Day 24. Perigueux to Saint-Astier (26 kms). June 22, 2012
The canal near Saint-Astier
Under the spreading chestnut tree
As I sing the song, I remember seeing a film clip of King George VI with a troop of boys at a scout camp. He was obviously enjoying himself as he sang the song and did the movements - spreading, chest, nut, tree - a bit like those of YMCA, which I can never manage. He was probably still the Prince of Wales, with little idea of the turmoil that lay ahead. How fate can throw a spanner in the works of life!
For some days, I have been walking through hilly pastoral country, with the occasional field of grain, and lots of chestnut trees, sometimes alone, sometimes in groves, and sometimes in small plantations. No vineyards yet.
Last night I stayed with Madame Fevre, a former phys. ed. teacher who was on the list of individuals welcoming pilgrims. It was a very pleasant stay, rudimentary but correct, as the French would say.
It took some time to get out of the city this morning. At one stage, I had to walk on the road to get around the cars parked on the footpath. That's not uncommon in France. Although a small city, Perigueux has its suburbs which stretch out along the roads leading into town. Then, for want of alternative marking, I found myself following the GR along the river for a while. This was a pleasant diversion, but it added a couple of kms. Then I was in the woods again for the rest of the day.
There is something very, very pleasant about taking a break for lunch in the middle of the day. I always make sure that I've covered more than half the distance before I eat. Food can sit heavily in my stomach during the afternoon. I am sitting by the side of the road, leaning against an oak tree, munching a baguette and the last of my sweaty cheese. For some reason, I think back to sitting beside the highway against a gum tree in Wodonga, Victoria, 50 years ago. There, I would have been listening to crows and magpies and kookaburras, and fighting off the bush flies. Here I am sitting in silence, but for the wind in the trees and the occasional call of a songbird. Midday is a lazy time for the birds as well. And the wind is strong enough to keep away the mosquitos, which are plentiful in the woods. I have the bites to prove it, unless they are from bedbugs.
I stopped for un petit cafe at the pleasant little town of Gravelle, only eight kilometres from my destination.
After Gravelle, I walked beside the river Isle, and then a canal. It doesn't get much easier than walking beside the water. It's flat!
The main road into town runs beside a steep limestone cliff which has been quarried out into huge caves which are now occupied by the army, the gendarmerie, and various private enterprises.
The monotony of the last three kilometres into town was relieved by a colourful, welcoming floral display. (See picture below.)
I'm staying at a chambre d'hote a couple of kilometres out of town. I have my own room, and for supper we'll be eating lamb chops and freshly gathered mushrooms. It sounds very promising. And who else should be here but the Dutch.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
As I sing the song, I remember seeing a film clip of King George VI with a troop of boys at a scout camp. He was obviously enjoying himself as he sang the song and did the movements - spreading, chest, nut, tree - a bit like those of YMCA, which I can never manage. He was probably still the Prince of Wales, with little idea of the turmoil that lay ahead. How fate can throw a spanner in the works of life!
For some days, I have been walking through hilly pastoral country, with the occasional field of grain, and lots of chestnut trees, sometimes alone, sometimes in groves, and sometimes in small plantations. No vineyards yet.
Last night I stayed with Madame Fevre, a former phys. ed. teacher who was on the list of individuals welcoming pilgrims. It was a very pleasant stay, rudimentary but correct, as the French would say.
It took some time to get out of the city this morning. At one stage, I had to walk on the road to get around the cars parked on the footpath. That's not uncommon in France. Although a small city, Perigueux has its suburbs which stretch out along the roads leading into town. Then, for want of alternative marking, I found myself following the GR along the river for a while. This was a pleasant diversion, but it added a couple of kms. Then I was in the woods again for the rest of the day.
There is something very, very pleasant about taking a break for lunch in the middle of the day. I always make sure that I've covered more than half the distance before I eat. Food can sit heavily in my stomach during the afternoon. I am sitting by the side of the road, leaning against an oak tree, munching a baguette and the last of my sweaty cheese. For some reason, I think back to sitting beside the highway against a gum tree in Wodonga, Victoria, 50 years ago. There, I would have been listening to crows and magpies and kookaburras, and fighting off the bush flies. Here I am sitting in silence, but for the wind in the trees and the occasional call of a songbird. Midday is a lazy time for the birds as well. And the wind is strong enough to keep away the mosquitos, which are plentiful in the woods. I have the bites to prove it, unless they are from bedbugs.
I stopped for un petit cafe at the pleasant little town of Gravelle, only eight kilometres from my destination.
After Gravelle, I walked beside the river Isle, and then a canal. It doesn't get much easier than walking beside the water. It's flat!
The main road into town runs beside a steep limestone cliff which has been quarried out into huge caves which are now occupied by the army, the gendarmerie, and various private enterprises.
The monotony of the last three kilometres into town was relieved by a colourful, welcoming floral display. (See picture below.)
I'm staying at a chambre d'hote a couple of kilometres out of town. I have my own room, and for supper we'll be eating lamb chops and freshly gathered mushrooms. It sounds very promising. And who else should be here but the Dutch.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 25. Saint-Astier to Mussidan (24 kms). June 23, 2012
Saint-Astier
An army marches on its stomach
So do pilgrims. That is why for several nights in a row we were eating pasta. The hosts figure that as long as the guests are full, they will be happy. And we don't complain. You usually get what you pay for. But every so often you are lucky enough to encounter a hostess who takes pride in her cooking, and pleasure in seeing her guests enjoy their food.
Such was the case with M. et Mme. Delugin at Saint-Astier. We began with an aperitif, then melon, then pate, then lamb chops, potatoes and mushrooms, then salad, then cheese, and finally, fruit and ice cream with melted chocolate on top. Quite delightful! All accompanied by an excellent vin du pays served by a true host who gauged the consumption of his guests and fetched another bottle at the appropriate moment. Second helpings were pressed upon my Dutch friends who were happy to accept. And so was I.
I learnt another expression for the necessity of cheese with every meal:
Un repas sans fromage est comme une belle sans un oeil
I think I got that right. The host agreed with me that wine tasted better after cheese, and added, that for that reason, cheese is never served at wine tastings.
He was un chasseur, and the pate was made from the spoils of the hunt - deer and wild boar. One of his trophies looked down on us this morning as we ate breakfast.
From time to time, in the woods and in the cafes, I pass women with angular physiognomies that could have come straight out of Madame Bovary. And of course, they have. Or rather, their forbears have.
And our hostess would have been at home in any nineteenth century novel as a jovial farmer's or innkeeper's wife, beaming with pleasure as her guests enjoyed her cooking.
All in all, it was a delightful stay for 32 euros.
I had to walk one and a half kilometres back into town to find the trail. I contemplated taking a short cut across a railway bridge, but decided it was a bit risky. Just as well. Two trains passed soon afterwards.
As I crossed the road bridge into town, I was impressed by the sight of the church and the houses along the river in the early morning sun( above).
Then it was a pleasant walk beside the railway line, through the woods, and across the fields to Neuvic Gare where I had a coffee with the home-made muffin our hostess had sent us away with.
After that, I walked along the main road for a while, and then up the limestone escarpment and onto the plateau for a pleasant stroll in the woods. And then down again, and an hour's march along the highway brought me into Mussidan.
Tonight, I am in the municipal gite. For six euros, it's very basic. The Dutch fellows are here as well. The aroma from their pizza is wafting my way, but I am going out to a restaurant.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
So do pilgrims. That is why for several nights in a row we were eating pasta. The hosts figure that as long as the guests are full, they will be happy. And we don't complain. You usually get what you pay for. But every so often you are lucky enough to encounter a hostess who takes pride in her cooking, and pleasure in seeing her guests enjoy their food.
Such was the case with M. et Mme. Delugin at Saint-Astier. We began with an aperitif, then melon, then pate, then lamb chops, potatoes and mushrooms, then salad, then cheese, and finally, fruit and ice cream with melted chocolate on top. Quite delightful! All accompanied by an excellent vin du pays served by a true host who gauged the consumption of his guests and fetched another bottle at the appropriate moment. Second helpings were pressed upon my Dutch friends who were happy to accept. And so was I.
I learnt another expression for the necessity of cheese with every meal:
Un repas sans fromage est comme une belle sans un oeil
I think I got that right. The host agreed with me that wine tasted better after cheese, and added, that for that reason, cheese is never served at wine tastings.
He was un chasseur, and the pate was made from the spoils of the hunt - deer and wild boar. One of his trophies looked down on us this morning as we ate breakfast.
From time to time, in the woods and in the cafes, I pass women with angular physiognomies that could have come straight out of Madame Bovary. And of course, they have. Or rather, their forbears have.
And our hostess would have been at home in any nineteenth century novel as a jovial farmer's or innkeeper's wife, beaming with pleasure as her guests enjoyed her cooking.
All in all, it was a delightful stay for 32 euros.
I had to walk one and a half kilometres back into town to find the trail. I contemplated taking a short cut across a railway bridge, but decided it was a bit risky. Just as well. Two trains passed soon afterwards.
As I crossed the road bridge into town, I was impressed by the sight of the church and the houses along the river in the early morning sun( above).
Then it was a pleasant walk beside the railway line, through the woods, and across the fields to Neuvic Gare where I had a coffee with the home-made muffin our hostess had sent us away with.
After that, I walked along the main road for a while, and then up the limestone escarpment and onto the plateau for a pleasant stroll in the woods. And then down again, and an hour's march along the highway brought me into Mussidan.
Tonight, I am in the municipal gite. For six euros, it's very basic. The Dutch fellows are here as well. The aroma from their pizza is wafting my way, but I am going out to a restaurant.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 26. Mussidan to Port-Sainte-Foy, June 24, 2012
My heart leaps up when I behold a church spire in the sky
Most meals at a restaurant are quite formal. The waiter appears at appropriate moments, takes your order, and brings your dishes.
Last night's was quite the opposite. When I arrived, the patron put a basket of bread and a bottle of red on my table. Not your finest Bordeau, mind you, but quite drinkable. The bottles, unlabelled and uncorked, were lined up behind the bar, and as the diners arrived, the bottles appeared.
A big bowl of pea soup was placed on my table, and I helped myself. Then a plate of crudités. Then I had to make a choice: rabbit or beef. Remembering Phyllis's bunny, I thought I'd better choose beef. Then salad, and then a choice of cheeses and choice of deserts from a large plates. All very pleasant and informal .
It was a very long day. At first, I walked across the plains between fields of corn and barley, and then through the woods again, deciduous then pine, and finally up and down the slopes of wine-growing terrain.
My heart lifts up with hope when I behold a church spire. The church is the centre of the village, and beside the church there may be a bar where I can take a break and have a coffee. At the very least, I can sit on the bench or picnic table that can usually be found beside the church, or failing that, I can eat my lunch on the steps with my back against the door.
Today, I stopped at the churches of Saint-Gery, Fraisse, and Montfaucon. These were the markers that divided my day into four parts. I rested beside each of these churches.
The church is still the centre of village life. Not in the way it once was, of course, although many of the villagers are still baptised, married and buried there. At the church of Saint-Gery where I made my first stop this morning, there must have been a wedding the day before. Two small decorated trees had been "planted" on either side of the church door, a carpet of pine leaves had been laid in front of the steps, and confetti and rose petals had obviously been strewn upon the couple.
But the church gives an identity to the secular villagers as well. Everything is defined in relation to the church - the bakery is opposite it, or behind it, or on the street that runs down from it. It gives the villagers a geographical identity. It orients them. They live in the shadow of the church. And they are part of the tradition it embodies, going back for more than a thousand years.
As I came down from the hills I was pointed in the right direction and given food for thought (See picture above).
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Most meals at a restaurant are quite formal. The waiter appears at appropriate moments, takes your order, and brings your dishes.
Last night's was quite the opposite. When I arrived, the patron put a basket of bread and a bottle of red on my table. Not your finest Bordeau, mind you, but quite drinkable. The bottles, unlabelled and uncorked, were lined up behind the bar, and as the diners arrived, the bottles appeared.
A big bowl of pea soup was placed on my table, and I helped myself. Then a plate of crudités. Then I had to make a choice: rabbit or beef. Remembering Phyllis's bunny, I thought I'd better choose beef. Then salad, and then a choice of cheeses and choice of deserts from a large plates. All very pleasant and informal .
It was a very long day. At first, I walked across the plains between fields of corn and barley, and then through the woods again, deciduous then pine, and finally up and down the slopes of wine-growing terrain.
My heart lifts up with hope when I behold a church spire. The church is the centre of the village, and beside the church there may be a bar where I can take a break and have a coffee. At the very least, I can sit on the bench or picnic table that can usually be found beside the church, or failing that, I can eat my lunch on the steps with my back against the door.
Today, I stopped at the churches of Saint-Gery, Fraisse, and Montfaucon. These were the markers that divided my day into four parts. I rested beside each of these churches.
The church is still the centre of village life. Not in the way it once was, of course, although many of the villagers are still baptised, married and buried there. At the church of Saint-Gery where I made my first stop this morning, there must have been a wedding the day before. Two small decorated trees had been "planted" on either side of the church door, a carpet of pine leaves had been laid in front of the steps, and confetti and rose petals had obviously been strewn upon the couple.
But the church gives an identity to the secular villagers as well. Everything is defined in relation to the church - the bakery is opposite it, or behind it, or on the street that runs down from it. It gives the villagers a geographical identity. It orients them. They live in the shadow of the church. And they are part of the tradition it embodies, going back for more than a thousand years.
As I came down from the hills I was pointed in the right direction and given food for thought (See picture above).
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 27.Port-Sainte-Foy to Sainte-Ferme (25 kms). June 25, 2012
The abbey church at Sainte-Ferme
Some work of noble note may yet be done.
All day long I walked through vineyards. At times, they stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. I saw vines of every age and size, from fresh, young shoots to the old and gnarled.
As I walked beside the old vines, I was struck by the contrast between the twisted, withered old stumps and the flourish of green above, with grapes already forming on the stems. Young heads on old shoulders! A few of the veterans stood forlorn, bereft of foliage. Others had fallen, to be replaced by new recruits, reaching up to the supporting wires, there to join their venerable elders. All to produce our daily plonk!
At Les Leves I passed a winery, more like a refinery really, with 40 or 50 cylindrical tanks for processing and storing the wine. I recalled the time, 25 years ago in France, when we took our empty containers to be filled with wine by a petrol bowser.
A party of sIx arrived at the gite last night, straight from the train. They could pose a problem for individuals like me, for they fill up the gites, and they've booked ahead all the way. But they are very pleasant company.
Consequently, the gite tonight, with six beds, was full, but the Dutchmen and I had been promised mattresses on the floor. However, they decided to stay at Pellegrue, five kilometres before Saint-Ferme. I pressed on to find that I'm sleeping on a camp stretcher in a storage room, a private room, in fact. This is a gite run by the pilgrims' association, the third I've stayed in: the food is good, and at 20 euros, the price is very reasonable. I didn't want to miss it.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
All day long I walked through vineyards. At times, they stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. I saw vines of every age and size, from fresh, young shoots to the old and gnarled.
As I walked beside the old vines, I was struck by the contrast between the twisted, withered old stumps and the flourish of green above, with grapes already forming on the stems. Young heads on old shoulders! A few of the veterans stood forlorn, bereft of foliage. Others had fallen, to be replaced by new recruits, reaching up to the supporting wires, there to join their venerable elders. All to produce our daily plonk!
At Les Leves I passed a winery, more like a refinery really, with 40 or 50 cylindrical tanks for processing and storing the wine. I recalled the time, 25 years ago in France, when we took our empty containers to be filled with wine by a petrol bowser.
A party of sIx arrived at the gite last night, straight from the train. They could pose a problem for individuals like me, for they fill up the gites, and they've booked ahead all the way. But they are very pleasant company.
Consequently, the gite tonight, with six beds, was full, but the Dutchmen and I had been promised mattresses on the floor. However, they decided to stay at Pellegrue, five kilometres before Saint-Ferme. I pressed on to find that I'm sleeping on a camp stretcher in a storage room, a private room, in fact. This is a gite run by the pilgrims' association, the third I've stayed in: the food is good, and at 20 euros, the price is very reasonable. I didn't want to miss it.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 28. Sainte-Ferme to La Reole (20 kms). June 26, 2012
The ruined castle of Caze
I am too much in the sun
Until now, it has been cool in the mornings when I set out, but today it was overcast and muggy as I left the gite, and it got hotter as the day advanced. It was a comparative short step, but as I walked the last few kilometres along the road into La Reole, the heat was coming up through the ever-thinner soles of my Keens.
Last night the hospitalier produced a superb vin de pays. When I asked where he'd got it, he tapped his nose and said he had a source. Later, the French agreed it was a very fine petit vin. I asked them whether it was a vin de or a vin du pays, and they became very excited and launched into a lengthy discussion about the nuances of the language. In short, it was both.
They are moving slowly from their home in Charente to Santiago, one week at a time. As usual, there are the connections: one has a nephew in Perth; another, a friend in Nelson, BC. Today, at lunchtime, they made a detour to a chateau for a wine tasting. They invited me to go with them, but I declined. I knew that I wouldn't want to continue afterwards. They arrived in town about five-thirty, so they must have had a good day.
This morning, I saw someone on a tractor clipping off the tops of his vines so that more of the growth goes into the grapes. I didn't want to mention it yesterday while I was waxing poetic about the vines, but I noticed that a farmer was spraying with some sort of pesticide that I tried to avoid breathing. I remember Patrick, the former mayor of a commune near Toulouse, telling me last year that we would be horrified if we knew what noxious chemicals went into the making of wine.
On the way out of the little village of Coutures, I passed the ruins of the 12th century castle of Caze.
Tonight, I'm in La Reole, a town on the bank of the Garonne, which is, after the Loire and the Dordogne, the third of the great rivers to cross.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Until now, it has been cool in the mornings when I set out, but today it was overcast and muggy as I left the gite, and it got hotter as the day advanced. It was a comparative short step, but as I walked the last few kilometres along the road into La Reole, the heat was coming up through the ever-thinner soles of my Keens.
Last night the hospitalier produced a superb vin de pays. When I asked where he'd got it, he tapped his nose and said he had a source. Later, the French agreed it was a very fine petit vin. I asked them whether it was a vin de or a vin du pays, and they became very excited and launched into a lengthy discussion about the nuances of the language. In short, it was both.
They are moving slowly from their home in Charente to Santiago, one week at a time. As usual, there are the connections: one has a nephew in Perth; another, a friend in Nelson, BC. Today, at lunchtime, they made a detour to a chateau for a wine tasting. They invited me to go with them, but I declined. I knew that I wouldn't want to continue afterwards. They arrived in town about five-thirty, so they must have had a good day.
This morning, I saw someone on a tractor clipping off the tops of his vines so that more of the growth goes into the grapes. I didn't want to mention it yesterday while I was waxing poetic about the vines, but I noticed that a farmer was spraying with some sort of pesticide that I tried to avoid breathing. I remember Patrick, the former mayor of a commune near Toulouse, telling me last year that we would be horrified if we knew what noxious chemicals went into the making of wine.
On the way out of the little village of Coutures, I passed the ruins of the 12th century castle of Caze.
Tonight, I'm in La Reole, a town on the bank of the Garonne, which is, after the Loire and the Dordogne, the third of the great rivers to cross.
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Day 29. La Reole to Bazas. June 27, 2012
The lady doth protest too much, methinks
There's a bird perched on Rod's pole
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines
I crossed the Garonne at eight o'clock this morning. My hostess came with me to me to send me off in the right direction. That's her thumb in the top right corner of the picture below. That's me on the left.
She was a garrulous soul who hadn't accepted the inevitability of change. As she watched the news on television, she would launch into a tirade at every item - against les arabes, les anglais, les jeunes, les sans-domiciles, les manifestants, les politiciens, le President - and then wait for me to agree with her. Eh? Then she would mutter and mumble until provoked by the next irritant. But she was kind and generous, did my washing, fed me well, and gave me a comfortable bed.
Gone are the vineyards. I walked across the plain between fields of corn and barley. I passed a sign warning me of low-flying aircraft. What was I supposed to do? Dodge them? I passed a fisherman on the bank of a canal. He had four rods propped up doing the fishing for him while he rested in a deck chair.
I had lunch at Auros in the shade of a tree. It was 33 degrees.
I walked the remaining ten kilometres along the road into Bazas. It was hot, but with a clear sky, it was a bit like Aussie heat, eased a little with a "sea breeze". It's a heat we don't experience in Canada: searing in the sun, and in the shade, enervating in an almost pleasant way, as if the energy is draining out of you and with it the cares of the world.
I rested in the shade, not of an old gum tree, but a grove of poplars. And the breeze blew against me, cooling like a Coolgardie safe. Then it was time to face the sun again.
An air-conditioned coach whizzed by. I imagined the passengers looking out the window and saying, "You silly bugger!" Or in a Peter Sellers French accent, "Vous stupide bougeur!"
At three-fifteen I arrived at la Place de la Cathedrale in Balzas. I sat down and had a beer.
Click here to continue the journey.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
There's a bird perched on Rod's pole
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines
I crossed the Garonne at eight o'clock this morning. My hostess came with me to me to send me off in the right direction. That's her thumb in the top right corner of the picture below. That's me on the left.
She was a garrulous soul who hadn't accepted the inevitability of change. As she watched the news on television, she would launch into a tirade at every item - against les arabes, les anglais, les jeunes, les sans-domiciles, les manifestants, les politiciens, le President - and then wait for me to agree with her. Eh? Then she would mutter and mumble until provoked by the next irritant. But she was kind and generous, did my washing, fed me well, and gave me a comfortable bed.
Gone are the vineyards. I walked across the plain between fields of corn and barley. I passed a sign warning me of low-flying aircraft. What was I supposed to do? Dodge them? I passed a fisherman on the bank of a canal. He had four rods propped up doing the fishing for him while he rested in a deck chair.
I had lunch at Auros in the shade of a tree. It was 33 degrees.
I walked the remaining ten kilometres along the road into Bazas. It was hot, but with a clear sky, it was a bit like Aussie heat, eased a little with a "sea breeze". It's a heat we don't experience in Canada: searing in the sun, and in the shade, enervating in an almost pleasant way, as if the energy is draining out of you and with it the cares of the world.
I rested in the shade, not of an old gum tree, but a grove of poplars. And the breeze blew against me, cooling like a Coolgardie safe. Then it was time to face the sun again.
An air-conditioned coach whizzed by. I imagined the passengers looking out the window and saying, "You silly bugger!" Or in a Peter Sellers French accent, "Vous stupide bougeur!"
At three-fifteen I arrived at la Place de la Cathedrale in Balzas. I sat down and had a beer.
Click here to continue the journey.
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