Day 26. April 19, 2015. Lourdes to Betarram. 18.5 kms
Lourdes from the balcony of Acceuil Pelerin la Ruche
Let us sing with a joyful noise
I am continuing my walk from where I left off last year, along the Voie du Piedmont to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port and even beyond. Yesterday morning I arrived in Paris. After two long flights with little sleep the night before, I was absolutely spent.
I sat down in front of a bar and ordered a double espresso. To my left was the Tour Saint-Jacques; to my right, Notre Dame. People were sitting in the sun by the Seine eating their lunch. How beautiful is Paris! Along with a host of others I took yet another photo of Notre Dame along the Seine from the Pont Saint-Michel. Sometimes you just have to keep snapping the same image in the vain hope that you'll capture its beauty.
I decided to walk to the Gare Montparnasse. Russet buildings stretched along busy boulevardes, and narrow streets led off to gardens and museums. Beggars asked for a sou, and petitioners demanded my signature. Joggers circled the gardens. London is history, but Paris is endless variety and charm.
After a long journey by train I arrived late at Accueil Pelerin la Ruch in Lourdes, where M. Doux had kindly kept a meal for me. We were five around the table: Jean-Louis Doux, the hospitalier; Rachel from Florida, his son's girlfriend; a Devout Dutchman and his wife; Servais the Belgian, who at 77 is even older than I am; and me. As we ate, singing floated across the river from a procession of religious pilgrims carrying their cross. This was Lourdes. There was serious business within as well. We sang a few rounds of "Ultreia", the other pilgrims' chorus, and discussed the next morning's mass.
I decided to join them, although going to mass at Lourdes was not high on my bucket list. I really belong in the Dawkins-Hitchens camp (but without their vitriol).
I have attended many masses along the Camino, from simple ecumenical ceremonies in Romanesque chapels to stultifying services in ornate churches, where elderly Spanish priests preached to a few withered souls. The most formal mass I have attended was not Catholic at all, but high Anglican, bells and smells, at Christ Church Cathedral in Victoria, where the priests walked in and out of little doors, bowing to each other, and following some obscure ritual of their own. They didn't need a congregation at all. I didn't know quite what to expect at Lourdes.
The mass was held in a huge concrete vault, which reminded me of an upside-down football stadium, but twice the size, built in the days where even the large parish church was not big enough to accommodate the faithful.
On entering, I avoided the holy water, but my companion, the Devout Dutchman, smeared it on me anyway. He wouldn't accept that I was non-pratiquant: "You're doing a pilgrimage," he said. Later on I got another dose as the priests sprinkled it over the congregation.
There must have been between one and two thousand people in the vault, barely a half of its full capacity. There were various groups of course: a flock of priests in white, a procession or two of pilgrims from different parts of the world, including Toronto, the sick in their wheelchairs and stretchers, and nuns scattered throughout the congregation. The rest were ordinary folk, mostly devout, I imagine, with a few curious observers like me.
During the service my thoughts wandered. I didn't say a prayer for them, but I thought of my religious friends around the world who would have found the service very meaningful. Like them, I lament the decline of Christianity. I want something not to believe in. I thought of how vulnerable we would have been in this concrete cavern were it situated in another part of the world where people of faith are the victims of bigotry and hatred. The insense made me think of the huge censer at Santiago, the whirling dervish of censers. Today there was only a modest amount of scent. We weren't smelly pilgrims in need of fumigation.
When the collection plate came around I noticed that it was designed with a narrow slot for notes, not for coins. But I didn't have a fiver and I wasn't going to put in a twenty, so I pulled out a handful of shrapnel and squeezed the coins in one by one. As they clanged, the collection lady glared at me, gesturing impatiently, worrying about missing out on more generous contributions. My dear wife, who likes to get rid of her small change when there's a queue behind her, would have been proud of me.
The service was warm and welcoming. No fervid adoration, or prone submission. Much signing of the cross, kneeling, and joyful singing with tasteful hallelujahs. An ambience of love and joy. The Devout Dutchman and the Servais the Belge were quite beside themselves. The latter, who has a fine tenor voice, had insisted on going up to join the choir, even though they told him he was too late, that he should have been at an earlier practice if he wanted to sing with them, but he refused to take no for an answer and sang with them anyway, and the Devout Dutchman's wife nudged me as he appeared on the huge screen. One of us was on television. The congregation all knew the songs, but not me, except for a grand old Protestant hymn which the Catholics must have stolen.
Truth to tell, I found the mass very moving, and I appreciated the warmth of my Christian friends. I will not see the Dutch couple again, but I will run into Servais, who is following my route for the next few days.
After a quick lunch, which revealed that to the merchants of Lourdes their Christian customers were victims to be exploited like any other tourists, I set out about one o'clock, walking along the Gave towards Betarram.
I was back in rural France. Dogs barked, birds sang, nettles stung, or they would have done if I'd not kept my wits about me. Donkeys brayed. One aimiable ass followed me along a fence, poking his nose over the barbed wire from time to time to be rubbed. On s'entends bien, l'ane et moi. I was temped to linger. He really loved me, that gentle animal, but I had to reach my gite.
I am continuing my walk from where I left off last year, along the Voie du Piedmont to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port and even beyond. Yesterday morning I arrived in Paris. After two long flights with little sleep the night before, I was absolutely spent.
I sat down in front of a bar and ordered a double espresso. To my left was the Tour Saint-Jacques; to my right, Notre Dame. People were sitting in the sun by the Seine eating their lunch. How beautiful is Paris! Along with a host of others I took yet another photo of Notre Dame along the Seine from the Pont Saint-Michel. Sometimes you just have to keep snapping the same image in the vain hope that you'll capture its beauty.
I decided to walk to the Gare Montparnasse. Russet buildings stretched along busy boulevardes, and narrow streets led off to gardens and museums. Beggars asked for a sou, and petitioners demanded my signature. Joggers circled the gardens. London is history, but Paris is endless variety and charm.
After a long journey by train I arrived late at Accueil Pelerin la Ruch in Lourdes, where M. Doux had kindly kept a meal for me. We were five around the table: Jean-Louis Doux, the hospitalier; Rachel from Florida, his son's girlfriend; a Devout Dutchman and his wife; Servais the Belgian, who at 77 is even older than I am; and me. As we ate, singing floated across the river from a procession of religious pilgrims carrying their cross. This was Lourdes. There was serious business within as well. We sang a few rounds of "Ultreia", the other pilgrims' chorus, and discussed the next morning's mass.
I decided to join them, although going to mass at Lourdes was not high on my bucket list. I really belong in the Dawkins-Hitchens camp (but without their vitriol).
I have attended many masses along the Camino, from simple ecumenical ceremonies in Romanesque chapels to stultifying services in ornate churches, where elderly Spanish priests preached to a few withered souls. The most formal mass I have attended was not Catholic at all, but high Anglican, bells and smells, at Christ Church Cathedral in Victoria, where the priests walked in and out of little doors, bowing to each other, and following some obscure ritual of their own. They didn't need a congregation at all. I didn't know quite what to expect at Lourdes.
The mass was held in a huge concrete vault, which reminded me of an upside-down football stadium, but twice the size, built in the days where even the large parish church was not big enough to accommodate the faithful.
On entering, I avoided the holy water, but my companion, the Devout Dutchman, smeared it on me anyway. He wouldn't accept that I was non-pratiquant: "You're doing a pilgrimage," he said. Later on I got another dose as the priests sprinkled it over the congregation.
There must have been between one and two thousand people in the vault, barely a half of its full capacity. There were various groups of course: a flock of priests in white, a procession or two of pilgrims from different parts of the world, including Toronto, the sick in their wheelchairs and stretchers, and nuns scattered throughout the congregation. The rest were ordinary folk, mostly devout, I imagine, with a few curious observers like me.
During the service my thoughts wandered. I didn't say a prayer for them, but I thought of my religious friends around the world who would have found the service very meaningful. Like them, I lament the decline of Christianity. I want something not to believe in. I thought of how vulnerable we would have been in this concrete cavern were it situated in another part of the world where people of faith are the victims of bigotry and hatred. The insense made me think of the huge censer at Santiago, the whirling dervish of censers. Today there was only a modest amount of scent. We weren't smelly pilgrims in need of fumigation.
When the collection plate came around I noticed that it was designed with a narrow slot for notes, not for coins. But I didn't have a fiver and I wasn't going to put in a twenty, so I pulled out a handful of shrapnel and squeezed the coins in one by one. As they clanged, the collection lady glared at me, gesturing impatiently, worrying about missing out on more generous contributions. My dear wife, who likes to get rid of her small change when there's a queue behind her, would have been proud of me.
The service was warm and welcoming. No fervid adoration, or prone submission. Much signing of the cross, kneeling, and joyful singing with tasteful hallelujahs. An ambience of love and joy. The Devout Dutchman and the Servais the Belge were quite beside themselves. The latter, who has a fine tenor voice, had insisted on going up to join the choir, even though they told him he was too late, that he should have been at an earlier practice if he wanted to sing with them, but he refused to take no for an answer and sang with them anyway, and the Devout Dutchman's wife nudged me as he appeared on the huge screen. One of us was on television. The congregation all knew the songs, but not me, except for a grand old Protestant hymn which the Catholics must have stolen.
Truth to tell, I found the mass very moving, and I appreciated the warmth of my Christian friends. I will not see the Dutch couple again, but I will run into Servais, who is following my route for the next few days.
After a quick lunch, which revealed that to the merchants of Lourdes their Christian customers were victims to be exploited like any other tourists, I set out about one o'clock, walking along the Gave towards Betarram.
I was back in rural France. Dogs barked, birds sang, nettles stung, or they would have done if I'd not kept my wits about me. Donkeys brayed. One aimiable ass followed me along a fence, poking his nose over the barbed wire from time to time to be rubbed. On s'entends bien, l'ane et moi. I was temped to linger. He really loved me, that gentle animal, but I had to reach my gite.
Day 27. April 20, 2015. Betarram to Bruges. 15 kms
Repent all ye who enter here
After a preamble in the baroque chapel, a scramble up a hill, a ramble along a ridge, and an amble down a country lane, I arrived in what should have been the sleepy little town of Bruges.
I stayed last night at the Accueil de Notre Dame, in a monastery which was formerly the mother house for an order of missionaries, all but three of whom had gone, and which now serves several other religious functions, including offering hospitality to pilgrims. It was yet another one of those huge institutional buildings scattered all over Europe which once housed a large religious community, but is now almost empty. Its religious importance is evident everywhere in the town, in churches and chapels, and the stations of the cross which stand along the stony path as it zigzags up the hill.
Before leaving the town I paid a quick visit to the baroque chapel, its walls lined with religious paintings and Latin texts warning sinners of the hell that awaited them, a religion of fear that older Catholics will remember, and very different from the spirit of yesterday's mass. It was the kind of richly ornate chapel that is common in Spain, a reminder perhaps that we were getting closer to the border. A religion based on fear needed powerful symbols of its superiority.
Leaving the chapel, I climbed the steep path with its imposing stone chapels housing the stations of the cross, carved in marble.These were perhaps 50-100 metres apart, and stretched almost a kilometre up the hill.
At last I was walking on the ridge, with the river valley to my right, and the snow-capped Pyrenees to my left. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and all was well. it was glorious! Eventually the path wound its way down into another valley, and for several kilometres I walked beside the River Ouzom. Along the way I encountered a shapely young lass, a Bosom on the Ouzom, as it were.
At noon I arrived at Asson, hoping for a bite to eat, but alas, it was Monday closing. I pressed on, walking easily along the country lanes, and arrived in Bruges before two o'clock, still in time for lunch. There were four bars around the town square. I ordered a beer and a salad at the one that was open.
After a preamble in the baroque chapel, a scramble up a hill, a ramble along a ridge, and an amble down a country lane, I arrived in what should have been the sleepy little town of Bruges.
I stayed last night at the Accueil de Notre Dame, in a monastery which was formerly the mother house for an order of missionaries, all but three of whom had gone, and which now serves several other religious functions, including offering hospitality to pilgrims. It was yet another one of those huge institutional buildings scattered all over Europe which once housed a large religious community, but is now almost empty. Its religious importance is evident everywhere in the town, in churches and chapels, and the stations of the cross which stand along the stony path as it zigzags up the hill.
Before leaving the town I paid a quick visit to the baroque chapel, its walls lined with religious paintings and Latin texts warning sinners of the hell that awaited them, a religion of fear that older Catholics will remember, and very different from the spirit of yesterday's mass. It was the kind of richly ornate chapel that is common in Spain, a reminder perhaps that we were getting closer to the border. A religion based on fear needed powerful symbols of its superiority.
Leaving the chapel, I climbed the steep path with its imposing stone chapels housing the stations of the cross, carved in marble.These were perhaps 50-100 metres apart, and stretched almost a kilometre up the hill.
At last I was walking on the ridge, with the river valley to my right, and the snow-capped Pyrenees to my left. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and all was well. it was glorious! Eventually the path wound its way down into another valley, and for several kilometres I walked beside the River Ouzom. Along the way I encountered a shapely young lass, a Bosom on the Ouzom, as it were.
At noon I arrived at Asson, hoping for a bite to eat, but alas, it was Monday closing. I pressed on, walking easily along the country lanes, and arrived in Bruges before two o'clock, still in time for lunch. There were four bars around the town square. I ordered a beer and a salad at the one that was open.
Bruges should have been a sleepy little town. The town square could have been quite attractive. At the top was the Mairie and towards the bottom, the monument aux morts. Newly planted trees, and beyond them houses and shops, lined the other three sides. Typical, you say, but here's the rub: diagonally across the square ran the main road, along which rumbled trucks and tractors and lorries at thirty-second intervals. Short periods of tranquility were interrupted by noise and fumes.
I met up with Servais again. We are staying tonight in a second-floor studio, quite Spartan, but comfortable enough. We had a meal together, more pleasant for the conversation than the food. He had been a high ranking nuclear engineer, working, among his other responsibilities, on a UN committee advocating nuclear power for the sake of the environment. He deplored Angela Merkel's cancelling of Germany's nuclear program, which was being replaced by coal-fired power stations. He convinced me that the continuing pollution from Japan's recent disaster was minimal, conspiracy theories to the contrary. Could the power station have been built, I asked, to have withstood the tsunami? Of course, he said, and had the private company followed government recommendations, not requirements, it would have been. It was a failure of Capitalism. This was a typically European point of view, which recognizes the importance of a strong central government. We talked about the dangers of nuclear power getting into the wrong hands, and I was left with the thought that we are facing the possibility of either a quick end or a slow one.
We too in Canada have a government that doesn't believe in spending money on necessary regulations, but would rather give it back to the people in tax cuts as a bribe to be re-elected. To give a few examples, we have cut back on census-taking to the detriment of social planning, we have cut back on food inspection resulting in more salmonella outbreaks, we have cut back on coastguard services and increasied the risk of oil pollution and maritime disasters, and, of course, we have cut back on environmental protection to make it easy for the oil companies to exploit our resources.
I met up with Servais again. We are staying tonight in a second-floor studio, quite Spartan, but comfortable enough. We had a meal together, more pleasant for the conversation than the food. He had been a high ranking nuclear engineer, working, among his other responsibilities, on a UN committee advocating nuclear power for the sake of the environment. He deplored Angela Merkel's cancelling of Germany's nuclear program, which was being replaced by coal-fired power stations. He convinced me that the continuing pollution from Japan's recent disaster was minimal, conspiracy theories to the contrary. Could the power station have been built, I asked, to have withstood the tsunami? Of course, he said, and had the private company followed government recommendations, not requirements, it would have been. It was a failure of Capitalism. This was a typically European point of view, which recognizes the importance of a strong central government. We talked about the dangers of nuclear power getting into the wrong hands, and I was left with the thought that we are facing the possibility of either a quick end or a slow one.
We too in Canada have a government that doesn't believe in spending money on necessary regulations, but would rather give it back to the people in tax cuts as a bribe to be re-elected. To give a few examples, we have cut back on census-taking to the detriment of social planning, we have cut back on food inspection resulting in more salmonella outbreaks, we have cut back on coastguard services and increasied the risk of oil pollution and maritime disasters, and, of course, we have cut back on environmental protection to make it easy for the oil companies to exploit our resources.
Day 28. April 21, 2015. Bruges to Arudy
An army marches on its stomach
You will encounter four kinds of breakfast at the gites, two acceptable, one tolerable, and one not fit for man or beast. The first is the kind that the French eat: fresh baguettes with butter and jam, and perhaps some yogurt and fruit. The second is the same, but with toast from yesterday's baguette. Very acceptable, especially when the toast keeps on coming as it did at at Jean-Louis's excellent gite in Lourdes. The third is based on yesterday's baguette, untoasted. This is institutional fare, which we were offered at the monastery. Good coffee will make it tolerable, and I noticed an inmate of the old folks' home housed in the monastery dipping his crust in his coffee for that reason. The fourth is simply unacceptable: chemically preserved sliced "bread" in a cellophane package, bought in bulk at an end-of-millennium sale in 1999 and dished out to pilgrims ever since. Disgusting! This was our offering at the studio in Bruges. Fortunately, the pub was open for breakfast.
For the true hospitalier, like Jean-Louis, it is a labour of love. He eats with his pilgrims and shares their stories, he offers an apperatif before the evening meal. He refills the flask of wine when it's empty. And he keeps the toast coming at breakfast. For others, it's a mean little business. (I'm reminded here of a certain food store in Victoria, but you'll have to search elsewhere on my website for that story).
It was truly a wondrous day. And a beauteous one. As I left town, a dove perched on a pole began his mournful cry, "Doo-doo, doot; doo-doo, doot." As I approached, he flew off, alighted on the next pole, and began again, Doo-doo, doot, doo-doo, doot." He was no nightingale, but I thought of my favourite poem.
Adieu! adieu! Thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill side; and now 'this buried deep
In the next valley glades...
The street became a lane and climbed steadily. And then, vista after vista opened up in front of me, lush, rolling green fields leading up to snow-capped mountains. The lane became a track, and then an uneven path across a ploughed field. To reach the field, I crossed a primitive bridge of the very earliest design, just a stone slab across a stream, and dating, I suspected, from the Middle Ages. The lavoir, wash house, was not so old. You may be able to make out the coquille Saint-Jacques on the tree.
You will encounter four kinds of breakfast at the gites, two acceptable, one tolerable, and one not fit for man or beast. The first is the kind that the French eat: fresh baguettes with butter and jam, and perhaps some yogurt and fruit. The second is the same, but with toast from yesterday's baguette. Very acceptable, especially when the toast keeps on coming as it did at at Jean-Louis's excellent gite in Lourdes. The third is based on yesterday's baguette, untoasted. This is institutional fare, which we were offered at the monastery. Good coffee will make it tolerable, and I noticed an inmate of the old folks' home housed in the monastery dipping his crust in his coffee for that reason. The fourth is simply unacceptable: chemically preserved sliced "bread" in a cellophane package, bought in bulk at an end-of-millennium sale in 1999 and dished out to pilgrims ever since. Disgusting! This was our offering at the studio in Bruges. Fortunately, the pub was open for breakfast.
For the true hospitalier, like Jean-Louis, it is a labour of love. He eats with his pilgrims and shares their stories, he offers an apperatif before the evening meal. He refills the flask of wine when it's empty. And he keeps the toast coming at breakfast. For others, it's a mean little business. (I'm reminded here of a certain food store in Victoria, but you'll have to search elsewhere on my website for that story).
It was truly a wondrous day. And a beauteous one. As I left town, a dove perched on a pole began his mournful cry, "Doo-doo, doot; doo-doo, doot." As I approached, he flew off, alighted on the next pole, and began again, Doo-doo, doot, doo-doo, doot." He was no nightingale, but I thought of my favourite poem.
Adieu! adieu! Thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill side; and now 'this buried deep
In the next valley glades...
The street became a lane and climbed steadily. And then, vista after vista opened up in front of me, lush, rolling green fields leading up to snow-capped mountains. The lane became a track, and then an uneven path across a ploughed field. To reach the field, I crossed a primitive bridge of the very earliest design, just a stone slab across a stream, and dating, I suspected, from the Middle Ages. The lavoir, wash house, was not so old. You may be able to make out the coquille Saint-Jacques on the tree.
Back on a road at the village of Mifraget, I sat on a stone bench in front of the church. I thought of my old friend David, "Sit ye doon," he would have said. I ventured inside, and down into a crypt. I was moved by a simple carving on a stone candle stand. Who was the subject? Who had carved him? What were the circumstances surrounding that moment in time?
I took off along a little lane to the right. I have noticed that since the monastery yesterday day the trail marking has greatly improved. I am told we have entered a new Departement which falls within the purview of Les Amis de Saint-Jacques at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, who take their responsibility very seriously. Shiny bright red and white GR markings every few hundred yards and at every fork, along with yellow arrows and coquilles Saint-Jacques. Impossible to get lost, or so I thought.
As I approached the top of a rise, I heard a tintinabulation of bells, or rather a tinnytinabulation, a cracked metallic rattle of cow bells, but no, as I reached the top I saw a flock of sheep ahead of me, crossing the road under the guidance of their shepherd and their sheepdog. It was the dog doing all the work, with a bark or a look or perhaps a short run.
Yesterday, I came upon a row of sheep all lined up along the edge of the road, but not making a move to cross over. No wire was holding them back but there they stood there at the edge of a field. Why were they standing in a line without venturing across? Then I saw the sheepdog. He was lying down, not moving, just watching them. He would not let him cross over.
I was lost in these thoughts about the skills of the sheep dog when I heard a shout behind me, "Hey, Charles. You've missed the way." It was Servais who fortunately had caught up with me. He gestured towards a track which took off to the west.
That's how it happens. You miss a crucial sign to an obscure path. I would have kept on going along the lane and eventually noticed the absence of markers, and wondered, was it because I had missed my way, or was it because the way was so obvious that it didn't need markers? Servais had saved me from a painful detour.
I climbed up and up, gaining, I estimated, about 600 feet. This was no farmer's track, but a real hiking trail - good old rocks and dirt and mud. Today it was magnificent, but in the rain it would have been slippery misery.
I took off along a little lane to the right. I have noticed that since the monastery yesterday day the trail marking has greatly improved. I am told we have entered a new Departement which falls within the purview of Les Amis de Saint-Jacques at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, who take their responsibility very seriously. Shiny bright red and white GR markings every few hundred yards and at every fork, along with yellow arrows and coquilles Saint-Jacques. Impossible to get lost, or so I thought.
As I approached the top of a rise, I heard a tintinabulation of bells, or rather a tinnytinabulation, a cracked metallic rattle of cow bells, but no, as I reached the top I saw a flock of sheep ahead of me, crossing the road under the guidance of their shepherd and their sheepdog. It was the dog doing all the work, with a bark or a look or perhaps a short run.
Yesterday, I came upon a row of sheep all lined up along the edge of the road, but not making a move to cross over. No wire was holding them back but there they stood there at the edge of a field. Why were they standing in a line without venturing across? Then I saw the sheepdog. He was lying down, not moving, just watching them. He would not let him cross over.
I was lost in these thoughts about the skills of the sheep dog when I heard a shout behind me, "Hey, Charles. You've missed the way." It was Servais who fortunately had caught up with me. He gestured towards a track which took off to the west.
That's how it happens. You miss a crucial sign to an obscure path. I would have kept on going along the lane and eventually noticed the absence of markers, and wondered, was it because I had missed my way, or was it because the way was so obvious that it didn't need markers? Servais had saved me from a painful detour.
I climbed up and up, gaining, I estimated, about 600 feet. This was no farmer's track, but a real hiking trail - good old rocks and dirt and mud. Today it was magnificent, but in the rain it would have been slippery misery.
I reached a road, and to one side, where the ground fell off sharply to the left, some idiots, in the manner of idiots everywhere, had decided that this private land made a convenient dumping ground for their refuse. The land owner was evidently not amused, and had left a graphic sign indicating their fate if he caught them. A man of action and few words!
Eventually, I could see Sainte Colome off in the distance. A very friendly farmer told me it was only a couple of kilometres, but at the top of the hill, the GR jaunted off to the right and down into the valley, giving up much of the height I had gained and adding a kilometre or two to my journey. Another time I might have abandoned the trail and continued along the road, but today, I didn't regret the detour, despite the gruelling climb up to the village.
Servais arrived as I was eating my lunch, and after a conversation about Flemish and Quebec separatists, I bade him farewell. He was going on to catch a bus and I was leaving the trail to find a gite in a neighbouring village. For this, I found the GPS in my iPhone most useful. Siri was not daunted by finding herself in a foreign land, and in the manner of many an American (and other Anglophones, I hasten to add) made no effort to pronounce the street names correctly, her strident voice shattering the tranquillity of rural France. But what did I want, she said: correct pronunciation or accurate directions? I settled for the latter, and arrived safely at the Presbytery in the large village of Aruda, leaving the tranquillity of the countryside behind me.
Eventually, I could see Sainte Colome off in the distance. A very friendly farmer told me it was only a couple of kilometres, but at the top of the hill, the GR jaunted off to the right and down into the valley, giving up much of the height I had gained and adding a kilometre or two to my journey. Another time I might have abandoned the trail and continued along the road, but today, I didn't regret the detour, despite the gruelling climb up to the village.
Servais arrived as I was eating my lunch, and after a conversation about Flemish and Quebec separatists, I bade him farewell. He was going on to catch a bus and I was leaving the trail to find a gite in a neighbouring village. For this, I found the GPS in my iPhone most useful. Siri was not daunted by finding herself in a foreign land, and in the manner of many an American (and other Anglophones, I hasten to add) made no effort to pronounce the street names correctly, her strident voice shattering the tranquillity of rural France. But what did I want, she said: correct pronunciation or accurate directions? I settled for the latter, and arrived safely at the Presbytery in the large village of Aruda, leaving the tranquillity of the countryside behind me.
Day 29. April 22, 2015. Arudy to Oloron-Sainte-Marie. 27.5 kms
Small latin and less Greek
The accommodation at the Presbytery was by no means de luxe. My first choice of beds broke as I sat on it and the shower stall with its wild, swinging hose offered nowhere to hang my clothes. I showered inside, and dressed outside in the open air. But the water was hot.
Last night I ate with the German couple, Peter and Dorothy. They spoke some English and very little French, and conversation was difficult at times. I recognized that glazed look in Dorothy's eyes, as she nodded without understanding what I was saying. Perhaps I wasn't fooling anyone either. But we had one thing in common. Like Servais, they were choristers. We talked about the works we had sung, and sang an air from the Brahms Requiem.
Peter confirmed something I had learned from a German student on the Chemin de Vezelay: that the teaching of Latin was thriving in Germany, and even a little Greek was taught as well. The Germans believed that this encouraged the development of critical thinking. Such enlightenment: much latin and a little Greek
On the way out of town I encountered Puss-on-Roof, looking down disdainfully on a barking dog below. Since this is a slow-news day, I include a photo for the amusement of cat lovers.
The accommodation at the Presbytery was by no means de luxe. My first choice of beds broke as I sat on it and the shower stall with its wild, swinging hose offered nowhere to hang my clothes. I showered inside, and dressed outside in the open air. But the water was hot.
Last night I ate with the German couple, Peter and Dorothy. They spoke some English and very little French, and conversation was difficult at times. I recognized that glazed look in Dorothy's eyes, as she nodded without understanding what I was saying. Perhaps I wasn't fooling anyone either. But we had one thing in common. Like Servais, they were choristers. We talked about the works we had sung, and sang an air from the Brahms Requiem.
Peter confirmed something I had learned from a German student on the Chemin de Vezelay: that the teaching of Latin was thriving in Germany, and even a little Greek was taught as well. The Germans believed that this encouraged the development of critical thinking. Such enlightenment: much latin and a little Greek
On the way out of town I encountered Puss-on-Roof, looking down disdainfully on a barking dog below. Since this is a slow-news day, I include a photo for the amusement of cat lovers.
As we had come two or three kilometres off the path to get to the gite, we now had to make our way back along a very busy main road. At times, the dreaded nettles had advanced up to and even beyond the edge of the road so I had to tread very gingerly when the big trucks passed.
At times I had to settle
For the nettle or the metal
But fine was I in fettle
For this pescatorial kettle
No sooner had I composed this piece of joggerel or dibberish, than I noticed a sign directing me to the GR off to the left. I took it, even though I would have to walk four miles further. Before I left this morning, I had phoned the gite at Oloron, left a message, and was waiting for a response, but a young Frenchman, Georges, overtook me and told me that it was closed. Now, in the immortal words of that great musical group, the Bills,
I had nowhere to go and all day to get there.
At times I had to settle
For the nettle or the metal
But fine was I in fettle
For this pescatorial kettle
No sooner had I composed this piece of joggerel or dibberish, than I noticed a sign directing me to the GR off to the left. I took it, even though I would have to walk four miles further. Before I left this morning, I had phoned the gite at Oloron, left a message, and was waiting for a response, but a young Frenchman, Georges, overtook me and told me that it was closed. Now, in the immortal words of that great musical group, the Bills,
I had nowhere to go and all day to get there.
It was a long haul today, not particularly difficult, but long, and ending with a long trudge along the river. Two things stand out in this mind-numbing, leg-weary, back-aching day. The wisteria. Never before have I seen it in such majestic display. And the sheep. At one village, they swept through like a dust cloud.
It took me back to the droving days.
When I finally arrived at Oloron, the Office de Tourism gave me the option of a cheap hotel in town or a return bus ride to the gite at the next step on the chemin. I chose the latter. Since I would be spending a second night there, I could walk tomorrow, sans pack.
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It took me back to the droving days.
When I finally arrived at Oloron, the Office de Tourism gave me the option of a cheap hotel in town or a return bus ride to the gite at the next step on the chemin. I chose the latter. Since I would be spending a second night there, I could walk tomorrow, sans pack.
Click here to continue
