Day 28. April 28, 2011. Oloron Sainte-Marie to Sarrance.
As I left town today, the grand old bloody Duke of York took a hand in things again, sending me up a long flight of stairs to the top of a hill and then down the other side, all the while ignoring a road around the side. Later, a woman in a village told me to ignore the GR where it took a pointless loop. I followed her advice.
Patrick, on the other hand, made the mistake that I had made on the Stevenson, following a GR towards Saint-Jean Pied de Port. He arrived last at our gîte. Usually, he arrives first.
Normally, cowbells are cracked and tinny, but this morning I heard one with a clear ring that sounded like the school bell that used to bring the kids in from playtime.
For the past couple of days I have been walking through boggy stretches. Normally, you can negotiate a dry path around the edges, but not today. I had to squelch my way right through the middle, up to the top of my boots. Once again, I was glad to be wearing my clunkers.
With the pain in my calf, tendinitis, I'm told it is, I'm suffering as the pilgrims of old must have suffered, but they didn't have the benefit of little red pills to ease the pain.
Until Oloron, we had been travelling west. Now we take a turn to the south - for Spain. We are walking up a valley which I think will lead to the pass at Somport. The hills are high and steep on either side.
We are staying at an abbey with a small but interesting cloister. The church is baroque in the Spanish style. Not to my taste, it is dark and gloomy with lots of ornamentation and paintings in relief, including one of some poor soul enduring the torments of hell. Saints seem to have replaced the stations of the cross. It was just the sort of place to give a young Catholic nightmares.
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Patrick, on the other hand, made the mistake that I had made on the Stevenson, following a GR towards Saint-Jean Pied de Port. He arrived last at our gîte. Usually, he arrives first.
Normally, cowbells are cracked and tinny, but this morning I heard one with a clear ring that sounded like the school bell that used to bring the kids in from playtime.
For the past couple of days I have been walking through boggy stretches. Normally, you can negotiate a dry path around the edges, but not today. I had to squelch my way right through the middle, up to the top of my boots. Once again, I was glad to be wearing my clunkers.
With the pain in my calf, tendinitis, I'm told it is, I'm suffering as the pilgrims of old must have suffered, but they didn't have the benefit of little red pills to ease the pain.
Until Oloron, we had been travelling west. Now we take a turn to the south - for Spain. We are walking up a valley which I think will lead to the pass at Somport. The hills are high and steep on either side.
We are staying at an abbey with a small but interesting cloister. The church is baroque in the Spanish style. Not to my taste, it is dark and gloomy with lots of ornamentation and paintings in relief, including one of some poor soul enduring the torments of hell. Saints seem to have replaced the stations of the cross. It was just the sort of place to give a young Catholic nightmares.
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Day 29. April 29, 2011. Sarrance to Etsau (23 kms).
Still no fleas (nor bedbugs) in the high Pyrenees. Nor the ting, tong, tang of the guitar.
I am on my own again. My companions are taking the bus to avoid a difficult section along the highway. As the GR now makes detours with some steep climbs, I am sticking to the roads. It is easier on my shin.
I walked the seven kilometres into Bedous. As the trucks passed, they tried to whip my Tilley off my head, so I fastened it securely with my chinstrap.
A word about my Tilley. The Tilley Hat is a Canadian institution, like the Globe and Mail and the CBC, but less likely to make grammatical mistakes. If you encounter a Tilley, there is likely to be a Canadian underneath it. The Tilley Hat has a lifetime guarantee.
I acquired my first Tilley about 25 years ago. I wore it on school trips in the Rockies, on long walks in England, and on the Camino Frances and the Chemin du Puy. It finally wore out after 20 years. I took into a store and they replaced it without question.
I am now about five years into my second Tilley. Will I outlive it?
As I entered Bedous, I passed a memorial to les Passeurs, the members of the Resistance who smuggled the allied airmen out of France into Spain. This was one of the routes they took. I was moved by the simple truth of the dedication:
Aux Passeurs
Qui les guiderent
Au peril de leur vie
I looked up at the hills. The Germans would have easily controlled the valley road I was walking along. The Passeurs must have taken the airmen along secret paths high in the mountains.
The woman at the Office de Tourisme told me of a nice easy road to the village of Accous where the rest of the Company of Pilgrims were catching the bus to Somport.
It was a glorious day. I walked along a valley with steep hills on either side, rather like the Lake District in England. I could see some patches of snow on the tops.
I was marvelling at the beauty of nature, the bluebells and forget-me-nots and fox gloves, the song birds, the mountains rising on either side up to the sky, the sun shining through the waterfalls, and all the while, the sound of the rushing of the river down the valley.
Earth hath not anything to show more fair, I thought.
And then I wondered why I hadn't reached the village. I checked my compass. I was heading in the wrong direction. I stopped a car. Yes, I had taken a wrong turning. Again.
For once, I wasn't too annoyed with myself. It had been a delightful detour. On the way back down the hill, a dog barked a warning. A shepherd was approaching with a flock of sheep. I let them pass by.
I finally reached the village of Accous. The others were there, except Miek, who was walking after all. I decided to walk another 10 kms to join her at Etsaut. Patrick, gentil as always, took responsibility for this splinter group and booked our places at the gîte.
Staying with us at the gîte are two friendly donkeys, who say from time to time, "Eeyore! Eeyore!"
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I am on my own again. My companions are taking the bus to avoid a difficult section along the highway. As the GR now makes detours with some steep climbs, I am sticking to the roads. It is easier on my shin.
I walked the seven kilometres into Bedous. As the trucks passed, they tried to whip my Tilley off my head, so I fastened it securely with my chinstrap.
A word about my Tilley. The Tilley Hat is a Canadian institution, like the Globe and Mail and the CBC, but less likely to make grammatical mistakes. If you encounter a Tilley, there is likely to be a Canadian underneath it. The Tilley Hat has a lifetime guarantee.
I acquired my first Tilley about 25 years ago. I wore it on school trips in the Rockies, on long walks in England, and on the Camino Frances and the Chemin du Puy. It finally wore out after 20 years. I took into a store and they replaced it without question.
I am now about five years into my second Tilley. Will I outlive it?
As I entered Bedous, I passed a memorial to les Passeurs, the members of the Resistance who smuggled the allied airmen out of France into Spain. This was one of the routes they took. I was moved by the simple truth of the dedication:
Aux Passeurs
Qui les guiderent
Au peril de leur vie
I looked up at the hills. The Germans would have easily controlled the valley road I was walking along. The Passeurs must have taken the airmen along secret paths high in the mountains.
The woman at the Office de Tourisme told me of a nice easy road to the village of Accous where the rest of the Company of Pilgrims were catching the bus to Somport.
It was a glorious day. I walked along a valley with steep hills on either side, rather like the Lake District in England. I could see some patches of snow on the tops.
I was marvelling at the beauty of nature, the bluebells and forget-me-nots and fox gloves, the song birds, the mountains rising on either side up to the sky, the sun shining through the waterfalls, and all the while, the sound of the rushing of the river down the valley.
Earth hath not anything to show more fair, I thought.
And then I wondered why I hadn't reached the village. I checked my compass. I was heading in the wrong direction. I stopped a car. Yes, I had taken a wrong turning. Again.
For once, I wasn't too annoyed with myself. It had been a delightful detour. On the way back down the hill, a dog barked a warning. A shepherd was approaching with a flock of sheep. I let them pass by.
I finally reached the village of Accous. The others were there, except Miek, who was walking after all. I decided to walk another 10 kms to join her at Etsaut. Patrick, gentil as always, took responsibility for this splinter group and booked our places at the gîte.
Staying with us at the gîte are two friendly donkeys, who say from time to time, "Eeyore! Eeyore!"
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Day 30. April, 30, 2011. Etsau to Col du Somport (17 kms).
Much ado about nothing!
The Federation of Grandes Randonnées has declassified most of the last section of the Chemin d'Arles in France, from Bedous to Somport, and recommended that walkers take a bus to avoid walking along a dangerous section of the highway.
The French take this warning very seriously. They paint a picture of trucks whizzing by every second, spewing out diesel fumes. I heard about crazy Spanish drivers "who take a siesta and then weave back and forth across the road half asleep".
It may be a case of the pot calling the kettle black. I still remember the French driver in Caen who backed up along the autoroute when he missed his turnoff.
As it turned out, walking along the highway was quite feasible. There were some narrow sections where there was little space between the white line and the barrier or a cliff, and there was one place where a nice grassy field would have offered an escape from a truck hurtling towards me but for the electric fence which kept me out. Be squashed or be fried! But for the most part, it was easy going, and today, only one truck passed by.
As we climb steadily, the temperature drops. New vistas open to snow-capped mountains. On the peaks above, the rock strata twist and turn. The road hugs the cliff on one side of the valley, while high above, the old railway, an engineering marvel, is supported on its embankment by tall Roman arches. Farms dot the hills on the other side, and cattle laze and graze on the steep slopes. Perhaps they develop one leg longer than the other.
The road winds around a huge cliff which juts down into the valley. The railway tunnels straight through.
Now we leave the highway to take the old road into Spain. Here, we are certainly treading where the pilgrims trod. We climb steadily up the leafy trail. Clumps of gentians cluster around the rocks. Waterfalls carve creek beds across the ancient road. Below are the moss-covered rusty rails of the old line. Far below is the highway.
At last, we crossed the frontier into Spain. Fortunately, I have an extensive Spanish vocabulary which should serve me well. It comprises "cafe con lecce", "vino tinto", and "cerveza". I just used the last, and it worked.
Click here to follow the next section of the journey.
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The Federation of Grandes Randonnées has declassified most of the last section of the Chemin d'Arles in France, from Bedous to Somport, and recommended that walkers take a bus to avoid walking along a dangerous section of the highway.
The French take this warning very seriously. They paint a picture of trucks whizzing by every second, spewing out diesel fumes. I heard about crazy Spanish drivers "who take a siesta and then weave back and forth across the road half asleep".
It may be a case of the pot calling the kettle black. I still remember the French driver in Caen who backed up along the autoroute when he missed his turnoff.
As it turned out, walking along the highway was quite feasible. There were some narrow sections where there was little space between the white line and the barrier or a cliff, and there was one place where a nice grassy field would have offered an escape from a truck hurtling towards me but for the electric fence which kept me out. Be squashed or be fried! But for the most part, it was easy going, and today, only one truck passed by.
As we climb steadily, the temperature drops. New vistas open to snow-capped mountains. On the peaks above, the rock strata twist and turn. The road hugs the cliff on one side of the valley, while high above, the old railway, an engineering marvel, is supported on its embankment by tall Roman arches. Farms dot the hills on the other side, and cattle laze and graze on the steep slopes. Perhaps they develop one leg longer than the other.
The road winds around a huge cliff which juts down into the valley. The railway tunnels straight through.
Now we leave the highway to take the old road into Spain. Here, we are certainly treading where the pilgrims trod. We climb steadily up the leafy trail. Clumps of gentians cluster around the rocks. Waterfalls carve creek beds across the ancient road. Below are the moss-covered rusty rails of the old line. Far below is the highway.
At last, we crossed the frontier into Spain. Fortunately, I have an extensive Spanish vocabulary which should serve me well. It comprises "cafe con lecce", "vino tinto", and "cerveza". I just used the last, and it worked.
Click here to follow the next section of the journey.
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