Day 15. La Souterraine to Benevent-l'Abaye (21 kms). June 13, 2012
The Dolmen near Saint-Priest-la-Feuille
Fear no more the heat of the sun
It was 10 degrees when I woke, and the high today was 16. And it rained on and off. So I'm not suffering from heatstroke.
The meal last night at Maison Número Neuf was excellent. I ate dinner with an affluent British couple. We discussed such topics as how the world today would be so different had Al Gore become president.
Boots. I know that some of you are passionately interested in hiking footwear. What am I wearing on my feet and why? In the weeks leading up to my walk, I agonised over what to wear. I wore my Asolos last year. They are expensive, medium-weight leather boots, and I was mighty pleased with them. They made the rough places plain and they kept out the water. But I did develop shin splints on the 25th day, and I wondered whether lighter, softer-soled boots might lessen the pounding which probably caused the problem. So I bought a pair of light-weight Keen Gypsums. The trouble is that the soles are so soft that they may not last the distance.
I took both pairs to Winnipeg, from whence I was to fly to France, and delayed my decision until the very last moment. About to leave, I noticed that one of the soles of the Asolos was fraying at the edges. I had worn them down quite a bit at the heels last year, but this was something new. So I took the Keens.
Strange, though. My old Zamberlans served me well on all those trails in Britain, and a few Rocky Mountain trips, and the Camino Frances and the Chemin du Puy before they fell apart.
So, I'm wearing my Keens and I'm not too happy with them. I've developed blisters, and the membrane isn't keeping out the water. For the first time in my life I had to put newspaper in my boots last night to dry them. In future it's back to leather boots for me. Enough of boots.
Just before Saint-Priest-la-Feuille this morning, I made a detour to see a dolmen, an ancient set of stones, of the same vintage as Stonehenge. Unlike Stonehenge they stood alone without protective barrier or throngs of gaping tourists. (I was fortunate enough to visit Stonehenge with a party of school kids back in the sixties when it was still possible to clamber over the stones.)
I stood in that lonely spot and imagined the Druids sacrificing an animal, burying their dead, or worshipping the sun. Nobody really knows what the stones were for. A huge hemispherical boulder sat atop five standing stones, three of which were supporting it, the other two having sunk a little into the ground. A sixth stone had long since fallen over. The result was that the boulder was supported only on one side of its circular base, and must have been close to its tipping point.
I thought about how lucky I was to be standing there at all. So many of my ancestors' peers would have been sacrificed, lanced, clubbed,stabbed, hanged, boiled in oil, drawn and quartered, or fallen prey to the Black Death or some other contagion before they could beget progeny.
At eleven o'clock the rain came down. I stood on one leg, then the other, on a dry spot under a tree at the side of the D10, pulling on my rain gear. At Chamborand, the church was open so I took shelter and had lunch.
After that it was an easy walk into Benevent-l'Abbaye. I arrived at two o'clock.
The Holland-Germany soccer match is on tonight. The Hollanders are watching it on their iPad by wifi from a local bar. When the bar closes, they will sit outside and watch. I hope their team wins.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
It was 10 degrees when I woke, and the high today was 16. And it rained on and off. So I'm not suffering from heatstroke.
The meal last night at Maison Número Neuf was excellent. I ate dinner with an affluent British couple. We discussed such topics as how the world today would be so different had Al Gore become president.
Boots. I know that some of you are passionately interested in hiking footwear. What am I wearing on my feet and why? In the weeks leading up to my walk, I agonised over what to wear. I wore my Asolos last year. They are expensive, medium-weight leather boots, and I was mighty pleased with them. They made the rough places plain and they kept out the water. But I did develop shin splints on the 25th day, and I wondered whether lighter, softer-soled boots might lessen the pounding which probably caused the problem. So I bought a pair of light-weight Keen Gypsums. The trouble is that the soles are so soft that they may not last the distance.
I took both pairs to Winnipeg, from whence I was to fly to France, and delayed my decision until the very last moment. About to leave, I noticed that one of the soles of the Asolos was fraying at the edges. I had worn them down quite a bit at the heels last year, but this was something new. So I took the Keens.
Strange, though. My old Zamberlans served me well on all those trails in Britain, and a few Rocky Mountain trips, and the Camino Frances and the Chemin du Puy before they fell apart.
So, I'm wearing my Keens and I'm not too happy with them. I've developed blisters, and the membrane isn't keeping out the water. For the first time in my life I had to put newspaper in my boots last night to dry them. In future it's back to leather boots for me. Enough of boots.
Just before Saint-Priest-la-Feuille this morning, I made a detour to see a dolmen, an ancient set of stones, of the same vintage as Stonehenge. Unlike Stonehenge they stood alone without protective barrier or throngs of gaping tourists. (I was fortunate enough to visit Stonehenge with a party of school kids back in the sixties when it was still possible to clamber over the stones.)
I stood in that lonely spot and imagined the Druids sacrificing an animal, burying their dead, or worshipping the sun. Nobody really knows what the stones were for. A huge hemispherical boulder sat atop five standing stones, three of which were supporting it, the other two having sunk a little into the ground. A sixth stone had long since fallen over. The result was that the boulder was supported only on one side of its circular base, and must have been close to its tipping point.
I thought about how lucky I was to be standing there at all. So many of my ancestors' peers would have been sacrificed, lanced, clubbed,stabbed, hanged, boiled in oil, drawn and quartered, or fallen prey to the Black Death or some other contagion before they could beget progeny.
At eleven o'clock the rain came down. I stood on one leg, then the other, on a dry spot under a tree at the side of the D10, pulling on my rain gear. At Chamborand, the church was open so I took shelter and had lunch.
After that it was an easy walk into Benevent-l'Abbaye. I arrived at two o'clock.
The Holland-Germany soccer match is on tonight. The Hollanders are watching it on their iPad by wifi from a local bar. When the bar closes, they will sit outside and watch. I hope their team wins.
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Day 16. Benevent-l'Abbaye to Les Bilanges (28 kms). 14 June 2012
The abbey church at Benevent-l'Abbey
The bliss of solitude
Not a soul on the path today. Only the bleating of the lambs and the lowing of the cows and the songs of the birds in the woods.
At last the weather was fine -- cool but sunny. I ambled along, falling into the rhythm of the road and enjoying the pleasures of the moment. I felt no pressure to arrive somewhere to avoid being caught in a shower of rain. What a difference the weather makes!
Again, the gite where I stayed last night was run by a couple of Brits. They offer a demi-pension, tarrif pelerin, but I hadn't given her enough warning for a meal. It's a nice place with a lovely garden with a view of the abbey church.
He was a civil engineer, and he had plenty of work in the area helping ex-pats overcome their misfortunes arising from foolish or hasty house-buying. He mentioned some clients who had forgotten to drain all the water out of their pipes when they went back to their principal residence in England, and who came back to France in February to find that all their toilets had exploded. Australians were prone to folly as well, he said, buying houses on the Internet at fantastic prices, sight unseen, and arriving to find they were next to the sewage lagoon.
He was from the north country, and had a disconcerting habit of beginning his speech quite loudly and then fading away to nothing. Pardon, I would say, and he would begin again, but soon fade to a whisper, looking at me intensely, his lips moving but saying nothing. Dickens could have made much of him.
The gite itself was an annex which he had refurbished a couple of years ago. Previously, he said, it had been a small leather factory, and there had been places for ten workers. It had been one of the many little industries which supported the town. And, he said, there had once been 60 children living on the street. Now there were none. Sad!
After a short walk through the woods, I arrived at the village of Marsac, and sitting in the sun I drank my morning coffee.
Later, I sat on a bench outside the church in the hamlet of Arrenes. There was no one there, but on the monument aux morts of the Great War were nineteen names, including three sets of brothers, with three lost from one family. The village must have lost almost half its young men in that war. And there were more names on that memorial than inhabitants today.
After a long and vigorous climb up a stony path in the woods, I ate lunch beside another war memorial in front of the squat church of Saint-Goussaud. This was literally the high point of the day. From there it was downhill to Chatelus-le-Marcheix.
Half-way down, at a place where three roads meet, a bird shat on me. Just a tiny speck of orange. I took it as a sign to go straight ahead. An aeroplane was flying overhead as well, so I hoped they weren't emptying out the slops.
I had been contemplating bypassing this evening's recommended stop, and taking a short cut along the road to get a start on tomorrow's walk, but now I decided I would join the Hollanders at the gite at Chatelus-le-Marcheix and consume the can of emergency food I had been carrying around for about a week.
I walked down through the woods into Chatelus, only to find that the bottom bunks at the gite were all taken.
Now when I was young and nimble, I found it fun to sleep in the upper bunk, but now that I'm older I try to avoid it. Getting up in the night for a pee, I run the risk of falling off or stepping on a tender part of the person below.
I decided to walk on another ten kilometres to Les Bilanges. And I'm glad I did.
I'm staying in a very comfortable gite in a converted barn at La Besse Haut about a kilometre off the track, just short of Les Bilanges. La proprietaire est gentille, the food is very good, and the pilgrim's rate for demi-pension is 29 euros.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Not a soul on the path today. Only the bleating of the lambs and the lowing of the cows and the songs of the birds in the woods.
At last the weather was fine -- cool but sunny. I ambled along, falling into the rhythm of the road and enjoying the pleasures of the moment. I felt no pressure to arrive somewhere to avoid being caught in a shower of rain. What a difference the weather makes!
Again, the gite where I stayed last night was run by a couple of Brits. They offer a demi-pension, tarrif pelerin, but I hadn't given her enough warning for a meal. It's a nice place with a lovely garden with a view of the abbey church.
He was a civil engineer, and he had plenty of work in the area helping ex-pats overcome their misfortunes arising from foolish or hasty house-buying. He mentioned some clients who had forgotten to drain all the water out of their pipes when they went back to their principal residence in England, and who came back to France in February to find that all their toilets had exploded. Australians were prone to folly as well, he said, buying houses on the Internet at fantastic prices, sight unseen, and arriving to find they were next to the sewage lagoon.
He was from the north country, and had a disconcerting habit of beginning his speech quite loudly and then fading away to nothing. Pardon, I would say, and he would begin again, but soon fade to a whisper, looking at me intensely, his lips moving but saying nothing. Dickens could have made much of him.
The gite itself was an annex which he had refurbished a couple of years ago. Previously, he said, it had been a small leather factory, and there had been places for ten workers. It had been one of the many little industries which supported the town. And, he said, there had once been 60 children living on the street. Now there were none. Sad!
After a short walk through the woods, I arrived at the village of Marsac, and sitting in the sun I drank my morning coffee.
Later, I sat on a bench outside the church in the hamlet of Arrenes. There was no one there, but on the monument aux morts of the Great War were nineteen names, including three sets of brothers, with three lost from one family. The village must have lost almost half its young men in that war. And there were more names on that memorial than inhabitants today.
After a long and vigorous climb up a stony path in the woods, I ate lunch beside another war memorial in front of the squat church of Saint-Goussaud. This was literally the high point of the day. From there it was downhill to Chatelus-le-Marcheix.
Half-way down, at a place where three roads meet, a bird shat on me. Just a tiny speck of orange. I took it as a sign to go straight ahead. An aeroplane was flying overhead as well, so I hoped they weren't emptying out the slops.
I had been contemplating bypassing this evening's recommended stop, and taking a short cut along the road to get a start on tomorrow's walk, but now I decided I would join the Hollanders at the gite at Chatelus-le-Marcheix and consume the can of emergency food I had been carrying around for about a week.
I walked down through the woods into Chatelus, only to find that the bottom bunks at the gite were all taken.
Now when I was young and nimble, I found it fun to sleep in the upper bunk, but now that I'm older I try to avoid it. Getting up in the night for a pee, I run the risk of falling off or stepping on a tender part of the person below.
I decided to walk on another ten kilometres to Les Bilanges. And I'm glad I did.
I'm staying in a very comfortable gite in a converted barn at La Besse Haut about a kilometre off the track, just short of Les Bilanges. La proprietaire est gentille, the food is very good, and the pilgrim's rate for demi-pension is 29 euros.
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Day 17. Les Bilanges to Saint-Leonard-de-Noblat (24 kms). 15 June 2012
The pilgrims' greeting
It is the bright day that brings forth the adder
I have met a few more pilgrims. At the gite last night was a Frenchman with his porter, that is, his wife, who was following him with their car and carrying his stuff. They would meet up each evening at a bed and breakfast. I just saw him again inside the church at Saint-Leonard.
And this afternoon I met a French couple who almost stepped on a snake. They didn't know whether it was an adder, but they said it reared up quite threateningly. Since then, I've been on the lookout.
When I was walking the Pennine Way, I was warned to be careful when climbing over dry stone walls. The adders liked to come out and sun themselves. I almost stepped on one on a stone in Cornwall. Shakespeare knew what he was talking about.
For the last ten kilometres yesterday afternoon, and much of today, I have been walking along the main road. To relieve the monotony, I march like an automaton and lose myself in my thoughts. Of course I have to be ready to leap off the road into the nettles or brambles or electric fence if I'm threatened by a car.
I have been thinking about an article in the Guardian sent to me by my friend Juliet in response to my post about the lines from my mother's poetry book. It seems that Michael Grove, the education secretary in the UK, wants to introduce a rigorous new curriculum for primary school students, with greater emphasis on spelling, grammar and phonics. It sounds like the curriculum in place 60 years ago!
What really interested me is that under this new curriculum, children will be expected to learn poetry by heart and recite it. It's an idea, surely, that few will disagree with.
I remember having to recite a poem to the class in Standard Four at East Claremont Practising School, "Prac" as we called it. I chose a poem which must have surprised the teacher even then, just after the war. I say it now with great pleasure.
There's a breathless hush in the close tonight,
Ten to make and the match to win.
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
With its jingoistic theme and British sentiments, I could never teach it to my own students, but I often quoted part of the second verse as a fine example of alliteration and assonance. Listen to the d's and r's and the repetition of other vowels and consonants.
The sand of the desert is sodden red,
Red with the wreck of the square that broke.
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
There are many poems which are fun to say aloud. Whether it's
James James Morrison Morrison, Weatherby George Dupree...
or
And the highway man came riding, riding, riding,
Up to the old inn door...
or any of those other great-sounding classics of rhyme, rhythm and repetition, there is something for every age, and most children will enjoy the experience of reciting the poem aloud, and will remember it forever.
Along the way I pass many religious symbols that must have been full of meaning to travellers of yore: crosses, shrines, cairns, and of course the churches, in which every pilgrim would have said a prayer. Today in the woods I passed a curious but spectacular pilgrim's welcome (above). "Ultreia" is the traditional pilgrim's greeting and encouragement.
I am now in Saint-Leonard-de-Noblat, an unspoiled medieval town with winding streets, a huge church, and few tourists.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
I have met a few more pilgrims. At the gite last night was a Frenchman with his porter, that is, his wife, who was following him with their car and carrying his stuff. They would meet up each evening at a bed and breakfast. I just saw him again inside the church at Saint-Leonard.
And this afternoon I met a French couple who almost stepped on a snake. They didn't know whether it was an adder, but they said it reared up quite threateningly. Since then, I've been on the lookout.
When I was walking the Pennine Way, I was warned to be careful when climbing over dry stone walls. The adders liked to come out and sun themselves. I almost stepped on one on a stone in Cornwall. Shakespeare knew what he was talking about.
For the last ten kilometres yesterday afternoon, and much of today, I have been walking along the main road. To relieve the monotony, I march like an automaton and lose myself in my thoughts. Of course I have to be ready to leap off the road into the nettles or brambles or electric fence if I'm threatened by a car.
I have been thinking about an article in the Guardian sent to me by my friend Juliet in response to my post about the lines from my mother's poetry book. It seems that Michael Grove, the education secretary in the UK, wants to introduce a rigorous new curriculum for primary school students, with greater emphasis on spelling, grammar and phonics. It sounds like the curriculum in place 60 years ago!
What really interested me is that under this new curriculum, children will be expected to learn poetry by heart and recite it. It's an idea, surely, that few will disagree with.
I remember having to recite a poem to the class in Standard Four at East Claremont Practising School, "Prac" as we called it. I chose a poem which must have surprised the teacher even then, just after the war. I say it now with great pleasure.
There's a breathless hush in the close tonight,
Ten to make and the match to win.
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
With its jingoistic theme and British sentiments, I could never teach it to my own students, but I often quoted part of the second verse as a fine example of alliteration and assonance. Listen to the d's and r's and the repetition of other vowels and consonants.
The sand of the desert is sodden red,
Red with the wreck of the square that broke.
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
There are many poems which are fun to say aloud. Whether it's
James James Morrison Morrison, Weatherby George Dupree...
or
And the highway man came riding, riding, riding,
Up to the old inn door...
or any of those other great-sounding classics of rhyme, rhythm and repetition, there is something for every age, and most children will enjoy the experience of reciting the poem aloud, and will remember it forever.
Along the way I pass many religious symbols that must have been full of meaning to travellers of yore: crosses, shrines, cairns, and of course the churches, in which every pilgrim would have said a prayer. Today in the woods I passed a curious but spectacular pilgrim's welcome (above). "Ultreia" is the traditional pilgrim's greeting and encouragement.
I am now in Saint-Leonard-de-Noblat, an unspoiled medieval town with winding streets, a huge church, and few tourists.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 18. Saint-Leonard-de-Noblat to Limoges (21.5 kms) June 16, 2012
A stretch of old houses on the water at Saint-Leonard-de-Noblat
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
I woke up early this morning and was having coffee in the square just after seven, with the sounds of preparation for commerce all around me. Vans were unloading and vendors were setting up shop. Next to me was a fruit stall; opposite, oysters and fish. People were leaving the boulangerie with baguettes under their arm.
On leaving Saint-Leonard I walked across a Roman bridge. Roman legions had crossed here almost two thousand years ago. And these bridges can be found all over Europe. They survive when the modern highway bypasses an old village and the bridge is left intact. In something of an understatement this one was called "Le Vieux Pont".
Then I passed a stretch of houses which were almost literally in the river. Water ran in front and behind. I bet you could buy one for a song.
After that I ambled along, hoping for a cup of coffee at each village I passed. I was out of luck. I arrived in Limoges about two-thirty, and have found a room in a very cheap hotel. I stayed at a hotel like this in Paris once, and I was disturbed by what sounded like a murder in the hotel which abutted onto the one where I was staying. I called the concierge, but he refused to do anything. So far, all is calm here.
Click here to continue the journey.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
I woke up early this morning and was having coffee in the square just after seven, with the sounds of preparation for commerce all around me. Vans were unloading and vendors were setting up shop. Next to me was a fruit stall; opposite, oysters and fish. People were leaving the boulangerie with baguettes under their arm.
On leaving Saint-Leonard I walked across a Roman bridge. Roman legions had crossed here almost two thousand years ago. And these bridges can be found all over Europe. They survive when the modern highway bypasses an old village and the bridge is left intact. In something of an understatement this one was called "Le Vieux Pont".
Then I passed a stretch of houses which were almost literally in the river. Water ran in front and behind. I bet you could buy one for a song.
After that I ambled along, hoping for a cup of coffee at each village I passed. I was out of luck. I arrived in Limoges about two-thirty, and have found a room in a very cheap hotel. I stayed at a hotel like this in Paris once, and I was disturbed by what sounded like a murder in the hotel which abutted onto the one where I was staying. I called the concierge, but he refused to do anything. So far, all is calm here.
Click here to continue the journey.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________