Day 17. April 17, 2011. Toulouse to Léguevin (22.7 kms).
I began the day with breakfast at a bar on the Place du Capitole, across from the magnificent Capitolium. This must be one of the finest squares in France.
I was out of the suburbs by noon, and settled in at the gîte by three o'clock.
On one occasion I found my way blocked by the Airbus Corporation which occupies a huge area west of Toulouse. Apart from that little detour, I escaped the suburbs without much trouble.
Since Toulouse, I have been following a mixture of European Commission camino markers (a yellow coquille Saint-Jacques on a blue background) and the GR balises. This is confusing at times.
I have fallen in with a couple of French fellows who are walking the Camino a week at a time. Tonight at the gîte, I ate with them: pizza, Belgian beer, pasta, ham, wine, éclairs et les religieuses. We talked about past experiences at places where we had all been. It was one of those delightful Camino moments.
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I was out of the suburbs by noon, and settled in at the gîte by three o'clock.
On one occasion I found my way blocked by the Airbus Corporation which occupies a huge area west of Toulouse. Apart from that little detour, I escaped the suburbs without much trouble.
Since Toulouse, I have been following a mixture of European Commission camino markers (a yellow coquille Saint-Jacques on a blue background) and the GR balises. This is confusing at times.
I have fallen in with a couple of French fellows who are walking the Camino a week at a time. Tonight at the gîte, I ate with them: pizza, Belgian beer, pasta, ham, wine, éclairs et les religieuses. We talked about past experiences at places where we had all been. It was one of those delightful Camino moments.
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Day 18. April 18, 2011. Léguevin to L'Isle-Jourdain (15 kms).
The French are a proud people. If they know English, they know English, and they wouldn't dream of asking a native English speaker to look over the English translation of their French text before they print it. This accounts for the idiomatic and even grammatical errors one sees in the English versions of texts all over France, even at important historic monuments.
At the gîte, the hospitalier, or someone on the committee, had had a go at translating their notices. Here are a couple of examples:
Please do not throw in the toilet.
The house will be closed no later than 22 pm and will released every morning before 9 pm.
My French companions set out very early, before dawn in fact, using a little wind-up torch to see the way. So I too was up early and left the gîte about 7:20. In the woods at a fork where I was wondering which way to go, I asked directions of a woman who was walking her dog. She started to explain, and then said, "Excuse my French." She didn't have to apologize to me, I thought.
She was English, the second Brit I had met in the town. When I asked if she knew the first, she said, No, she kept away from them. Funny bunch, the Poms, they either live in enclaves or avoid each other like the plague.
I reached L'Isle Jourdain well before noon and was intending to move on, but two things happened. I stopped for a coffee and asked about Wifi. There was none there, but someone overheard and told me to drop by her office and use hers. Very kind. This took some time to set up. Then I stopped for a sandwich and the patron told me about the things to see in his town. He was not an educated man, but spoke with such enthusiasm about the history, the museum of clocks, and the fresco in the church, that I decided to stay.
I have settled in at the gîte and I'm now drinking a beer in the town square, one of those magnificent squares that are at the centre of so many French and Spanish, and I suppose, other European, towns. The town hall stretches across one side; on another is an ancient red-brick grain exchange, now housing a museum of clocks, which I'm about to see. On the other two sides are shops and houses in red brick and plaster, complementing the two dominant buildings. It is something intangible, but the beauty of these architectural surroundings must lift the spirit of the denizens of this town, even if they don't realize it. It is something we have often forgotten in the new world.
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At the gîte, the hospitalier, or someone on the committee, had had a go at translating their notices. Here are a couple of examples:
Please do not throw in the toilet.
The house will be closed no later than 22 pm and will released every morning before 9 pm.
My French companions set out very early, before dawn in fact, using a little wind-up torch to see the way. So I too was up early and left the gîte about 7:20. In the woods at a fork where I was wondering which way to go, I asked directions of a woman who was walking her dog. She started to explain, and then said, "Excuse my French." She didn't have to apologize to me, I thought.
She was English, the second Brit I had met in the town. When I asked if she knew the first, she said, No, she kept away from them. Funny bunch, the Poms, they either live in enclaves or avoid each other like the plague.
I reached L'Isle Jourdain well before noon and was intending to move on, but two things happened. I stopped for a coffee and asked about Wifi. There was none there, but someone overheard and told me to drop by her office and use hers. Very kind. This took some time to set up. Then I stopped for a sandwich and the patron told me about the things to see in his town. He was not an educated man, but spoke with such enthusiasm about the history, the museum of clocks, and the fresco in the church, that I decided to stay.
I have settled in at the gîte and I'm now drinking a beer in the town square, one of those magnificent squares that are at the centre of so many French and Spanish, and I suppose, other European, towns. The town hall stretches across one side; on another is an ancient red-brick grain exchange, now housing a museum of clocks, which I'm about to see. On the other two sides are shops and houses in red brick and plaster, complementing the two dominant buildings. It is something intangible, but the beauty of these architectural surroundings must lift the spirit of the denizens of this town, even if they don't realize it. It is something we have often forgotten in the new world.
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Day 19. April 19, 2011. L'Isle-Jordain to L'Isle-Arne (32.8 kms)
Les Offices de Tourisme do a terrific job in France. Those at home probably offer good service as well, but as locals we don't benefit from them. Here, as well as telling you the sights to see, and booking ahead for you, they often manage a communiy gite which can range from historic to ultra-modern. Some even have wifi.
This was probably the best community gite I have stayed at. It is very modern with three small bedrooms. I had one to myself and a view of the lake.
I had dinner with a couple of lovely Norwegian ladies who were staying at the gite. We walked around the lake to a restaurant at a hotel called, appropriately, Hotel du Lac.
There was another couple at the gite as well, and two other people staying in the town, so there are now more people on the chemin.
This morning I walked for a while beside a railway line, and a TER whizzed by. I would like to bring the Vancouver Island Railway Commission out here to learn what they could do with the E&N.
I love trains. I like to visit little railway stations to see where the trains are coming from and going to, and I can sit for hours at a junction like Reading listening to the announcements in that tone and volume that are unique to railway stations:
The train arriving at platform five is for Oxford, stopping at Goring-Streatly, Cholsey-Mouldsford and Didcot.
At French railway stations, they precede the announcements with a series of notes that resemble the beginning of Dean Martin's "Love and Marriage". Terrible song!
The smell of coal smoke is a Proustian moment for me, and takes me back to the glorious steam trains of the old WAGR, the Western Australian Government Railways, a narrow gauge system that could proudly boast it had never lost a passenger. The trains travelled so slowly that they didn't pose a threat to anyone.
I would travel up to York with my father to visit my grandfather. He lived in a little weatherboard house beside a railway line. I remember the lighting of the kerosene lamps. I can still taste the fresh green peas which grew around the well where he used to draw his water.
He was deaf, my grandfather. So was my father. And my mother. And so ...
On the train home, I would hang my head out the window and get soot in my eye. I soon learned to look out the window on the windward side.
That was the era of black snot.
Things of beauty they were, those steam locomotives, as they slowly pulled out of Perth Station, huffing and puffing smoke, and hissing steam.
After the first powerful, plain manifesto,
The black statement of pistons...
I remember being excited when they introduced a U class oil-burning steam engine. Little did I know it was the beginning of the end for the steam locos, which were gradually replaced by ugly diesels.
Today was a long but glorious day with a strong wind which heralds a change in the weather.
The wind makes waves in the wheat.
Tonight, I am staying at a farmhouse. As often happens, the loo is downstairs and the dormitory up. Since the communication between the two is by means of what is practically a Jacob's ladder, and since I am wont to pass from one to the other during the night, I will pay an extra five euros for a downstairs room to myself. Better that than a broken neck!
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
This was probably the best community gite I have stayed at. It is very modern with three small bedrooms. I had one to myself and a view of the lake.
I had dinner with a couple of lovely Norwegian ladies who were staying at the gite. We walked around the lake to a restaurant at a hotel called, appropriately, Hotel du Lac.
There was another couple at the gite as well, and two other people staying in the town, so there are now more people on the chemin.
This morning I walked for a while beside a railway line, and a TER whizzed by. I would like to bring the Vancouver Island Railway Commission out here to learn what they could do with the E&N.
I love trains. I like to visit little railway stations to see where the trains are coming from and going to, and I can sit for hours at a junction like Reading listening to the announcements in that tone and volume that are unique to railway stations:
The train arriving at platform five is for Oxford, stopping at Goring-Streatly, Cholsey-Mouldsford and Didcot.
At French railway stations, they precede the announcements with a series of notes that resemble the beginning of Dean Martin's "Love and Marriage". Terrible song!
The smell of coal smoke is a Proustian moment for me, and takes me back to the glorious steam trains of the old WAGR, the Western Australian Government Railways, a narrow gauge system that could proudly boast it had never lost a passenger. The trains travelled so slowly that they didn't pose a threat to anyone.
I would travel up to York with my father to visit my grandfather. He lived in a little weatherboard house beside a railway line. I remember the lighting of the kerosene lamps. I can still taste the fresh green peas which grew around the well where he used to draw his water.
He was deaf, my grandfather. So was my father. And my mother. And so ...
On the train home, I would hang my head out the window and get soot in my eye. I soon learned to look out the window on the windward side.
That was the era of black snot.
Things of beauty they were, those steam locomotives, as they slowly pulled out of Perth Station, huffing and puffing smoke, and hissing steam.
After the first powerful, plain manifesto,
The black statement of pistons...
I remember being excited when they introduced a U class oil-burning steam engine. Little did I know it was the beginning of the end for the steam locos, which were gradually replaced by ugly diesels.
Today was a long but glorious day with a strong wind which heralds a change in the weather.
The wind makes waves in the wheat.
Tonight, I am staying at a farmhouse. As often happens, the loo is downstairs and the dormitory up. Since the communication between the two is by means of what is practically a Jacob's ladder, and since I am wont to pass from one to the other during the night, I will pay an extra five euros for a downstairs room to myself. Better that than a broken neck!
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Day 20. April 20, 2011, Isle-Arne to Auch (23.6 kms)
I walked with Patrick today, a former train driver and mayor of his commune, now retired and still in his fifties.
Once again the weather was fine, with a strong wind that drove us along, and the walking was easy, along dirt roads through deciduous woods.
Wainwright complained about the pine plantations that were springing up in the north. He preferred the natural English (or European) woods. So do I.
Patrick and I talked of many things, of la langue d'Oc, etymology, the old question of tutoyer versus vousvoyer, and of course, trains.
It is always a pleasure to talk about words. Apparently, Occitan, the langue d'Oc, is still spoken and is taught in the schools. Patrick told me about words in Occitan which were very similar to those in English, for example, esquirol for squirrel.
As we walked, the broom was in flower, and I explained the link between the French word (genet) and the Plantagenet kings of England. He said that in Occitan the word was "bruch" like " broom" or "brush", and in fact, the local people would use the broom for that purpose. And I suppose that is the origin of the word in English as well. The strands of the bush can be bound together to make a simple broom.
He also said that the word for corkscrew in Occitan was not "tire-bouchon" but "gimblet", which resembles the English "gimlet". He told the story of his friend who was travelling in England and was desperate to find a corkscrew to open his bottle of wine. The man in the store understood the Occitan word because, Patrick maintained, it resembled the English one. Personally, I think it may have been the frantic gestures which got the meaning across.
We talked about the distinction between using the second person singular (tu) for friends and family, and the second person plural (vous) for more formal acquaintances.
I asked him what happens if someone addresses you as "tu" when you're not ready for that level of intimacy. He gave me a couple of sayings to use to get the message across. They translate literally as "We haven't kept the pigs together" and "One doesn't mix the tea towel and the table cloth". I can understand how they would make someone who was becoming a bit too familiar keep his distance.
We also talked about the tragic train crash which was in the news when we were in France in the eighties. On a single railway line, a station master had sent a passenger train down the track, forgetting that another train was coming in the other direction. Since that time, all French trains have been equipped with radio.
He agreed that the accident would not have happened had the French railways followed the Australian, or English, system for single track lines, whereby a train could only enter a section of line if the driver was carrying a staff. Each station at the end of the section had a machine in which was locked the staff. Only one staff could be released at a time for that section. I used to be fascinated to watch the engine driver and the station master exchange the staff as a train passed through a station without stopping. It was a simple but foolproof system to allow only one train on the track at a time.
With conversation like this, the day passed quickly, and we soon arrived in Auch, a cathedral town and prefecture for the Department of Gers.
Tonight we are staying at a presbytery in the centre of town, with a view of the cathedral, all for a donation, "each according to his means".
Click here to follow the next section of the journey.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Once again the weather was fine, with a strong wind that drove us along, and the walking was easy, along dirt roads through deciduous woods.
Wainwright complained about the pine plantations that were springing up in the north. He preferred the natural English (or European) woods. So do I.
Patrick and I talked of many things, of la langue d'Oc, etymology, the old question of tutoyer versus vousvoyer, and of course, trains.
It is always a pleasure to talk about words. Apparently, Occitan, the langue d'Oc, is still spoken and is taught in the schools. Patrick told me about words in Occitan which were very similar to those in English, for example, esquirol for squirrel.
As we walked, the broom was in flower, and I explained the link between the French word (genet) and the Plantagenet kings of England. He said that in Occitan the word was "bruch" like " broom" or "brush", and in fact, the local people would use the broom for that purpose. And I suppose that is the origin of the word in English as well. The strands of the bush can be bound together to make a simple broom.
He also said that the word for corkscrew in Occitan was not "tire-bouchon" but "gimblet", which resembles the English "gimlet". He told the story of his friend who was travelling in England and was desperate to find a corkscrew to open his bottle of wine. The man in the store understood the Occitan word because, Patrick maintained, it resembled the English one. Personally, I think it may have been the frantic gestures which got the meaning across.
We talked about the distinction between using the second person singular (tu) for friends and family, and the second person plural (vous) for more formal acquaintances.
I asked him what happens if someone addresses you as "tu" when you're not ready for that level of intimacy. He gave me a couple of sayings to use to get the message across. They translate literally as "We haven't kept the pigs together" and "One doesn't mix the tea towel and the table cloth". I can understand how they would make someone who was becoming a bit too familiar keep his distance.
We also talked about the tragic train crash which was in the news when we were in France in the eighties. On a single railway line, a station master had sent a passenger train down the track, forgetting that another train was coming in the other direction. Since that time, all French trains have been equipped with radio.
He agreed that the accident would not have happened had the French railways followed the Australian, or English, system for single track lines, whereby a train could only enter a section of line if the driver was carrying a staff. Each station at the end of the section had a machine in which was locked the staff. Only one staff could be released at a time for that section. I used to be fascinated to watch the engine driver and the station master exchange the staff as a train passed through a station without stopping. It was a simple but foolproof system to allow only one train on the track at a time.
With conversation like this, the day passed quickly, and we soon arrived in Auch, a cathedral town and prefecture for the Department of Gers.
Tonight we are staying at a presbytery in the centre of town, with a view of the cathedral, all for a donation, "each according to his means".
Click here to follow the next section of the journey.
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