Day 1, June 6, 2014. Montpelliers to Fabregues. 16 kms
Bears of very little brain!
I set out this morning from Montpellier several pounds heavier, having spent a delightful afternoon and evening in Lyon with my dear friends Paul and Michelle. An early train dropped me at nine o'clock, and four hours of easy, mainly urban, walking brought me to Fabregues.
This paragraph is for Francophones and Francophiles. As the train stopped at Nimes I happened to check the weather on my phone. The local weather station appeared as "Nisme". This looks to me like an archaic spelling before the "s" became a circumflex, in the manner of "hostel" to "hotel" or "fenestra" to "fenetre". (Unfortunately, I can't put the circumflexes where they should be.) How interesting, I thought. But has this archaic spelling survived alongside the current one?
As I left the city, I was touched by the number of people who came out on their balcony to watch me go. [I don't think that anyone who read the original entry in my blog got what I was on about here, because the photo wasn't very good. You may not either. In fact, all the people on the balconies were part of a mural. Nobody waved good-bye.]
Walking along the verge I saw some spurge, a green plant that is very familiar to me.
Spurge is a variety of euphorbia, which the deer on Mayne Island, where we have a cabin, don't eat. Consequently, in its various manifestations, it is planted everywhere. Almost everything else, including various deer-resistant plants bought off-island, is consumed by our deer.
The Spurge on the Verge
Along the verge
I saw some spurge
And had the urge
To sing a dirge.
Were the deer to splurge
Upon this spurge,
They would feel a surge,
Indeed a purge,
And then regurge
Upon the verge.
And all would merge
To sing this dirge.
I am staying tonight at the delightful Hotel Pinede, which I mention for the benefit of other pilgrims who may pass this way, about one a week according to the proprietor who is obviously hoping for more. Room and breakfast is 50€, but the room is huge, with shower and toilet. The hotel was formerly a grand old house occupied by German officers during the war, while its owner, the father of the proprietor, spent five years in a prison camp. I saw him, the father, quite literally bent double, being helped around by his son. I hope I'm not kept awake by ghastly ghostly German drinking songs. I already have Carmina Burana in my head after our recent concert.
I am writing this under a spreading horse chestnut tree in a huge garden out the back of the house.
Throughout my flight from Montreal to Paris, my overhead light flashed on and off, and so did my neighbour's. It took me a while to work out why. It was the result of a design flaw in the Boeing 700-300 ER which Air Canada is now using on this flight. A little act of stupidity on somebody's part! The plane was well equipped with the latest touch-screen TVs, etc., but the bank of controls, which included the switch for the overhead light, was on the top of the armrest, right where I put my elbow.
This little blunder pales in comparison to the problem currently faced by the SNCF here in France. Their newly designed trains are too big for the stations. Someone didn't measure twice and cut once!
And back home in Victoria, BC, why didn't someone think of asking whether the municipality of Esquimalt would accept a sewage plant before designing a system around it and flushing $150 million down the toilet?
I should point out, for the benefit of those readers from foreign parts, that our fine city is currently undergoing a sewage controversy. To our shame, we are perhaps the only city in North America which discharges its sewage into the sea.
And the only reason we are doing anything about it is the scatological persistence of a local hero, Mr. Floatie, who dressed himself up as a Turd and positioned himself in front of the Legislative Building for days on end until the the provincial government was embarrassed into decreeing that the city must clean up its act. Interestingly, a sizeable percentage of the population, including some prominent scientists, still maintain that the turbulence of the sea is the most effective way of dealing with our sewage. Try telling that to all the other cities along the Salish Sea who have proper treatment plants.
Incidentally, our fine city of Victoria is also known as Disfunction by the Sea because of the inability of its individual municipalities, and even the people within those municipalities, ever to agree on anything.
I have encountered many examples of stupidity in my life, but perhaps the greatest was the sinuous median strip along the four-lane highway, two lanes each way, which joins Perth, Western Australia, with the port of Fremantle. Even in the early sixties the traffic was heavy, and as there was no room for bus bays, whenever a bus stopped to pick up passengers, the cars in the curb lane would come to a standstill. So a city engineer decided to solve the problem. Why not have the two lanes wind around the bus stop? The City constructed a median strip along the middle of the road, parallel to the curb, except when it came to a bus stop. There, the strip moved outward, allowing the two lanes to curve around the stop. Then when a bus was picking up passengers it wouldn't block the traffic.
But what about the two lanes on the other side? Traffic in the centre lane was forced to move to the curb lane whenever the median strip curved around a bus stop on the other side, and during the rush hours it was blocked altogether. What madness! Of course, within a few months the median strip was torn up to be replaced by the conventional middle-of-the-road barrier seen everywhere else in the world.
You don't believe this story, do you, and 50 years later I find it hard to fathom myself. Last night I searched for confirmation on the web, without success. Perhaps the incident received an Orwellian cleansing and every news report has been expunged. Can any of my Aussie readers find any references to it?
I am on a roll here and had I world enough and time I would tell you about other stupidities such as the two kilometres of track in Winnipeg, complete with "railway" stations, where buses play trains and cut five minutes off their schedule. Or the little roundabouts which replaced perfectly adequate four-way stop signs, leaving it impossible for any thing larger than a Fiat 500 to make a left turn.
Lord, what fools these mortals be.
I set out this morning from Montpellier several pounds heavier, having spent a delightful afternoon and evening in Lyon with my dear friends Paul and Michelle. An early train dropped me at nine o'clock, and four hours of easy, mainly urban, walking brought me to Fabregues.
This paragraph is for Francophones and Francophiles. As the train stopped at Nimes I happened to check the weather on my phone. The local weather station appeared as "Nisme". This looks to me like an archaic spelling before the "s" became a circumflex, in the manner of "hostel" to "hotel" or "fenestra" to "fenetre". (Unfortunately, I can't put the circumflexes where they should be.) How interesting, I thought. But has this archaic spelling survived alongside the current one?
As I left the city, I was touched by the number of people who came out on their balcony to watch me go. [I don't think that anyone who read the original entry in my blog got what I was on about here, because the photo wasn't very good. You may not either. In fact, all the people on the balconies were part of a mural. Nobody waved good-bye.]
Walking along the verge I saw some spurge, a green plant that is very familiar to me.
Spurge is a variety of euphorbia, which the deer on Mayne Island, where we have a cabin, don't eat. Consequently, in its various manifestations, it is planted everywhere. Almost everything else, including various deer-resistant plants bought off-island, is consumed by our deer.
The Spurge on the Verge
Along the verge
I saw some spurge
And had the urge
To sing a dirge.
Were the deer to splurge
Upon this spurge,
They would feel a surge,
Indeed a purge,
And then regurge
Upon the verge.
And all would merge
To sing this dirge.
I am staying tonight at the delightful Hotel Pinede, which I mention for the benefit of other pilgrims who may pass this way, about one a week according to the proprietor who is obviously hoping for more. Room and breakfast is 50€, but the room is huge, with shower and toilet. The hotel was formerly a grand old house occupied by German officers during the war, while its owner, the father of the proprietor, spent five years in a prison camp. I saw him, the father, quite literally bent double, being helped around by his son. I hope I'm not kept awake by ghastly ghostly German drinking songs. I already have Carmina Burana in my head after our recent concert.
I am writing this under a spreading horse chestnut tree in a huge garden out the back of the house.
Throughout my flight from Montreal to Paris, my overhead light flashed on and off, and so did my neighbour's. It took me a while to work out why. It was the result of a design flaw in the Boeing 700-300 ER which Air Canada is now using on this flight. A little act of stupidity on somebody's part! The plane was well equipped with the latest touch-screen TVs, etc., but the bank of controls, which included the switch for the overhead light, was on the top of the armrest, right where I put my elbow.
This little blunder pales in comparison to the problem currently faced by the SNCF here in France. Their newly designed trains are too big for the stations. Someone didn't measure twice and cut once!
And back home in Victoria, BC, why didn't someone think of asking whether the municipality of Esquimalt would accept a sewage plant before designing a system around it and flushing $150 million down the toilet?
I should point out, for the benefit of those readers from foreign parts, that our fine city is currently undergoing a sewage controversy. To our shame, we are perhaps the only city in North America which discharges its sewage into the sea.
And the only reason we are doing anything about it is the scatological persistence of a local hero, Mr. Floatie, who dressed himself up as a Turd and positioned himself in front of the Legislative Building for days on end until the the provincial government was embarrassed into decreeing that the city must clean up its act. Interestingly, a sizeable percentage of the population, including some prominent scientists, still maintain that the turbulence of the sea is the most effective way of dealing with our sewage. Try telling that to all the other cities along the Salish Sea who have proper treatment plants.
Incidentally, our fine city of Victoria is also known as Disfunction by the Sea because of the inability of its individual municipalities, and even the people within those municipalities, ever to agree on anything.
I have encountered many examples of stupidity in my life, but perhaps the greatest was the sinuous median strip along the four-lane highway, two lanes each way, which joins Perth, Western Australia, with the port of Fremantle. Even in the early sixties the traffic was heavy, and as there was no room for bus bays, whenever a bus stopped to pick up passengers, the cars in the curb lane would come to a standstill. So a city engineer decided to solve the problem. Why not have the two lanes wind around the bus stop? The City constructed a median strip along the middle of the road, parallel to the curb, except when it came to a bus stop. There, the strip moved outward, allowing the two lanes to curve around the stop. Then when a bus was picking up passengers it wouldn't block the traffic.
But what about the two lanes on the other side? Traffic in the centre lane was forced to move to the curb lane whenever the median strip curved around a bus stop on the other side, and during the rush hours it was blocked altogether. What madness! Of course, within a few months the median strip was torn up to be replaced by the conventional middle-of-the-road barrier seen everywhere else in the world.
You don't believe this story, do you, and 50 years later I find it hard to fathom myself. Last night I searched for confirmation on the web, without success. Perhaps the incident received an Orwellian cleansing and every news report has been expunged. Can any of my Aussie readers find any references to it?
I am on a roll here and had I world enough and time I would tell you about other stupidities such as the two kilometres of track in Winnipeg, complete with "railway" stations, where buses play trains and cut five minutes off their schedule. Or the little roundabouts which replaced perfectly adequate four-way stop signs, leaving it impossible for any thing larger than a Fiat 500 to make a left turn.
Lord, what fools these mortals be.
Day 2. June 7, 2014. Fabregues to Balaruc-le-Vieux. 24 kms
Sic transit Gloria mundi
I am losing confidence in M. Lepere, my guide. Today he led me many miles into forbidden territory, until finally I was arrested -- in the pure sense of the word, that is. (Another example of the elevation of an "s" to a circumflex).
A good breakfast, this morning! The proprietor had been to the bakery early to fetch baguettes and croissants. I ate in silence in a huge room that once must have bustled with life. On the mantelpiece were photos of the owner's parents: a beautiful young woman and a serious, upright young man in uniform, serious perhaps because he could foresee what lay ahead. Now he was 97 years old, bent double, and confined to this large house with all its memories.
I set out about half past eight. Today, according to the guide, I would spend much of the time walking along a track on the north side of the autoroute, before visiting an abbey, crossing the massif, and descending into Balaruc.
I reached the auto route and turned right. The way was blocked by heavy wire netting, but I followed the instructions in the guide and made my way through the brambles on one side. I noticed a machine-gun spattering of blood on my arms. Further on, the track was blocked by a heavy metal gate with vertical iron bars. I was able to squeeze through, but none of my corpulent friends would have managed it. Then I was blocked by another gate, and had to climb over the barbed wire at the side.
Suddenly I noticed a car approaching me. It stopped. I expected the driver to pass the time of day, but he got out and said that I couldn't go that way. I explained that I was following my guide and showed him the map. As the French so often do, he phoned a colleague, or perhaps a superior, who then appeared in another car. "You can't go this way," he said. They were motorway security guards and passage along that path was strictly forbidden.
They became almost sympathetic when they realized that I wasn't merely ignoring the barriers, but following a guide book. Their wrath was now directed at M. Lepere. When I asked if I could continue, they surprisingly said yes. "But why would you? It's easier on the other side." So I made my way back to a bridge, crossed over, and found the track on the other side of the motorway. Not only was it easier, it was a GR (Grande Randonnee). I will email M. Lepere and tell him all of this.
The highlight of my day was to be a moment of tranquility in the ruined abbey where I could imagine the monks singing Gregorian chant. Instead, it was full of people in medieval costumes and hordes of tourists. I had arrived on the one day of the year when the local medieval society held its fair. Knights battled, falconers strolled about with their birds on their wrists, and a blacksmith puffed his bellows. Their womenfolk sold food and medieval trinkets.
I didn't stay long. I left and proceeded to get lost. I wandered around in circles for a while following tracks with numbers but no names. Finally, I was able to get down from the massif and into the town of Balaruc.
I walked an extra seven kilometres today, but four of those were spent searching fo a room in a hotel. Not the easiest day!
My hotel is in the commercial complex just out of town. Carrefour and all the other chain stores are here. I could be in North America. Capitalism thrives. But the village itself is dead.
I ate at the Camponile Restaurant. Microwaved chicken, cold on the inside, and then a nasty dispute over the bill. Possibly my worst meal in France.
No photo tonight. You don't want to see a picture of an ass, a peacock, a falcon, or a couple of lads horsing around with their swords in front of the abbey.
Tomorrow is another day.
I am losing confidence in M. Lepere, my guide. Today he led me many miles into forbidden territory, until finally I was arrested -- in the pure sense of the word, that is. (Another example of the elevation of an "s" to a circumflex).
A good breakfast, this morning! The proprietor had been to the bakery early to fetch baguettes and croissants. I ate in silence in a huge room that once must have bustled with life. On the mantelpiece were photos of the owner's parents: a beautiful young woman and a serious, upright young man in uniform, serious perhaps because he could foresee what lay ahead. Now he was 97 years old, bent double, and confined to this large house with all its memories.
I set out about half past eight. Today, according to the guide, I would spend much of the time walking along a track on the north side of the autoroute, before visiting an abbey, crossing the massif, and descending into Balaruc.
I reached the auto route and turned right. The way was blocked by heavy wire netting, but I followed the instructions in the guide and made my way through the brambles on one side. I noticed a machine-gun spattering of blood on my arms. Further on, the track was blocked by a heavy metal gate with vertical iron bars. I was able to squeeze through, but none of my corpulent friends would have managed it. Then I was blocked by another gate, and had to climb over the barbed wire at the side.
Suddenly I noticed a car approaching me. It stopped. I expected the driver to pass the time of day, but he got out and said that I couldn't go that way. I explained that I was following my guide and showed him the map. As the French so often do, he phoned a colleague, or perhaps a superior, who then appeared in another car. "You can't go this way," he said. They were motorway security guards and passage along that path was strictly forbidden.
They became almost sympathetic when they realized that I wasn't merely ignoring the barriers, but following a guide book. Their wrath was now directed at M. Lepere. When I asked if I could continue, they surprisingly said yes. "But why would you? It's easier on the other side." So I made my way back to a bridge, crossed over, and found the track on the other side of the motorway. Not only was it easier, it was a GR (Grande Randonnee). I will email M. Lepere and tell him all of this.
The highlight of my day was to be a moment of tranquility in the ruined abbey where I could imagine the monks singing Gregorian chant. Instead, it was full of people in medieval costumes and hordes of tourists. I had arrived on the one day of the year when the local medieval society held its fair. Knights battled, falconers strolled about with their birds on their wrists, and a blacksmith puffed his bellows. Their womenfolk sold food and medieval trinkets.
I didn't stay long. I left and proceeded to get lost. I wandered around in circles for a while following tracks with numbers but no names. Finally, I was able to get down from the massif and into the town of Balaruc.
I walked an extra seven kilometres today, but four of those were spent searching fo a room in a hotel. Not the easiest day!
My hotel is in the commercial complex just out of town. Carrefour and all the other chain stores are here. I could be in North America. Capitalism thrives. But the village itself is dead.
I ate at the Camponile Restaurant. Microwaved chicken, cold on the inside, and then a nasty dispute over the bill. Possibly my worst meal in France.
No photo tonight. You don't want to see a picture of an ass, a peacock, a falcon, or a couple of lads horsing around with their swords in front of the abbey.
Tomorrow is another day.
Day 3. June 8, 2014. Balaruc-le-Vieux to Saint-Thibery. 33 kms.
When you're lying awake with a dreadful head ache
And repose is tabooed by anxiety
I love G&S. I cannot maintain that Sullivan was the world's greatest musician, although I think he had moments of greatness, but certainly Gilbert was the greatest lyricist. Those magnificent lines came to me last night as I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The way the rhythm forces the stress on to the last syllable of the first line, and emphasizes the rhyme, is quite superb. And then the rhythm falls over itself at the end of the second line. I can't quite recall the next lines, but I remember they end with "impropriety". What a rhyme! Marvellous stuff - a good example of the richness of our language and Gilbert's genius.
Having woken up at two-thirty, and unable to get back to sleep, I decided to make a virtue of necessity, and leave early. I hoped I would get some breakfast at Bouzigues, the first village.
At 5:45 in the morning it was cool and pleasant walking. As I walked out of town along a bicycle path, I experienced some glorious early morning avian revelry. Seagulls were crying overhead, magpies were flitting from tree to tree, and smaller birds were chirping about in the branches. Pleasant agricultural aromas were wafting in the wind, soon to be replaced by the smell of the sea. I walked along an isthmus between two bodies of water. On one side was the Etang de Thau, a huge sea lagoon where salt and fresh water mix together to produce a fertile brew.
Stretching out to sea were rows on rows of posts indicating the production of some kind of sea food. Gulls and pelicans and ducks were seeking their breakfast. What a birder's paradise! On the other side was a large pond, where wading birds seemed quite literally to be walking on the water. In winter I would have thought they were walking on ice. Was there some kind of scum on the water on which they could stand? Or was the water only half an inch deep?
I arrived at Bouziques. I had to make a little detour down to the sea to get to the bakery. But I couldn't find it. Then followed a ridiculous little sequence that resembled a childhood game. Remember when you had to find something someone else had hidden and as you wandered around the room they would say "hot" or "cold"? Well I could smell the bread, this tantalizing odour wafting towards me, but as I walked on it disappeared. I walked back, it got stronger, but no bakery! I walked round and round the block. Finally, where it seemed strongest, I peered in through a barred window and looked down upon an egregious display of plumber's butt. The baker was crouching down at his oven. I tiptoed away and hurried around to the front, one street across. The entrance was set back from the street front, without a prominent sign. A most discreet bakery. I guess everyone in the village knew where it was. The lady told me she had seen me walk by several times. I fortified myself with a couple of croissants and pressed on. But no coffee, unfortunately.
I headed inland to the next village of Loupian. It was easy going, as the sun was still low on the horizon behind me. Soon I came to my first vines, but a farmer was coming towards me on his tractor spraying the vines with a thick cloud of some noxious pesticide. I sped up to beat him to the end of the row. I managed to get there before him and race on, but unfortunately I was still downwind. Foul, most foul! Too bad he wasn't respecting the sabbath. I'm thinking seriously about drinking organic wine, but what does "organic" actually mean when it comes to wine?
And repose is tabooed by anxiety
I love G&S. I cannot maintain that Sullivan was the world's greatest musician, although I think he had moments of greatness, but certainly Gilbert was the greatest lyricist. Those magnificent lines came to me last night as I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The way the rhythm forces the stress on to the last syllable of the first line, and emphasizes the rhyme, is quite superb. And then the rhythm falls over itself at the end of the second line. I can't quite recall the next lines, but I remember they end with "impropriety". What a rhyme! Marvellous stuff - a good example of the richness of our language and Gilbert's genius.
Having woken up at two-thirty, and unable to get back to sleep, I decided to make a virtue of necessity, and leave early. I hoped I would get some breakfast at Bouzigues, the first village.
At 5:45 in the morning it was cool and pleasant walking. As I walked out of town along a bicycle path, I experienced some glorious early morning avian revelry. Seagulls were crying overhead, magpies were flitting from tree to tree, and smaller birds were chirping about in the branches. Pleasant agricultural aromas were wafting in the wind, soon to be replaced by the smell of the sea. I walked along an isthmus between two bodies of water. On one side was the Etang de Thau, a huge sea lagoon where salt and fresh water mix together to produce a fertile brew.
Stretching out to sea were rows on rows of posts indicating the production of some kind of sea food. Gulls and pelicans and ducks were seeking their breakfast. What a birder's paradise! On the other side was a large pond, where wading birds seemed quite literally to be walking on the water. In winter I would have thought they were walking on ice. Was there some kind of scum on the water on which they could stand? Or was the water only half an inch deep?
I arrived at Bouziques. I had to make a little detour down to the sea to get to the bakery. But I couldn't find it. Then followed a ridiculous little sequence that resembled a childhood game. Remember when you had to find something someone else had hidden and as you wandered around the room they would say "hot" or "cold"? Well I could smell the bread, this tantalizing odour wafting towards me, but as I walked on it disappeared. I walked back, it got stronger, but no bakery! I walked round and round the block. Finally, where it seemed strongest, I peered in through a barred window and looked down upon an egregious display of plumber's butt. The baker was crouching down at his oven. I tiptoed away and hurried around to the front, one street across. The entrance was set back from the street front, without a prominent sign. A most discreet bakery. I guess everyone in the village knew where it was. The lady told me she had seen me walk by several times. I fortified myself with a couple of croissants and pressed on. But no coffee, unfortunately.
I headed inland to the next village of Loupian. It was easy going, as the sun was still low on the horizon behind me. Soon I came to my first vines, but a farmer was coming towards me on his tractor spraying the vines with a thick cloud of some noxious pesticide. I sped up to beat him to the end of the row. I managed to get there before him and race on, but unfortunately I was still downwind. Foul, most foul! Too bad he wasn't respecting the sabbath. I'm thinking seriously about drinking organic wine, but what does "organic" actually mean when it comes to wine?
Via Domitia
After that, It was a steady march along the Via Domitia, which linked Rome and Hispania. It was the first Roman road built in Gaul. The Romans built something to last forever, expecting their empire to survive that long. Even today, it is still a serious road. In one place I could see what must have been the tracks of Roman or medieval carts worn in the stone. I began to feel the heat.
I must have walked for almost 20 kilometres along that Roman road as the sun rose higher in the sky. By the end I was anxious to leave the ghosts of the legions and reach my destination. I struggled for a few more kilometres along a highway, and finally arrived at Saint-Thibery. I have not been so stiff and sore since my first day of walking the Coast to Coast when I struggled to keep up with a lanky Yorkshireman who bounded around the lake.
I am staying tonight right in the centre of the village at a chambre d'hôtes run by the genial M. et Mme. Brigand. Restored by M. Brigand, an architect, it is full of various curiosities, which he is only too happy to explain. It was most comfortable, and I was made most welcome.
I must have walked for almost 20 kilometres along that Roman road as the sun rose higher in the sky. By the end I was anxious to leave the ghosts of the legions and reach my destination. I struggled for a few more kilometres along a highway, and finally arrived at Saint-Thibery. I have not been so stiff and sore since my first day of walking the Coast to Coast when I struggled to keep up with a lanky Yorkshireman who bounded around the lake.
I am staying tonight right in the centre of the village at a chambre d'hôtes run by the genial M. et Mme. Brigand. Restored by M. Brigand, an architect, it is full of various curiosities, which he is only too happy to explain. It was most comfortable, and I was made most welcome.
Day 4. June 9, 2014. Saint-Thibery to Beziers. 25 kms
Alls well that ends well
...although I would have preferred to stroll into Beziers along the shady bank of le Canal du Midi, instead of plodding for 10 kilometres along the highway with the sun on my back.
Again I can't sleep and I'm typing this in the middle of the night. I was cheered up by a message from my daughter who tells me she is playing in La Traviata. Is that the one with the famous tenor aria which we learned as children? There was culture back in Oz in those days.
Fried fish and chipio
Caught fresh six months ago,
They stink like billyo,
Caught fresh six months ago.
I learned at breakfast this morning that the famed Pont Romain of Saint-Thibery is not a Roman bridge at all, but a medieval one, properly called le Pont Romieu. Some centuries ago, a typesetter corrected what he thought was an error, and the new name stuck. Rather like the mistake made by the American typesetter who missed the "i" in "aluminium".
The Chemin Romieu was a pilgrimage route that ran from Rome to Santiago, and of course, they would have followed the Via Domitia. Thus, it was also the Chemin de Compostelle, but because it was subject to flooding and attacks by marauders, pilgrims began to travel further inland along what is now the Chemin d'Arles. So it seems I am travelling an authentic route after all.
But not today. After several kilometres, I somehow took a wrong turning and walked for miles along a gravel track without passing any landmarks. I passed a jogger who, without her glasses, was unable to help me, and then a cyclist who puzzled for a while over my map, and then said I was on the right road. But I wasn't.
Eventually, I could see a modern village in the distance and assumed the track would lead there. I arrived above and behind a block of apartment buildings. I scrambled down and sought directions. I had decided not to try to retrieve my path, but to to walk along the highway.
I knocked on a door, and a fellow in skimpy underpants told me I was eight kilometres from Beziers. I took this with a grain of salt because the French always underestimate distances. He gave me directions to the highway and on to Beziers. These I confirmed with a pretty girl walking a dog.
I walked for several kilometres past the golf course and through some very dry country with scrubby oaks and stunted pines. Good for wine, if irrigated.
When I reached the Departmental with a clear sign to Beziers, I sat down, relaxed, and gnawed a crust of stale baguette. A pleasant breeze assailed me from the south, and I think I even felt a drop of rain. I was putting off the hard slog. A cyclist passed and told me I had 10 kms to go. Once round Elk and Beaver Lake, I thought.
Then I couldn't linger any longer. I had to plod off. I walked along the shoulder of the road facing the oncoming traffic and ready to jump into the ditch if necessary. Sometimes I would walk along the field to one side between the rows of melons. Beziers is a big city, the only one on this route, I hope, and after reaching the outskirts, it took me a while to get into town. The cyclist was right I had walked 10 kms. The underpanted man had underestimated the distance.
How did I know how far I had walked along the road? I measured it on my Garmin Fenix. I owe an apology to Garmin. Last year I told you how I became disillusioned with my GPS watch. I had been sitting on the loo and noticed that the distance counter was ticking. In those stationary five minutes I covered several hundred metres. This made me doubt the distances I had been posting, which included a couple of marathons. So I didn't use it after that, and took it back to MEC, the greatest outdoor shop in the world.
But I missed that watch, so I decided to try again, and a few months ago I bought another one. To my horror the same error occurred. I would go in for a coffee, and continue to put on the distance while I sat inside. I phoned Garmin who explained the problem was caused something called GPS drift, which I don't really understand. I could solve it by turning on Autopause, which I do. It works.
I am staying tonight in a depressing little room in the Hotel Angles. Climbing to my room on the third floor ranks with any elevation so far on this walk. But it's cheap!
I wandered around the town. The cathedral was closed, strangely, and the statues above the portail were all bound up in thick netting. Had they been falling down? I sat outside and had a beer or two at one of the many bar/restaurants which typically line the squares. All was almost well.
Click here to continue the journey
...although I would have preferred to stroll into Beziers along the shady bank of le Canal du Midi, instead of plodding for 10 kilometres along the highway with the sun on my back.
Again I can't sleep and I'm typing this in the middle of the night. I was cheered up by a message from my daughter who tells me she is playing in La Traviata. Is that the one with the famous tenor aria which we learned as children? There was culture back in Oz in those days.
Fried fish and chipio
Caught fresh six months ago,
They stink like billyo,
Caught fresh six months ago.
I learned at breakfast this morning that the famed Pont Romain of Saint-Thibery is not a Roman bridge at all, but a medieval one, properly called le Pont Romieu. Some centuries ago, a typesetter corrected what he thought was an error, and the new name stuck. Rather like the mistake made by the American typesetter who missed the "i" in "aluminium".
The Chemin Romieu was a pilgrimage route that ran from Rome to Santiago, and of course, they would have followed the Via Domitia. Thus, it was also the Chemin de Compostelle, but because it was subject to flooding and attacks by marauders, pilgrims began to travel further inland along what is now the Chemin d'Arles. So it seems I am travelling an authentic route after all.
But not today. After several kilometres, I somehow took a wrong turning and walked for miles along a gravel track without passing any landmarks. I passed a jogger who, without her glasses, was unable to help me, and then a cyclist who puzzled for a while over my map, and then said I was on the right road. But I wasn't.
Eventually, I could see a modern village in the distance and assumed the track would lead there. I arrived above and behind a block of apartment buildings. I scrambled down and sought directions. I had decided not to try to retrieve my path, but to to walk along the highway.
I knocked on a door, and a fellow in skimpy underpants told me I was eight kilometres from Beziers. I took this with a grain of salt because the French always underestimate distances. He gave me directions to the highway and on to Beziers. These I confirmed with a pretty girl walking a dog.
I walked for several kilometres past the golf course and through some very dry country with scrubby oaks and stunted pines. Good for wine, if irrigated.
When I reached the Departmental with a clear sign to Beziers, I sat down, relaxed, and gnawed a crust of stale baguette. A pleasant breeze assailed me from the south, and I think I even felt a drop of rain. I was putting off the hard slog. A cyclist passed and told me I had 10 kms to go. Once round Elk and Beaver Lake, I thought.
Then I couldn't linger any longer. I had to plod off. I walked along the shoulder of the road facing the oncoming traffic and ready to jump into the ditch if necessary. Sometimes I would walk along the field to one side between the rows of melons. Beziers is a big city, the only one on this route, I hope, and after reaching the outskirts, it took me a while to get into town. The cyclist was right I had walked 10 kms. The underpanted man had underestimated the distance.
How did I know how far I had walked along the road? I measured it on my Garmin Fenix. I owe an apology to Garmin. Last year I told you how I became disillusioned with my GPS watch. I had been sitting on the loo and noticed that the distance counter was ticking. In those stationary five minutes I covered several hundred metres. This made me doubt the distances I had been posting, which included a couple of marathons. So I didn't use it after that, and took it back to MEC, the greatest outdoor shop in the world.
But I missed that watch, so I decided to try again, and a few months ago I bought another one. To my horror the same error occurred. I would go in for a coffee, and continue to put on the distance while I sat inside. I phoned Garmin who explained the problem was caused something called GPS drift, which I don't really understand. I could solve it by turning on Autopause, which I do. It works.
I am staying tonight in a depressing little room in the Hotel Angles. Climbing to my room on the third floor ranks with any elevation so far on this walk. But it's cheap!
I wandered around the town. The cathedral was closed, strangely, and the statues above the portail were all bound up in thick netting. Had they been falling down? I sat outside and had a beer or two at one of the many bar/restaurants which typically line the squares. All was almost well.
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