distance was only 13 kms. I told myself I had to walk once around Elk and Beaver lakes with a detour to Bear Hill. I arrived at Gargilesse before noon, soaking wet like a drowned rat, and was thankful to find that the gite had been left unlocked.
And what do I sing as I walk? Everything from Beethoven to G&S and beyond, as long as it has a marching rhythm.
Yesterday I found myself singing "Onward Christian Soldiers", and as I listened to the words, I remembered why it isn't on the United Church of Canada's regular roster of hymns. I bet it's right at the bottom of their heritage list where they hope no one will ever find it.
Forward into battle! Slay the infidel!
The other night I dreamt that I met an adherent of the Uniting Church of Australia, the equivalent denomination down under, formed by the amalgamation of Presbyterians, Methodists and Congregationalists. I asked her, "Why is your church founded, not on a rock, but a present participle?" (The name sounds so odd to my ear.)
I have eaten lunch (stale bread and very ripe Camembert) and I'm sitting in the gite waiting for the rain to stop. Out the window I can see a pipe protruding at 45 degrees from the wall of a tower, issuing forth water in a steady stream like a man having a pee. He certainly doesn't have a prostate problem. I wish he'd stop.
The walk today was a real hike. For most of the way the route followed a Sentier de Randonnee, marked not with the horizontal red and white stripes of the grande randonnee but with the red and orange bands which indicate a local or petite randonnee. I walked along a discontinued railway line, followed a very wet grassy track along the bank of the Creuse, and then for the first time, climbed up a very rugged trail that wouldn't have been out of place in the Mantario or Goldstream parks. It was slippery, muddy and treacherous. The rain was running down the path in rivulets. And I took heed of Henry Fast's warning not to step on wet roots.
The steady stream has become a trickle so I'm venturing outside.
Gargilesse nestles in a hollow in the hills, overlooked on all sides by trees which climb the steep slopes. It was much beloved by George Sand for its romantic charm. Like Conques or Saint-Guilhem-Le-Desert it is pretty much the way it was in the middle ages. There is an important church, a chateau, and narrow winding streets. Today, because of the weather, it is very quiet. I've seen one or two tourists, two Dutch pilgrims, Daniel and Carl, a cyclist, and a handful of locals. Still, I found a bar and had a beer.
The church is famous for the sculptures on the capitals of the columns, and the 12th century frescos in the crypt. Here is the painting above the altar (above).
Getting soaking wet
It started gently enough as I left Argenton, but got steadily heavier during the morning, and continued all day. The distance was only 13 kms. I told myself I had to walk once around Elk and Beaver lakes with a detour to Bear Hill. I arrived at Gargilesse before noon, soaking wet like a drowned rat, and was thankful to find that the gite had been left unlocked.
And what do I sing as I walk? Everything from Beethoven to G&S and beyond, as long as it has a marching rhythm.
Yesterday I found myself singing "Onward Christian Soldiers", and as I listened to the words, I remembered why it isn't on the United Church of Canada's regular roster of hymns. I bet it's right at the bottom of their heritage list where they hope no one will ever find it.
Forward into battle! Slay the infidel!
The other night I dreamt that I met an adherent of the Uniting Church of Australia, the equivalent denomination down under, formed by the amalgamation of Presbyterians, Methodists and Congregationalists. I asked her, "Why is your church founded, not on a rock, but a present participle?" (The name sounds so odd to my ear.)
I have eaten lunch (stale bread and very ripe Camembert) and I'm sitting in the gite waiting for the rain to stop. Out the window I can see a pipe protruding at 45 degrees from the wall of a tower, issuing forth water in a steady stream like a man having a pee. He certainly doesn't have a prostate problem. I wish he'd stop.
The walk today was a real hike. For most of the way the route followed a Sentier de Randonnee, marked not with the horizontal red and white stripes of the grande randonnee but with the red and orange bands which indicate a local or petite randonnee. I walked along a discontinued railway line, followed a very wet grassy track along the bank of the Creuse, and then for the first time, climbed up a very rugged trail that wouldn't have been out of place in the Mantario or Goldstream parks. It was slippery, muddy and treacherous. The rain was running down the path in rivulets. And I took heed of Henry Fast's warning not to step on wet roots.
The steady stream has become a trickle so I'm venturing outside.
Gargilesse nestles in a hollow in the hills, overlooked on all sides by trees which climb the steep slopes. It was much beloved by George Sand for its romantic charm. Like Conques or Saint-Guilhem-Le-Desert it is pretty much the way it was in the middle ages. There is an important church, a chateau, and narrow winding streets. Today, because of the weather, it is very quiet. I've seen one or two tourists, two Dutch pilgrims, Daniel and Carl, a cyclist, and a handful of locals. Still, I found a bar and had a beer.
The church is famous for the sculptures on the capitals of the columns, and the 12th century frescos in the crypt. Here is the painting above the altar (above).
Day 13. Gargiless to Crozant (19 kms). June 11, 2012
The Sedelle at Crozant
But there's nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear...
Just after nine this morning, I was standing, not in, but outside, a bar in the little village of Cuzion, 5 kms on from Gargilesse. I had left early, without having eaten, and was desperate for a coffee and perhaps a croissant or two. I was chatting with one of the inhabitants, who was waiting for his bread.
"En principe, c'est ouvert," he said. But it wasn't. At the entrance to the village, a sign had advertised "Multi Services". But there weren't. There was only one. And it wasn't open. He explained that 20 years ago there were five bars around the spot where we stood. There used to be 200 people in the village, now there were 30. There was a bakery, butcher's, grocery store, lawyer's office, and so on. Now there was just the one bar. And it wasn't open. Such is the fate of many villages all over France.
He pointed to the epicerie he used to own. It was all boarded up. His children were scattered all over France. His wife had died. "So now you're alone," I said. "No," he replied. "J'ai une amie. But I'm 81." Such is life.
Then the woman arrived and opened the bar. I ordered a coffee and some croissants. She didn't have any. A baguette? No, all the bread was spoken for. But she made me some toast for breakfast. Fortified, I pressed on.
At Eguzon, the next town, I bought a baguette and two croissants, and had a second coffee. I also bought some more compedes for my blisters.
Then I pressed on to Crozant. Thus was my day (like Gaul) divided into three parts.
Crozant is a bigger village, with a restaurant and shops. I'm staying in a room above the restaurant. The village's main attraction is the ruins of a fortified castle which controlled the crossing of the Creuse in the middle ages.
Again, a good part of the day was off the road. The weather continues to be cool with showery spells.
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Just after nine this morning, I was standing, not in, but outside, a bar in the little village of Cuzion, 5 kms on from Gargilesse. I had left early, without having eaten, and was desperate for a coffee and perhaps a croissant or two. I was chatting with one of the inhabitants, who was waiting for his bread.
"En principe, c'est ouvert," he said. But it wasn't. At the entrance to the village, a sign had advertised "Multi Services". But there weren't. There was only one. And it wasn't open. He explained that 20 years ago there were five bars around the spot where we stood. There used to be 200 people in the village, now there were 30. There was a bakery, butcher's, grocery store, lawyer's office, and so on. Now there was just the one bar. And it wasn't open. Such is the fate of many villages all over France.
He pointed to the epicerie he used to own. It was all boarded up. His children were scattered all over France. His wife had died. "So now you're alone," I said. "No," he replied. "J'ai une amie. But I'm 81." Such is life.
Then the woman arrived and opened the bar. I ordered a coffee and some croissants. She didn't have any. A baguette? No, all the bread was spoken for. But she made me some toast for breakfast. Fortified, I pressed on.
At Eguzon, the next town, I bought a baguette and two croissants, and had a second coffee. I also bought some more compedes for my blisters.
Then I pressed on to Crozant. Thus was my day (like Gaul) divided into three parts.
Crozant is a bigger village, with a restaurant and shops. I'm staying in a room above the restaurant. The village's main attraction is the ruins of a fortified castle which controlled the crossing of the Creuse in the middle ages.
Again, a good part of the day was off the road. The weather continues to be cool with showery spells.
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Day 14. Crozant to La Souterraine. June 12, 2012.
We cursed through sludge
As I sat in the bar last night, two of the clients were sitting with their laptops. And I was connected to wifi with my iPhone. I worked out how to get from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Cannes by train. How times have changed!
I remember that on my first walk, the Coast to Coast in England, I had to ask a friend who was visiting Britain before me to find out the times and connections to get a train from Manchester Airport to St. Bee's Head. Now I can do it all on line.
Daniel, one of the pilgrims from Holland, carries an iPad instead of the guide book. He has scanned all the pages in, and studies it carefully the night before. Patrick carried one as well. He used it to take photos, of surprisingly good quality. To anyone seeing him from a distance, he must have looked like a water diviner as he walked about the countryside holding this rectangular object in front of him.
The Dutchmen are looking forward to watching a soccer match between Holland and Germany. When I detected a certain hostility in their tone, I shared Patrick's story about the Germans and the bikes. They said it was one of their sayings as well. I was surprised that these sentiments lasted so long after the war. I doubt that Aussie kids still say, as we did, "You can't say 'Barleys' when the Japs are after you." (You used to say 'Barleys' to invoke a truce in a fight. But since you said it when your opponent was about to twist your arm off or punch your head in, it was a usually a plea for mercy or a cry of surrender.)
Rain was threatening again this morning so I put on my rain pants as well as my jacket. (It was a double clammy!)
Every so often you come upon a stretch of the trail that makes up for all of the road walking. Such was the walk this morning along the river. I left Crozant and followed the trail down into the valley. The sound of rushing water grew louder as I descended. Soon I arrived at the Sedelle which was in full spate after all the rain we'd been having. I walked for a couple of kilometres along the bank. Along the path were enamelled paintings by artists of the "Crozant School" who had been inspired by scenes along the river.
I walked by a mill and its leet (see picture below), and launched into,
Down by the old mill stream,
Where I first met you,
With your eyes of blue,
Dressed in gingham too.
O to be sweet sixteen again!
I stopped at La Chapelle-Baloue for a coffee. I was hesitating, but then the sun came out and I saw a nice inviting table on the patio. The cafe, in a large old house, was run by an English woman. She, too, commiserated about the weather. It turned out that she ran a gite as well and offered meals. It looked a nice place. I wished I'd walked on last night and stayed there. Two more Poms arrived. One of them ran after me when I headed off in the wrong direction.
I arrived at Saint-Germain-Beaupre hoping to find a bakery open. No such luck. I sat down on a bench in front of the church and ate a stale crust from yesterday.
Just before Saint-Agnant-de-Versillat I crossed the Sedelle again. There, it was a little stream.
And then, the rain, which had been holding off all day, came down in buckets, or as the Normans say, comme les vaches qui pissent. I trudged along a narrow, muddy path which was now awash. As I slipped in the sludge, I cursed my Keen boots which were now taking in water. So much for their own type of "Gortex"!
I should have worn my leather boots, my Asolos or my Mendels. They would have kept the water out. The Dutch are both wearing Mendels. But, they said, they didn't ask for their bikes back when they bought them.
I arrived in La Souterraine at three-thirty, cold and wet. I am staying at Maison Numero Neuf, which offers a pilgrim's rate.
Click here to follow the next section of the journey.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
As I sat in the bar last night, two of the clients were sitting with their laptops. And I was connected to wifi with my iPhone. I worked out how to get from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Cannes by train. How times have changed!
I remember that on my first walk, the Coast to Coast in England, I had to ask a friend who was visiting Britain before me to find out the times and connections to get a train from Manchester Airport to St. Bee's Head. Now I can do it all on line.
Daniel, one of the pilgrims from Holland, carries an iPad instead of the guide book. He has scanned all the pages in, and studies it carefully the night before. Patrick carried one as well. He used it to take photos, of surprisingly good quality. To anyone seeing him from a distance, he must have looked like a water diviner as he walked about the countryside holding this rectangular object in front of him.
The Dutchmen are looking forward to watching a soccer match between Holland and Germany. When I detected a certain hostility in their tone, I shared Patrick's story about the Germans and the bikes. They said it was one of their sayings as well. I was surprised that these sentiments lasted so long after the war. I doubt that Aussie kids still say, as we did, "You can't say 'Barleys' when the Japs are after you." (You used to say 'Barleys' to invoke a truce in a fight. But since you said it when your opponent was about to twist your arm off or punch your head in, it was a usually a plea for mercy or a cry of surrender.)
Rain was threatening again this morning so I put on my rain pants as well as my jacket. (It was a double clammy!)
Every so often you come upon a stretch of the trail that makes up for all of the road walking. Such was the walk this morning along the river. I left Crozant and followed the trail down into the valley. The sound of rushing water grew louder as I descended. Soon I arrived at the Sedelle which was in full spate after all the rain we'd been having. I walked for a couple of kilometres along the bank. Along the path were enamelled paintings by artists of the "Crozant School" who had been inspired by scenes along the river.
I walked by a mill and its leet (see picture below), and launched into,
Down by the old mill stream,
Where I first met you,
With your eyes of blue,
Dressed in gingham too.
O to be sweet sixteen again!
I stopped at La Chapelle-Baloue for a coffee. I was hesitating, but then the sun came out and I saw a nice inviting table on the patio. The cafe, in a large old house, was run by an English woman. She, too, commiserated about the weather. It turned out that she ran a gite as well and offered meals. It looked a nice place. I wished I'd walked on last night and stayed there. Two more Poms arrived. One of them ran after me when I headed off in the wrong direction.
I arrived at Saint-Germain-Beaupre hoping to find a bakery open. No such luck. I sat down on a bench in front of the church and ate a stale crust from yesterday.
Just before Saint-Agnant-de-Versillat I crossed the Sedelle again. There, it was a little stream.
And then, the rain, which had been holding off all day, came down in buckets, or as the Normans say, comme les vaches qui pissent. I trudged along a narrow, muddy path which was now awash. As I slipped in the sludge, I cursed my Keen boots which were now taking in water. So much for their own type of "Gortex"!
I should have worn my leather boots, my Asolos or my Mendels. They would have kept the water out. The Dutch are both wearing Mendels. But, they said, they didn't ask for their bikes back when they bought them.
I arrived in La Souterraine at three-thirty, cold and wet. I am staying at Maison Numero Neuf, which offers a pilgrim's rate.
Click here to follow the next section of the journey.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________