Day 12. June 15. 2014. Carcassonne to Montreal. 28 kms
Parsley, sage, rosemary and time
I was totally alone in the abbey, a huge building with three floors, and room for a hundred people or more. It was a very secular institution devoid of crucifixes on the walls, and seemed to be totally given over to the business of providing accommodation for parties of students and travellers. This was probably the only way for the institution to survive. There may have been a few members of a religious order in a remote part of the building.
I walked down the hill to the Aude, crossed the Vieux Pont, and saw the familiar red and white markings of the grande randonnee above a coquille Saint Jacques. I decided to abandon M. Lepere, and to follow the GR.
I turned left and walked along beside the river. As in any large city, lost and lonely men sat on benches waiting for something to happen. One accosted me and wanted to talk. I didn't understand him but that didn't seem to matter.
It is much easier and more enjoyable to follow the markings than to consult guide book all the time. However, you only have to miss one of the signs to get lost. I took a wrong turning on the outskirts of town, and a man stopped his car to put me right. Be sure you take the Rue de Romarin," he said. I thought of my little herb garden.
At last, I reached the open fields. I stripped the wild oats from their stems and scattered them to the wind. I chatted with a couple of chooks. And then I met a man with three dogs. We walked together around a lake. The dogs knew their routine. At regular intervals they would plunge into the lake.
In the village of Lavallette. I asked a wizened old man if there was a bar in town. "No beer, no coffee," he said with a malevolent smile. So I ate a banana on a bench beside the Club de Pétanque. The wind made the sound of rushing water in the poplars.
Eventually, I found a coffee at Arzens. Two men and a woman were talking in a bar. It was a conversation I've heard many times in a bar, but never understood. It came in bursts, rising and falling, rumbling along quietly and then rising in a crescendo of guttural ejaculations before falling again into near silence. I was reminded of the harsh cries of a crow, but also the squawk of a parrot, and perhaps the hee haw of a donkey.
I was totally alone in the abbey, a huge building with three floors, and room for a hundred people or more. It was a very secular institution devoid of crucifixes on the walls, and seemed to be totally given over to the business of providing accommodation for parties of students and travellers. This was probably the only way for the institution to survive. There may have been a few members of a religious order in a remote part of the building.
I walked down the hill to the Aude, crossed the Vieux Pont, and saw the familiar red and white markings of the grande randonnee above a coquille Saint Jacques. I decided to abandon M. Lepere, and to follow the GR.
I turned left and walked along beside the river. As in any large city, lost and lonely men sat on benches waiting for something to happen. One accosted me and wanted to talk. I didn't understand him but that didn't seem to matter.
It is much easier and more enjoyable to follow the markings than to consult guide book all the time. However, you only have to miss one of the signs to get lost. I took a wrong turning on the outskirts of town, and a man stopped his car to put me right. Be sure you take the Rue de Romarin," he said. I thought of my little herb garden.
At last, I reached the open fields. I stripped the wild oats from their stems and scattered them to the wind. I chatted with a couple of chooks. And then I met a man with three dogs. We walked together around a lake. The dogs knew their routine. At regular intervals they would plunge into the lake.
In the village of Lavallette. I asked a wizened old man if there was a bar in town. "No beer, no coffee," he said with a malevolent smile. So I ate a banana on a bench beside the Club de Pétanque. The wind made the sound of rushing water in the poplars.
Eventually, I found a coffee at Arzens. Two men and a woman were talking in a bar. It was a conversation I've heard many times in a bar, but never understood. It came in bursts, rising and falling, rumbling along quietly and then rising in a crescendo of guttural ejaculations before falling again into near silence. I was reminded of the harsh cries of a crow, but also the squawk of a parrot, and perhaps the hee haw of a donkey.
Day 13. June 16, 2014. Montreal to Fanjeux. 13 ams
One potato, two potato, three potato, four,
Five potato, six potato, seven potato, more
I was rudely awakened in the middle of the night by the Dutch lady saying, "Please don't snore!" Fortunately, I managed to get back to sleep. A bit much, I thought, later. What do you expect in a gite? She said she had nudged me and I'd stopped, but then started again, so she'd had to wake me, but still I'd continued. Catharine, the French woman, said I wasn't snoring, but talking in my sleep. She didn't understand what I was saying. Probably just as well. It must have been the wine I drank at dinner.
We dined last night at an Auberge on the highway. It was a fine meal, beginning with a wonderful salade Roquefort, and followed by a steak, worth mentioning because of the most amazing frites I have ever tasted. It was explained to me that they were simply potato peelings, formed after the skin had been removed. A litre of rouge sat importantly in the centre of the table, its level sinking slowly as the evening progressed.
So I confess to feeling a little crook this morning. I hope it is the wine and not something I am coming down with. But it was the shortest day in a long time, only 13 kilometres, and glorious walking in cool weather in high open spaces. It was almost cold at times, and I felt a few drops of rain. In the distance I could see snow on the peaks of the mountains.
Since Carcassonne, I have seem lots of wheat and barley. I have seen legumes as well. This morning I saw some potatoes with their tops already dying. They must be ready. Mine won't be.
This year, at the suggestion of Ron, my neighbour on the island, I have planted potatoes in a barrel. The idea is to plant four or five potatoes in a 44 gallon drum or similar container, and as they grow, to keep covering them with soil, all but the crown. The potatoes are supposed to keep forming in layers. One fellow claims to have grow 100 lbs of potatoes this way. Another got only a single spud. We shall see.
I walked through a couple of little villages sans bar, following minor roads, broad country lanes, and tracks through the fields, just what a GR should be. Soon I could see Fanjeux, not far away on the top of a hill.
Five potato, six potato, seven potato, more
I was rudely awakened in the middle of the night by the Dutch lady saying, "Please don't snore!" Fortunately, I managed to get back to sleep. A bit much, I thought, later. What do you expect in a gite? She said she had nudged me and I'd stopped, but then started again, so she'd had to wake me, but still I'd continued. Catharine, the French woman, said I wasn't snoring, but talking in my sleep. She didn't understand what I was saying. Probably just as well. It must have been the wine I drank at dinner.
We dined last night at an Auberge on the highway. It was a fine meal, beginning with a wonderful salade Roquefort, and followed by a steak, worth mentioning because of the most amazing frites I have ever tasted. It was explained to me that they were simply potato peelings, formed after the skin had been removed. A litre of rouge sat importantly in the centre of the table, its level sinking slowly as the evening progressed.
So I confess to feeling a little crook this morning. I hope it is the wine and not something I am coming down with. But it was the shortest day in a long time, only 13 kilometres, and glorious walking in cool weather in high open spaces. It was almost cold at times, and I felt a few drops of rain. In the distance I could see snow on the peaks of the mountains.
Since Carcassonne, I have seem lots of wheat and barley. I have seen legumes as well. This morning I saw some potatoes with their tops already dying. They must be ready. Mine won't be.
This year, at the suggestion of Ron, my neighbour on the island, I have planted potatoes in a barrel. The idea is to plant four or five potatoes in a 44 gallon drum or similar container, and as they grow, to keep covering them with soil, all but the crown. The potatoes are supposed to keep forming in layers. One fellow claims to have grow 100 lbs of potatoes this way. Another got only a single spud. We shall see.
I walked through a couple of little villages sans bar, following minor roads, broad country lanes, and tracks through the fields, just what a GR should be. Soon I could see Fanjeux, not far away on the top of a hill.
Then followed a sequence a little reminiscent of the great crop-dusting scene in North by North-West. As I walked up a minor road towards Fanjeux, I noticed on a neighbouring field a tractor pulling a sprayer with its long arms outstretched, but raised above the ground. What was it doing? It must have finished its spraying. But suddenly it was thundering along behind me. As I stood aside to let it pass, it squirted an evil-looking liquid on the road beside me. It rumbled on by, jettisoning the foul pestilence, leaving a wet stream on the limestone for me to follow, all the way to the main road, where it continued to spew out the poison, but fortunately not in the direction I was taking.
I turned in the other direction, and climbed the hill into the old town. Again the church is heavily decorated, and kept locked, but with barred glass doors so you can see the interior. There must have been some valuable paintings and statues inside.
I am staying tonight at a Dominican convent, demi-pension 25 €. A delightful retreat. Two young sisters looked after us. Their order must be experiencing a renaissance, I thought, but no, they were the only two in this grand old building with its large garden. How can they survive?
I leave you to ponder on a puzzling notice I saw at the church last night. It seems the Church is in the discount business. The suggested offering at a mass is 16€. But you can get a package. If you attend 30 consecutive masses you get a slight saving. Not much, but better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. But look what happens if you select the nine-mass package. You end up paying more. Somebody, like Tim Hudak, couldn't do his sums. Or am I missing something here?
I wonder whether the Church offered the discount packages on its sale of indulgences in the Middle Ages.
I turned in the other direction, and climbed the hill into the old town. Again the church is heavily decorated, and kept locked, but with barred glass doors so you can see the interior. There must have been some valuable paintings and statues inside.
I am staying tonight at a Dominican convent, demi-pension 25 €. A delightful retreat. Two young sisters looked after us. Their order must be experiencing a renaissance, I thought, but no, they were the only two in this grand old building with its large garden. How can they survive?
I leave you to ponder on a puzzling notice I saw at the church last night. It seems the Church is in the discount business. The suggested offering at a mass is 16€. But you can get a package. If you attend 30 consecutive masses you get a slight saving. Not much, but better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. But look what happens if you select the nine-mass package. You end up paying more. Somebody, like Tim Hudak, couldn't do his sums. Or am I missing something here?
I wonder whether the Church offered the discount packages on its sale of indulgences in the Middle Ages.
Day 14. June 17, 2014. Fanjeux to Mirepoix. 28 kms
Along the Chemin de Cretes
Estas redit, nunc recedit Hyemis sevitia
Iam liquescit et decrescit grando, nix et cetera
I walked today with Catherine, la Francaise. We left the Dutch couple at the convent. They were not going as far as we were; in fact, they were walking a circular route and not doing the Camino at all.
We left town just before nine and made good progress, covering 17 kilometres before lunch. We passed through a couple of hamlets which offered no chance of refreshment.
Most of the morning we walked along the Chemin de Cretes (with a circumflex over the "e", another example of the old "s"). With a cool breeze in our faces, this was the very best of walking. Hay fields rolled away on either side, with the Pyrennees in the distance, snow on their peaks. And as we came down into the valleys, we passed through scrubby oaks, some pines, and the ubiquitous broom.
Iam liquescit et decrescit grando, nix et cetera
I walked today with Catherine, la Francaise. We left the Dutch couple at the convent. They were not going as far as we were; in fact, they were walking a circular route and not doing the Camino at all.
We left town just before nine and made good progress, covering 17 kilometres before lunch. We passed through a couple of hamlets which offered no chance of refreshment.
Most of the morning we walked along the Chemin de Cretes (with a circumflex over the "e", another example of the old "s"). With a cool breeze in our faces, this was the very best of walking. Hay fields rolled away on either side, with the Pyrennees in the distance, snow on their peaks. And as we came down into the valleys, we passed through scrubby oaks, some pines, and the ubiquitous broom.
I found myself marching along to the frenetic rhythms of Carmina Burana. After we sing at a concert, I am always left with its themes in my head. At the time, I was sorry that Carmina had erased the beautiful melodies of the Brahms Requiem we had sung a few weeks earlier, but today I found that the marching rhythms of the drinking songs hastened my pace.
It was after lunch that things went wrong. With about six or seven kilometres to go we followed a track up a steep hill, somehow missed a turnoff, and found ourselves up against a barrier of mud, too deep to wade through and impossible to pass on either side. We backtracked until we found what we thought was a parallel trail, took it, and came upon a fence where we noticed a coquille fastened to a post. Was this the Camino? We pressed on but it led to a lonely farm where there was no one to help us. Someone must have idly nailed the shell to the post years ago, little realizing that one day it would give a couple of walkers false hope. We followed the farm access road back to the highway, and eventually came upon some local ramblers who put us right, and accompanied us into town.
At a cafe on the square of the beautiful medieval town, I drank one of the most refreshing beers I have ever enjoyed.
It was after lunch that things went wrong. With about six or seven kilometres to go we followed a track up a steep hill, somehow missed a turnoff, and found ourselves up against a barrier of mud, too deep to wade through and impossible to pass on either side. We backtracked until we found what we thought was a parallel trail, took it, and came upon a fence where we noticed a coquille fastened to a post. Was this the Camino? We pressed on but it led to a lonely farm where there was no one to help us. Someone must have idly nailed the shell to the post years ago, little realizing that one day it would give a couple of walkers false hope. We followed the farm access road back to the highway, and eventually came upon some local ramblers who put us right, and accompanied us into town.
At a cafe on the square of the beautiful medieval town, I drank one of the most refreshing beers I have ever enjoyed.
Day 13. June 18, 2014. Mirepoix to Palmiers. 30 kms
Teilet
Climb every mountain, ford every stream
I woke up to the news that the Canadian government has approved a controversial pipeline to take the bitumen from the Alberta tar sands to the west coast, against the wishes of many of the First Nations along the way and two-thirds of British Columbians whose pristine northern coastal waters the tankers must navigate to collect the oil.
I suspect that the Prime Minister has been given a hint that President Obama is not going to approve another controversial pipeline which would take the bitumen down to the Texas refineries, Alberta is desperate to export its resource. This will be a divisive issue for years to come. Canadians will have to choose between the economic benefits of the tar sands and a cleaner planet without them.
I was dropped off at the post office, where I had been picked up the night before. As I started walking, I ran into Catherine, so we set out together. We followed a little short cut suggested by M. Lepere and ended up at the back of a farm, and had to scramble to get back to the GR. After walking along the main road for a couple of kilometres, we turned off on a track which headed up the hill.
It was a brutal climb. On and on, up and up, straight over the top of the hill, and then down into the village of Manses. It rained last night, and I was glad of my Zambs where the water was across the track. And then the same again. Another brutal climb. Up and over a hill and down into the village of Teilhet. In the picture of the village, you will see the characteristic clochers mur of the church, typical of the area. The bells are not hung in a tower, but in a wall at the front of the church. Cheaper than building a tower.
I woke up to the news that the Canadian government has approved a controversial pipeline to take the bitumen from the Alberta tar sands to the west coast, against the wishes of many of the First Nations along the way and two-thirds of British Columbians whose pristine northern coastal waters the tankers must navigate to collect the oil.
I suspect that the Prime Minister has been given a hint that President Obama is not going to approve another controversial pipeline which would take the bitumen down to the Texas refineries, Alberta is desperate to export its resource. This will be a divisive issue for years to come. Canadians will have to choose between the economic benefits of the tar sands and a cleaner planet without them.
I was dropped off at the post office, where I had been picked up the night before. As I started walking, I ran into Catherine, so we set out together. We followed a little short cut suggested by M. Lepere and ended up at the back of a farm, and had to scramble to get back to the GR. After walking along the main road for a couple of kilometres, we turned off on a track which headed up the hill.
It was a brutal climb. On and on, up and up, straight over the top of the hill, and then down into the village of Manses. It rained last night, and I was glad of my Zambs where the water was across the track. And then the same again. Another brutal climb. Up and over a hill and down into the village of Teilhet. In the picture of the village, you will see the characteristic clochers mur of the church, typical of the area. The bells are not hung in a tower, but in a wall at the front of the church. Cheaper than building a tower.
L'Eglise de Vals
But the church at Vals, the next village, is quite unique and very famous. Built both in the rock and on the rock, it exists on three levels. The pre-Romanesque crypt perhaps preempted an earlier pagan site. It looks up to, and the nave looks down upon, the altar, and there is a gallery as well above the nave. The church just seems to rise out of the rock.
We sat on the steps in front of the church and ate our lunch.
And then we took a short cut suggested by the woman who organized our lodging in Mirepoix. Cutting off a huge and hilly loop in the GR, we saved five or six kilometres by walking directly to Saint-Amadou. There I left Catherine to make her way to her gite.
I pressed on, taking another short cut along the road and adding only one kilometre. Finally, I arrived at the town of Pamiers, where I ordered a beer at the Cafe des Halles on the Place de la Republic. No Leffe, but a "Greem". I waited for my old camerade du chemin, Patrick, who was taking me back to his place for the night.
We sat on the steps in front of the church and ate our lunch.
And then we took a short cut suggested by the woman who organized our lodging in Mirepoix. Cutting off a huge and hilly loop in the GR, we saved five or six kilometres by walking directly to Saint-Amadou. There I left Catherine to make her way to her gite.
I pressed on, taking another short cut along the road and adding only one kilometre. Finally, I arrived at the town of Pamiers, where I ordered a beer at the Cafe des Halles on the Place de la Republic. No Leffe, but a "Greem". I waited for my old camerade du chemin, Patrick, who was taking me back to his place for the night.
Day 14. June 19, Roquefixade
They sat around the fire and talked all night
Of how the world was in a pretty plight
I have made up my mind. I will proceed leisurely and see where I end up. I have accepted an invitation to stay an extra night with my friend Patrick and his charming wife Lucette at their house in the hamlet in Saint-Martin, in the village of Roquefixade.
I met Patrick three years ago on the Chemin d'Arles, just after Toulouse, where he was setting out for Santiago from his home town of Saint-Lys. We walked together as far as Puente la Reina in Spain.
He was the leader of our group, and he made life easy for us by organizing our accommodation. He has done the same for me today.
Patrick has written a book about his experiences on the Camino, which has sold quite well. I am mentioned in this book, primarily in an incident when, everyone else having given up hope, I managed to persuade a publican to open his bar and serve us all a beer.
Last night we all had a beer together in Pamiers, and then Patrick cooked a fine meal on a grill over an open fire in his stone house. It was duck, of course, a long standing joke between us since a discussion we once had over whether the French practice of force-feeding ducks to make pate was worse than the Canadian practice of battering seals to death. We reminisced over those good times on the Chemin d'Arles.
This afternoon we toured the area and marvelled at a huge elm which must be one of the few of its kind surviving in Europe. Then we admired the ruins of the chateaux of Montsegur and Roquefixade. In the picture above, you may be able to make out the Occitan flag which Patrick has planted on the latter. Patrick is passionate about all things Occitan.
In the evening we had a long political discussion. Patrick is slightly to the left of centre; Lucette, to the right; and as the evening rolled on, the discussion became quite heated.. They agreed that France is facing a economic and political crisis and that the most serious problem is political apathy on the part of its citizens.
It was a delightful jour de repos for which I thank them very much. Tomorrow, I will be back on the road.
Click here to continue the journey.
Of how the world was in a pretty plight
I have made up my mind. I will proceed leisurely and see where I end up. I have accepted an invitation to stay an extra night with my friend Patrick and his charming wife Lucette at their house in the hamlet in Saint-Martin, in the village of Roquefixade.
I met Patrick three years ago on the Chemin d'Arles, just after Toulouse, where he was setting out for Santiago from his home town of Saint-Lys. We walked together as far as Puente la Reina in Spain.
He was the leader of our group, and he made life easy for us by organizing our accommodation. He has done the same for me today.
Patrick has written a book about his experiences on the Camino, which has sold quite well. I am mentioned in this book, primarily in an incident when, everyone else having given up hope, I managed to persuade a publican to open his bar and serve us all a beer.
Last night we all had a beer together in Pamiers, and then Patrick cooked a fine meal on a grill over an open fire in his stone house. It was duck, of course, a long standing joke between us since a discussion we once had over whether the French practice of force-feeding ducks to make pate was worse than the Canadian practice of battering seals to death. We reminisced over those good times on the Chemin d'Arles.
This afternoon we toured the area and marvelled at a huge elm which must be one of the few of its kind surviving in Europe. Then we admired the ruins of the chateaux of Montsegur and Roquefixade. In the picture above, you may be able to make out the Occitan flag which Patrick has planted on the latter. Patrick is passionate about all things Occitan.
In the evening we had a long political discussion. Patrick is slightly to the left of centre; Lucette, to the right; and as the evening rolled on, the discussion became quite heated.. They agreed that France is facing a economic and political crisis and that the most serious problem is political apathy on the part of its citizens.
It was a delightful jour de repos for which I thank them very much. Tomorrow, I will be back on the road.
Click here to continue the journey.
