Day 13. April 13, 2011. Castres to Abbey of En Calcat (21 kms).
There is nothing - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boots.
The day was fine but cool, lovely weather for walking through green fields on country roads.
I am glad to be out of the woods. There was always the potential for disaster. One wrong turning and I would have been wandering forever around a confusion of forest tracks which led only to logging sites.
Everyone is friendly in this part of the country, perhaps because there are relatively few walkers. In other parts of France, my Bonjour has been met with a surly nod, and in England, farmers have been known to leave a bull in the field to discourage walkers from using the public footpath that runs through their land.
I am staying at a Benedictine abbey built around the turn of the last century. Perhaps because the dormitory has been taken over by a larger group, they have put me in the conference centre with my own private room and bath. The church is huge, neo-Romanesque in light stone, devoid of garish ornamentation. I listened to an organ practice, and then attended Vespers.
Christianity got off on the right foot when the followers started singing.
As I listened to the service, I reflected on the great tradition of church liturgy and music, and its evolution into Good News Bibles, emasculated hymn books, and hermaphroditic prayers.
The meal was simple: garlic soup, green beans, cheese, puréed apple, and biscuits. And another superb vin du pay. The monk responsible for the meal tried to force the rest of the bottle upon me, and insisted I put some biscuits in my pocket for the road.
The garlic soup reminded me of a monk at an abbey just before Leon, who was famous for the garlic soup he would make for the pilgrims. He was getting on in years but still insisted on saying mass. Two other priests would stand on either side and steady him, and prompt him when he forgot the words.
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The day was fine but cool, lovely weather for walking through green fields on country roads.
I am glad to be out of the woods. There was always the potential for disaster. One wrong turning and I would have been wandering forever around a confusion of forest tracks which led only to logging sites.
Everyone is friendly in this part of the country, perhaps because there are relatively few walkers. In other parts of France, my Bonjour has been met with a surly nod, and in England, farmers have been known to leave a bull in the field to discourage walkers from using the public footpath that runs through their land.
I am staying at a Benedictine abbey built around the turn of the last century. Perhaps because the dormitory has been taken over by a larger group, they have put me in the conference centre with my own private room and bath. The church is huge, neo-Romanesque in light stone, devoid of garish ornamentation. I listened to an organ practice, and then attended Vespers.
Christianity got off on the right foot when the followers started singing.
As I listened to the service, I reflected on the great tradition of church liturgy and music, and its evolution into Good News Bibles, emasculated hymn books, and hermaphroditic prayers.
The meal was simple: garlic soup, green beans, cheese, puréed apple, and biscuits. And another superb vin du pay. The monk responsible for the meal tried to force the rest of the bottle upon me, and insisted I put some biscuits in my pocket for the road.
The garlic soup reminded me of a monk at an abbey just before Leon, who was famous for the garlic soup he would make for the pilgrims. He was getting on in years but still insisted on saying mass. Two other priests would stand on either side and steady him, and prompt him when he forgot the words.
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Day 14. April 14, 2011. En Calcat to Les Casses (32 kms).
Today was uneventful but for the incident of the one-armed man and a glimpse of domestic bliss.
I walked almost all morning on the bitumen. This is very hard on the feet and walkers will do anything to avoid it.
Sometimes you can find a trail of light stones in the centre or along the edges of the road - anything with a bit of give. Gravel is a nice surface to walk on. Twigs, acorns or leaves are even better. Dirt is fine. Grass is all right if it's not too long or spongy.
An important decision to make is whether to stop and take a stone out of your shoe or to keep walking and hope that it will work its way from the ball or heel of your foot.
Even more important is whether to keep going when you haven't seen a marker for a while. Is there no marker because the road is obviously the right one or is there no marker because it's the wrong one?
As I was walking up a hill, a one-armed man came up behind me at twice my pace and disappeared into the distance like the White Rabbit. I thought about the difficulty of walking without both arms to swing. I noticed that he leaned over to compensate for the missing arm.
Thirty minutes later he came back at the same speed. He stopped and we chatted. When we shook hands, I felt that he had the strength of two arms in his one hand.
Then I passed some goats, ducks and hens together in one small yard. The goats were lazing in the sun, the ducks were waddling about, and the hens were scratching the ground and clucking contentedly as chooks do. There is a moral here, I thought.
In the afternoon I walked along a winding trail beside a river. This was my kind of trail! I thought I was walking uphill but the water was flowing in the same direction.
Tonight I'm taking the demi-pension at a gîte. The meal was quite a contrast from last night's. We had soup, sausages with veggies and quinoa, and custard. The hostess kept pressing more and more upon me. To refuse would have been impolite.
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I walked almost all morning on the bitumen. This is very hard on the feet and walkers will do anything to avoid it.
Sometimes you can find a trail of light stones in the centre or along the edges of the road - anything with a bit of give. Gravel is a nice surface to walk on. Twigs, acorns or leaves are even better. Dirt is fine. Grass is all right if it's not too long or spongy.
An important decision to make is whether to stop and take a stone out of your shoe or to keep walking and hope that it will work its way from the ball or heel of your foot.
Even more important is whether to keep going when you haven't seen a marker for a while. Is there no marker because the road is obviously the right one or is there no marker because it's the wrong one?
As I was walking up a hill, a one-armed man came up behind me at twice my pace and disappeared into the distance like the White Rabbit. I thought about the difficulty of walking without both arms to swing. I noticed that he leaned over to compensate for the missing arm.
Thirty minutes later he came back at the same speed. He stopped and we chatted. When we shook hands, I felt that he had the strength of two arms in his one hand.
Then I passed some goats, ducks and hens together in one small yard. The goats were lazing in the sun, the ducks were waddling about, and the hens were scratching the ground and clucking contentedly as chooks do. There is a moral here, I thought.
In the afternoon I walked along a winding trail beside a river. This was my kind of trail! I thought I was walking uphill but the water was flowing in the same direction.
Tonight I'm taking the demi-pension at a gîte. The meal was quite a contrast from last night's. We had soup, sausages with veggies and quinoa, and custard. The hostess kept pressing more and more upon me. To refuse would have been impolite.
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Day 15. April 15, 2011. Les Casses to Baziège (34 kms).
Last night's gîte was called La Passeur-Elle, a nice play on words. To enter the gîte you crossed a little bridge, une passerelle. The hospitalier, Christiane, explained to me that she, Elle, was the passeur, the passer-by or walker.
"Elle" also suggested the femimine presence in this gîte. Everything was scrupulously clean and methodical. Each bunk in the dormitory had its own little bed light and table.
And in the loo, along with a neat line of toilet rolls, was a notice in words to this effect:
In the interest of hygiene and the comfort of all, Gentlemen, please remain seated at all times.
Evidently someone's aim wasn't up to scratch.
I am now walking in rolling cereal country, often following tracks through the fields themselves. The broom and gorse of the wilder country have been replaced by roadside flowers: daisies and buttercups, yarrow or Queen Anne's lace, herb Robert, and of course, the ubiquitous stinging nettles.
The nettles can be hazardous to someone in shorts. A narrow path can be overgrown with nettles, or sometimes they can be so close to the road that stepping out of the way of the traffic can mean stepping into the nettles. Hobson's choice!
Tonight I am staying at a gîte run by the Church at Baziège.
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"Elle" also suggested the femimine presence in this gîte. Everything was scrupulously clean and methodical. Each bunk in the dormitory had its own little bed light and table.
And in the loo, along with a neat line of toilet rolls, was a notice in words to this effect:
In the interest of hygiene and the comfort of all, Gentlemen, please remain seated at all times.
Evidently someone's aim wasn't up to scratch.
I am now walking in rolling cereal country, often following tracks through the fields themselves. The broom and gorse of the wilder country have been replaced by roadside flowers: daisies and buttercups, yarrow or Queen Anne's lace, herb Robert, and of course, the ubiquitous stinging nettles.
The nettles can be hazardous to someone in shorts. A narrow path can be overgrown with nettles, or sometimes they can be so close to the road that stepping out of the way of the traffic can mean stepping into the nettles. Hobson's choice!
Tonight I am staying at a gîte run by the Church at Baziège.
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Day 16. Baziège to Toulouse. April 16, 2011
Once again I was overwhelmed by hospitality at the gîte. I was invited to dine with the couple who are managing it for the week. Next week, someone else takes over. All are volunteers.
I decided to follow Le Canal du Midi into Toulouse and avoid the meanderings of the GR. The hospitalier walked with me for a few kilometres to send me in the right direction.
The canal was constructed in the 17th century under Louis 14th to allow passage from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic without going around Spain. It is now a UNESCO world heritage site.
I walk peacefully along the bank of the canal. When I can, I go down from the bitumen to the old towpath where the walking is easier. Ducks paddle in the water. Birds chirp. Doves coo. Joggers pass in both directions. A phalanx of cyclists whizzes by.
The mottled colour of the plain trees which line the canal reminds me of the gum trees along Bay Road where I used to walk to school. We would carve our names in the trunks and peel off the bark to make propellers. At a certain time of the year I would wave a branch above my head to ward off the swooping magpies.
Only the distant sounds of traffic from the autoroute and the drone of aircraft going in to land at Toulouse Airport mar the tranquility.
I stop at a little restaurant by a lock to have a coffee. I ask how far to go. “Douze a Toulouse,” she says. “Douze a Toulouse.”
I walk on. A tall, lean fellow approaches. “Ultreia,” he says. “Ultreia,” I reply, the pilgrims' greeting. He talks about his own experiences on the Camino.
As I walk into the outskirts of the city, the canal continues to provide a little ribbon of calm.
I arrived at the pilgrims' reception at the beautiful Basilique Saint-Sernin, but unable to find a suitable gîte, I booked into a hotel.
Later, drawn back to the basilica, I entered the church to the glorious sound of an a capella choir. The conservatory choir was performing Les Reponses de Tenebres by Victoria. What wonderful music! I noticed that like every other choir in the world, they were recruiting tenors. Perhaps they would accept me.
Click here to follow the next section of the journey.
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I decided to follow Le Canal du Midi into Toulouse and avoid the meanderings of the GR. The hospitalier walked with me for a few kilometres to send me in the right direction.
The canal was constructed in the 17th century under Louis 14th to allow passage from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic without going around Spain. It is now a UNESCO world heritage site.
I walk peacefully along the bank of the canal. When I can, I go down from the bitumen to the old towpath where the walking is easier. Ducks paddle in the water. Birds chirp. Doves coo. Joggers pass in both directions. A phalanx of cyclists whizzes by.
The mottled colour of the plain trees which line the canal reminds me of the gum trees along Bay Road where I used to walk to school. We would carve our names in the trunks and peel off the bark to make propellers. At a certain time of the year I would wave a branch above my head to ward off the swooping magpies.
Only the distant sounds of traffic from the autoroute and the drone of aircraft going in to land at Toulouse Airport mar the tranquility.
I stop at a little restaurant by a lock to have a coffee. I ask how far to go. “Douze a Toulouse,” she says. “Douze a Toulouse.”
I walk on. A tall, lean fellow approaches. “Ultreia,” he says. “Ultreia,” I reply, the pilgrims' greeting. He talks about his own experiences on the Camino.
As I walk into the outskirts of the city, the canal continues to provide a little ribbon of calm.
I arrived at the pilgrims' reception at the beautiful Basilique Saint-Sernin, but unable to find a suitable gîte, I booked into a hotel.
Later, drawn back to the basilica, I entered the church to the glorious sound of an a capella choir. The conservatory choir was performing Les Reponses de Tenebres by Victoria. What wonderful music! I noticed that like every other choir in the world, they were recruiting tenors. Perhaps they would accept me.
Click here to follow the next section of the journey.
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