Day 41. June 17, 2013. Dax to Sorde-Abaye
Abbey church at Sorde-BAYE
Every valley shall be exalted
Another thing that reminds me that I'm in France is the constant whine of the moped or high-revving little motor bikes that the youth like to ride. Give me the throbbing, throaty roar of a 1,000 cc unmuffled Harley Davidson any day. Perhaps I got a good deal on my hotel room because it faced the Main Street. In the evening I was disturbed by the bikes; in the morning I was woken up by the deep rumbling of the transport trucks.
On the way out of town, I had my coffee with Wifi at the very pleasant Bar Magnolia.
The day started badly and ended badly.
Just out of Dax, I had a choice. One arrow pointed straight ahead, the other to the right. A lady stopped her car and told me to go straight ahead. It's more interesting, she said. It was. A few hundred yards later I passed a sign saying, danger of flooding. But it was very interesting. I walked by a lake and along a stream. Then I came to a ditch with a sluice gate running at right angles to the path, but no way of getting across unless I tried to balance on the metal gate. I backed up, made my way across the steam and then approached the ditch from the other side. This I crossed by means of a fallen tree, scratching myself on the brambles in the process. Then, back on the trail, along a muddy path which led nowhere, then, backing up again, across a field of long grass to a marker I could see in the distance. This led to an abandoned orchard on the flood plain of a river where the undergrowth was so thick I had difficulty getting through. Finally, I climbed up some little-used steps and onto a bridge where I was back on the road I should have taken.
After that harrowing experience, I stopped for a second coffee at Saint-Pandelon. Only 1€. It's been a while since I bought a coffee at that price.
Then it was a nice stroll along a minor road into Cagnotte, where I resisted the temptation to have the menu du jour at a restaurant. I had quite a long way to go.
I stopped to visit 11th century Abbaye-Notre-Dame-de-Cagnotte, simple and austere with its Roman arches and small side chapels. Churches have a smell about them - foxed hymn books, oak pews, incense and the stale aftermath of Sunday roast dinners - but this little abbey church simply smelled damp.
Just out of town, I met a man feeding bottles into a glass recycling bin.
I don't think I've mentioned these before. They are large, green and plastic, with one, two, or three holes in which to put the bottles or other recyclables. They often look like green monsters. Today there was a line of Cyclopes.
These containers for glass have been around a long time in France, long before recycling became fashionable. Back in the eighties, I used to think how enlightened the French were to have these recycling containers for glass, but they probably just needed somewhere to chuck their bottles.
We chatted for a few minutes, and I learned a new word. I asked him when I would get to the beginning of the Pyrenees. He said that I wouldn't get to the contreforts for a couple of days. Now isn't that interesting. A contrefort is a buttress, as in a flying buttress against a church, literally a "strong against". So the French see the little hills as buttresses supporting the mountain. We see them as little hills at the foot of the Mountain. Different images, that's all. But that got me thinking.
Although I am still in the Department des Landes, I have left the landes behind and I'm now walking in hilly country which I much prefer. Now we would call this country "hilly", but the French call it vallonne (with an accent on the "e".) It's the same country: where there are hills there are valleys. We emphasize the hills, they emphasize the valleys. Is this a result of a difference in our temperament? Does the one, with its connotation of steep ascents and craggy outcrops express the Anglo-Saxon, Protestant ethic of hard work and austere living, and the other, with its connotations of fertile valleys and food and wine, reveal the French taste for the good life? Just a thought.
I haven't been using my guide, because the way has been so well marked. So when I reached Peyrehorade, five kilometres before my destination, I just kept on following the coquilles, over the River Gave, across the plain and up the hill. Turned out, this was the route to follow if you didn't stop at my gite. I had to backtrack, and I had walked three or four unnecessary kilometres.
The gite where I'm staying is only a month old and quite high tech. The stove is so advanced that I couldn't use it. The controls are symbols on a screen that you press, but I couldn't work out what they meant. Words I can understand, but I have trouble with symbols. That's why I sometimes walk into the ladies' loo. The rooms have individual temperature controls and the bathroom has an electric towel-drying rack which I'm using to dry my clothes.
The abbey church at Sorde-Abbaye is as grand as the church at Cagnotte is humble. Unfortunately, after my wanderings in the wrong direction, I arrived too late for a serious visit.
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Another thing that reminds me that I'm in France is the constant whine of the moped or high-revving little motor bikes that the youth like to ride. Give me the throbbing, throaty roar of a 1,000 cc unmuffled Harley Davidson any day. Perhaps I got a good deal on my hotel room because it faced the Main Street. In the evening I was disturbed by the bikes; in the morning I was woken up by the deep rumbling of the transport trucks.
On the way out of town, I had my coffee with Wifi at the very pleasant Bar Magnolia.
The day started badly and ended badly.
Just out of Dax, I had a choice. One arrow pointed straight ahead, the other to the right. A lady stopped her car and told me to go straight ahead. It's more interesting, she said. It was. A few hundred yards later I passed a sign saying, danger of flooding. But it was very interesting. I walked by a lake and along a stream. Then I came to a ditch with a sluice gate running at right angles to the path, but no way of getting across unless I tried to balance on the metal gate. I backed up, made my way across the steam and then approached the ditch from the other side. This I crossed by means of a fallen tree, scratching myself on the brambles in the process. Then, back on the trail, along a muddy path which led nowhere, then, backing up again, across a field of long grass to a marker I could see in the distance. This led to an abandoned orchard on the flood plain of a river where the undergrowth was so thick I had difficulty getting through. Finally, I climbed up some little-used steps and onto a bridge where I was back on the road I should have taken.
After that harrowing experience, I stopped for a second coffee at Saint-Pandelon. Only 1€. It's been a while since I bought a coffee at that price.
Then it was a nice stroll along a minor road into Cagnotte, where I resisted the temptation to have the menu du jour at a restaurant. I had quite a long way to go.
I stopped to visit 11th century Abbaye-Notre-Dame-de-Cagnotte, simple and austere with its Roman arches and small side chapels. Churches have a smell about them - foxed hymn books, oak pews, incense and the stale aftermath of Sunday roast dinners - but this little abbey church simply smelled damp.
Just out of town, I met a man feeding bottles into a glass recycling bin.
I don't think I've mentioned these before. They are large, green and plastic, with one, two, or three holes in which to put the bottles or other recyclables. They often look like green monsters. Today there was a line of Cyclopes.
These containers for glass have been around a long time in France, long before recycling became fashionable. Back in the eighties, I used to think how enlightened the French were to have these recycling containers for glass, but they probably just needed somewhere to chuck their bottles.
We chatted for a few minutes, and I learned a new word. I asked him when I would get to the beginning of the Pyrenees. He said that I wouldn't get to the contreforts for a couple of days. Now isn't that interesting. A contrefort is a buttress, as in a flying buttress against a church, literally a "strong against". So the French see the little hills as buttresses supporting the mountain. We see them as little hills at the foot of the Mountain. Different images, that's all. But that got me thinking.
Although I am still in the Department des Landes, I have left the landes behind and I'm now walking in hilly country which I much prefer. Now we would call this country "hilly", but the French call it vallonne (with an accent on the "e".) It's the same country: where there are hills there are valleys. We emphasize the hills, they emphasize the valleys. Is this a result of a difference in our temperament? Does the one, with its connotation of steep ascents and craggy outcrops express the Anglo-Saxon, Protestant ethic of hard work and austere living, and the other, with its connotations of fertile valleys and food and wine, reveal the French taste for the good life? Just a thought.
I haven't been using my guide, because the way has been so well marked. So when I reached Peyrehorade, five kilometres before my destination, I just kept on following the coquilles, over the River Gave, across the plain and up the hill. Turned out, this was the route to follow if you didn't stop at my gite. I had to backtrack, and I had walked three or four unnecessary kilometres.
The gite where I'm staying is only a month old and quite high tech. The stove is so advanced that I couldn't use it. The controls are symbols on a screen that you press, but I couldn't work out what they meant. Words I can understand, but I have trouble with symbols. That's why I sometimes walk into the ladies' loo. The rooms have individual temperature controls and the bathroom has an electric towel-drying rack which I'm using to dry my clothes.
The abbey church at Sorde-Abbaye is as grand as the church at Cagnotte is humble. Unfortunately, after my wanderings in the wrong direction, I arrived too late for a serious visit.
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Day 42. June 18, 2013. Sorde-Abaye to Viellenave-sur-Vidouze
And the rain, rain, rain came down, down, down
It was raining when I woke up. It was still raining when I was ready to leave. I waited until nine, but it only got heavier, so I headed off.
The rain pattered down on my Tilley hat, running over the brim, some of it somehow finding its way down the inside of my shirt. I splashed through puddles, as little rivulets ran down the tracks in the farm roads. The cows turned in unison to watch me in that stolid bovine stance, wondering perhaps what on earth I was doing in the rain, not realizing they were standing in it themselves. Water-logged fields shed their water into the ditches, which soon became brown raging torrents, too much for the culverts to handle. In places, the overflow had cut a stream across the dirt road, and lower parts of the highways were flooded.
Some night crawlers were out on the pavement, the longest I have ever seen, more like intestines than slugs.
I was wet and cold and somewhat miserable, and I walked non-stop for 20 kilometres, unable to take advantage of the many benches alongside the little groves of fruit trees planted by the Amis de Saint-Jacques Pyrenees Atlantiques. Carelessly, I had let one of the legs of my rain pants get stuck inside my boot, so one foot was squelching. And so much for the quality of the waterproofing of my Patagonia jacket: my Guidebook, which I keep in my pocket under the jacket, is a sodden mass. And rain is forecast for the next two days. I was hoping the heavens had emptied.
It was raining when I woke up. It was still raining when I was ready to leave. I waited until nine, but it only got heavier, so I headed off.
The rain pattered down on my Tilley hat, running over the brim, some of it somehow finding its way down the inside of my shirt. I splashed through puddles, as little rivulets ran down the tracks in the farm roads. The cows turned in unison to watch me in that stolid bovine stance, wondering perhaps what on earth I was doing in the rain, not realizing they were standing in it themselves. Water-logged fields shed their water into the ditches, which soon became brown raging torrents, too much for the culverts to handle. In places, the overflow had cut a stream across the dirt road, and lower parts of the highways were flooded.
Some night crawlers were out on the pavement, the longest I have ever seen, more like intestines than slugs.
I was wet and cold and somewhat miserable, and I walked non-stop for 20 kilometres, unable to take advantage of the many benches alongside the little groves of fruit trees planted by the Amis de Saint-Jacques Pyrenees Atlantiques. Carelessly, I had let one of the legs of my rain pants get stuck inside my boot, so one foot was squelching. And so much for the quality of the waterproofing of my Patagonia jacket: my Guidebook, which I keep in my pocket under the jacket, is a sodden mass. And rain is forecast for the next two days. I was hoping the heavens had emptied.
I am staying with Isabelle at La Borde de l'Hopitale at Viellenave sur Bidouze. I arrived at lunchtime, so she invited me to dine with her. She was kind enough to do my washing as well. Isabelle is an excellent hostess with a wry sense of humour. I am very comfortable here. Good tucker. Occasionally at gites the toilet paper can be in short supply. Not at Isabelle's.
This was the wettest day!
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This was the wettest day!
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Day 43. June 19, 2013. Viellenave-sur-Bidouze to Larceveau
Sheep near la Chapelle de Soyarce
All we like sheep have gone astray
Isabelle asks her guests to leave by 7:30 because she has to go to work, so I made an early start.
The hawks were circling as I left, perhaps looking for little animals that had been flushed out of their burrows by the floodwaters. And the cows were lowing, as if anxious to be milked. Had the rain upset the farmers' routine? The night crawlers were out again, eighteen inches long, some of them, bait for a very big fish or lots of little ones. Unfortunately, being creatures of no brain at all, they crawl out on to the middle of the road and get squashed. A short life, but not a merry one.
There were menacing clouds behind me, but I thought the sky was lightening a little, and soon I could see little patches of blue, and little bits of the country spotlighted by the sun as it peeped through.
Evidence of the rain was everywhere. Low lying land was awash and the river had extended its floodplain into neighbouring fields. Soon I came to a sign which said that the road had been cut by flooding, but I followed a car along it and found that it was now passable. A little later, I left the bitumen and followed the coquilles up a rocky path, across some fields, and then down through a plantation of trees to a stream which I had to cross.
Isabelle asks her guests to leave by 7:30 because she has to go to work, so I made an early start.
The hawks were circling as I left, perhaps looking for little animals that had been flushed out of their burrows by the floodwaters. And the cows were lowing, as if anxious to be milked. Had the rain upset the farmers' routine? The night crawlers were out again, eighteen inches long, some of them, bait for a very big fish or lots of little ones. Unfortunately, being creatures of no brain at all, they crawl out on to the middle of the road and get squashed. A short life, but not a merry one.
There were menacing clouds behind me, but I thought the sky was lightening a little, and soon I could see little patches of blue, and little bits of the country spotlighted by the sun as it peeped through.
Evidence of the rain was everywhere. Low lying land was awash and the river had extended its floodplain into neighbouring fields. Soon I came to a sign which said that the road had been cut by flooding, but I followed a car along it and found that it was now passable. A little later, I left the bitumen and followed the coquilles up a rocky path, across some fields, and then down through a plantation of trees to a stream which I had to cross.
But the bridge, or rather, the plank, was down. One end remained on my side of the stream, which today was quite a fierce little torrent, but the other had been swept off the bank and rested in the middle of the stream. What was I to do? I followed the bank further upstream looking for a place to cross, but found none. I returned to the fallen bridge. The two guide rails would not have held my weight. I ventured down the plank to the middle of the river. It was too far to step to the bank, but I was willing to step into the water and then out onto the bank if I could manage it. I hesitated, but then decided that if it were deeper than I thought, and I slipped, then both my pack and I would be in the drink. Not good for my gadgets.
So I climbed up the hill and followed a track until I came to a road. Then I asked for directions and found I was only five kilometres from Saint-Palais by the highway. It could have been a lot worse. I walked briskly into town, bought some croissants, and had a coffee.
It's a long climb out of Saint-Palais, up and up, and just when you think you've arrived at the top, a little road to the left takes you higher still, and then down into a valley, and then in front of you is a stony road going up forever. I remembered this from last year, a road that goes straight up the cleavage plain of the shale or slate, the natural rock formation providing the surface for the road.
This is glorious country, wild and high, without heather but very much resembling the English moors, and the natural home for sheep, which were grazing everywhere. I sang to them, and told them that I too had gone astray. They feigned interest, but I could tell that they weren't really listening.
At the top is the Chapelle de Soyarce. Sitting on a bench in front of it were an English couple. He had walked the Chemin du Puy, and was showing his wife some of his favourite spots. On his Camino, he had got as far as a little town on the Meseta just after Burgos. He and his mate were resuming their walk in August. I didn't envy them walking across the plain in that heat. Mind you, who knows what the weather will be like this year. I took their photo, and he took mine.
After that, it was easygoing, downhill to Ostabat. There was no room at the inn where I wanted to stay, and not wanting to face crowds of Le Puyers at the gite, having become accustomed to having the gite to myself, I decided to walk on four kilometres to a hotel at Larceveau where I had stayed eight years ago when I was finishing the Chemin du Puy. It was new then, and is now a little the worse for wear. It is rare indeed to find a wall fitting that will allow a two-handed rather than a one-handed shower.
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So I climbed up the hill and followed a track until I came to a road. Then I asked for directions and found I was only five kilometres from Saint-Palais by the highway. It could have been a lot worse. I walked briskly into town, bought some croissants, and had a coffee.
It's a long climb out of Saint-Palais, up and up, and just when you think you've arrived at the top, a little road to the left takes you higher still, and then down into a valley, and then in front of you is a stony road going up forever. I remembered this from last year, a road that goes straight up the cleavage plain of the shale or slate, the natural rock formation providing the surface for the road.
This is glorious country, wild and high, without heather but very much resembling the English moors, and the natural home for sheep, which were grazing everywhere. I sang to them, and told them that I too had gone astray. They feigned interest, but I could tell that they weren't really listening.
At the top is the Chapelle de Soyarce. Sitting on a bench in front of it were an English couple. He had walked the Chemin du Puy, and was showing his wife some of his favourite spots. On his Camino, he had got as far as a little town on the Meseta just after Burgos. He and his mate were resuming their walk in August. I didn't envy them walking across the plain in that heat. Mind you, who knows what the weather will be like this year. I took their photo, and he took mine.
After that, it was easygoing, downhill to Ostabat. There was no room at the inn where I wanted to stay, and not wanting to face crowds of Le Puyers at the gite, having become accustomed to having the gite to myself, I decided to walk on four kilometres to a hotel at Larceveau where I had stayed eight years ago when I was finishing the Chemin du Puy. It was new then, and is now a little the worse for wear. It is rare indeed to find a wall fitting that will allow a two-handed rather than a one-handed shower.
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Day 44. June 20, 2013. Larceveau to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port
Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port
To Tom or Dick or Bob,
I may be just a slob,
But to me...
I find the walk into Saint-Jean a bit of an anti-climax. Once you come down from Ostabat and hit the main road, it's pretty much a straight line from there. The GR makes half-hearted attempts to get you off the bitumen, but these are little loops that take you off only to bring you back again, adding unnecessary kilometres, so I just put my head down and made my way along the highway.
The last few kilometres are more interesting. I left the highway to pass through Saint-Jean-le-Vieux and then La Madeleine before arriving at the gate of Saint-Jacques at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. It was a three-hour walk.
To me, Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is a place to get into and out of quickly. Other towns offer concessions to pilgrims; not Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Here the cuts of meat or cheese can be paper thin. Even the coffee I had today was suspiciously weak. To the merchants, pilgrims are tourists.
The Pilgrims' Accueil, however, run by les Amis de Saint-Jacques Pyrenees-Atlantiques, the same group that plants the fruit trees, does a sterling job advising pilgrims and keeping statistics. When I visited, six volunteers could hardly keep up with the new arrivals.
I think there is already a competitive jostling among the pilgrims as they get ready for Spain, where they will be racing to get the places in the auberges. If I ever walk the Camino Frances again, it will be very early or very late in the season.
I am now quite fit, not exactly Jack Sprat, but I've certainly lost a few pounds. The trouble is that from now on, it's summer barbecues, beer and wine, and, if I'm not careful, I will be back where I was when I started.
It has been a good walk. I will remember the cold, the rain, the larks, some wonderful towns I passed through, and interesting people whom I met both on the road and at the gites. But it's been a lonely walk, not one for the extrovert. In that respect, it was similar to the Chemin de Vezelay, but more interesting.
I will also remember the hospitality shown by so many little communes in providing gites to pilgrims, at what must have been a financial loss. I thank them.
I met someone on the road this morning who was walking the Chemin du Puy for the second time. I asked him how he found it the second time around. He said he was in better shape physically, but not mentally. I think the latter is more important.
If you are not fit at the beginning, you soon will be. After all, this is not marathon running; it is something you do every day. But you have to be prepared for the monotony of walking twenty kilometres in a straight line or the misery of walking all day in the rain.
I have touched on some familiar themes in this journal: on religion, on the open-mindedness of Europeans, and on the importance of the state's playing a central role in the lives of its people. I have also been reminded how important it is to have a satisfying job. I worry for future generations. Unemployment is certainly the most serious problem facing Europe today.
And now on a personal note...
Some wives wouldn't let their husbands go away for six weeks at a time. Others would be only too glad to get rid of them. My dear wife, Marcelline, falls into neither of those categories. Certainly, I'm not a model husband, but she's sort of got used to my being around. And yet she lets me go. I love her and I thank her.
That's all, folks.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
I may be just a slob,
But to me...
I find the walk into Saint-Jean a bit of an anti-climax. Once you come down from Ostabat and hit the main road, it's pretty much a straight line from there. The GR makes half-hearted attempts to get you off the bitumen, but these are little loops that take you off only to bring you back again, adding unnecessary kilometres, so I just put my head down and made my way along the highway.
The last few kilometres are more interesting. I left the highway to pass through Saint-Jean-le-Vieux and then La Madeleine before arriving at the gate of Saint-Jacques at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. It was a three-hour walk.
To me, Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is a place to get into and out of quickly. Other towns offer concessions to pilgrims; not Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Here the cuts of meat or cheese can be paper thin. Even the coffee I had today was suspiciously weak. To the merchants, pilgrims are tourists.
The Pilgrims' Accueil, however, run by les Amis de Saint-Jacques Pyrenees-Atlantiques, the same group that plants the fruit trees, does a sterling job advising pilgrims and keeping statistics. When I visited, six volunteers could hardly keep up with the new arrivals.
I think there is already a competitive jostling among the pilgrims as they get ready for Spain, where they will be racing to get the places in the auberges. If I ever walk the Camino Frances again, it will be very early or very late in the season.
I am now quite fit, not exactly Jack Sprat, but I've certainly lost a few pounds. The trouble is that from now on, it's summer barbecues, beer and wine, and, if I'm not careful, I will be back where I was when I started.
It has been a good walk. I will remember the cold, the rain, the larks, some wonderful towns I passed through, and interesting people whom I met both on the road and at the gites. But it's been a lonely walk, not one for the extrovert. In that respect, it was similar to the Chemin de Vezelay, but more interesting.
I will also remember the hospitality shown by so many little communes in providing gites to pilgrims, at what must have been a financial loss. I thank them.
I met someone on the road this morning who was walking the Chemin du Puy for the second time. I asked him how he found it the second time around. He said he was in better shape physically, but not mentally. I think the latter is more important.
If you are not fit at the beginning, you soon will be. After all, this is not marathon running; it is something you do every day. But you have to be prepared for the monotony of walking twenty kilometres in a straight line or the misery of walking all day in the rain.
I have touched on some familiar themes in this journal: on religion, on the open-mindedness of Europeans, and on the importance of the state's playing a central role in the lives of its people. I have also been reminded how important it is to have a satisfying job. I worry for future generations. Unemployment is certainly the most serious problem facing Europe today.
And now on a personal note...
Some wives wouldn't let their husbands go away for six weeks at a time. Others would be only too glad to get rid of them. My dear wife, Marcelline, falls into neither of those categories. Certainly, I'm not a model husband, but she's sort of got used to my being around. And yet she lets me go. I love her and I thank her.
That's all, folks.
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