Day 15. May 22, 2013. Tours to Sorigny
The bank of the Cher
I am in mud
Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
It was supposed to be fine weather today, and it was, when I looked out the window on waking up, but by mid-morning the sun had disappeared, and rain threatened. But it held off until I arrived in Sorigny.
I took the rue Colbert down to the avenue de Grammont, the former main road which now hosted the tram lines, and headed south. This route would have taken me direct to my destination. O that I had followed it!
I walked along the tracks, pretending I was a tram, when I heard a clang, clang, clang behind me. I thought of Judy Garland. Then I moved off the tracks. Although the system begins operating in September, the trams are making trial runs from time to time. And they really do go clang, clang, clang.
I noticed that in town, the trams get their power from a third rail, which by some new technology poses no threat to pedestrians, but outside the city centre, they use an overhead wire. The change occurs at the railway station, where they arrive, drop their pantograph, and continue, overhead-wirelessly into the centre. It's more pleasing to the eye without the poles and wires, explained an official. More expensive, though.
I continued along the main road for a while, crossed a couple of bridges, and then dropped down to walk east along the bank of the Cher. I passed a couple of weeping willows, and then a fisherman who seemed to be catching logs rather than fish. Then I left the river and walked into the pleasant little village of Saint-Avertin, where I stopped for a coffee.
I am following another guide which I bought yesterday, a rando-edition, a companion to the Chemin du Puy and the Chemin d'Arles which I have used before. I will let you know if it's better than the other one after I haven't got lost a few times.
No guide could have prepared me for the next obstacle I faced. I was walking merrily along, when I came upon a sign:
Route Barree. Chantier Interdit au Public.
I knew what it meant, but decided to pretend that I didn't, because to do otherwise would have meant a long detour. It was a motorway construction site. Graders were moving back and forth, and my path had disappeared under mountains of dirt. Workers were occupied with what they were doing and didn't seem to have noticed the intruder. I followed a temporary road made by the trucks, and when I spied some trees off to one side, I thought I would cut across to the woods before I was challenged.
I left the road and stepped into a Flanders field of mud. Sinking in to the top of my Zambs, I squelched across, picking up more mud with every step. But when I finally reached solid ground, I was accosted. What was I doing? Didn't I know that the site was closed to the public? Eventually, they decided I was stupid rather than non-compliant, and sent me on my way. Now I was back on my path.
I passed through the village of Montbazon, and looked up at the 11th century fortified tower, now crowned with a 30-foot statue, a result of the fervid devotion to the Virgin Mary in the 19th century.
Back on the highway, I put my head down and marched the remaining five kilometres into Sorigny.
I am staying at a reasonably priced (30€) chambre d'hôtes, and eating a reasonably priced menu du jour (11.50€) at the pub. Wine is included. Another pilgrim, Steven, a Belgian, is staying at the chambre d'hôtes as well, the first fellow walker I have met since Paris.
There is something about cheese, isn't there, at the end of the meal? It brings out the flavour of the wine, and is itself enhanced.
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Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
It was supposed to be fine weather today, and it was, when I looked out the window on waking up, but by mid-morning the sun had disappeared, and rain threatened. But it held off until I arrived in Sorigny.
I took the rue Colbert down to the avenue de Grammont, the former main road which now hosted the tram lines, and headed south. This route would have taken me direct to my destination. O that I had followed it!
I walked along the tracks, pretending I was a tram, when I heard a clang, clang, clang behind me. I thought of Judy Garland. Then I moved off the tracks. Although the system begins operating in September, the trams are making trial runs from time to time. And they really do go clang, clang, clang.
I noticed that in town, the trams get their power from a third rail, which by some new technology poses no threat to pedestrians, but outside the city centre, they use an overhead wire. The change occurs at the railway station, where they arrive, drop their pantograph, and continue, overhead-wirelessly into the centre. It's more pleasing to the eye without the poles and wires, explained an official. More expensive, though.
I continued along the main road for a while, crossed a couple of bridges, and then dropped down to walk east along the bank of the Cher. I passed a couple of weeping willows, and then a fisherman who seemed to be catching logs rather than fish. Then I left the river and walked into the pleasant little village of Saint-Avertin, where I stopped for a coffee.
I am following another guide which I bought yesterday, a rando-edition, a companion to the Chemin du Puy and the Chemin d'Arles which I have used before. I will let you know if it's better than the other one after I haven't got lost a few times.
No guide could have prepared me for the next obstacle I faced. I was walking merrily along, when I came upon a sign:
Route Barree. Chantier Interdit au Public.
I knew what it meant, but decided to pretend that I didn't, because to do otherwise would have meant a long detour. It was a motorway construction site. Graders were moving back and forth, and my path had disappeared under mountains of dirt. Workers were occupied with what they were doing and didn't seem to have noticed the intruder. I followed a temporary road made by the trucks, and when I spied some trees off to one side, I thought I would cut across to the woods before I was challenged.
I left the road and stepped into a Flanders field of mud. Sinking in to the top of my Zambs, I squelched across, picking up more mud with every step. But when I finally reached solid ground, I was accosted. What was I doing? Didn't I know that the site was closed to the public? Eventually, they decided I was stupid rather than non-compliant, and sent me on my way. Now I was back on my path.
I passed through the village of Montbazon, and looked up at the 11th century fortified tower, now crowned with a 30-foot statue, a result of the fervid devotion to the Virgin Mary in the 19th century.
Back on the highway, I put my head down and marched the remaining five kilometres into Sorigny.
I am staying at a reasonably priced (30€) chambre d'hôtes, and eating a reasonably priced menu du jour (11.50€) at the pub. Wine is included. Another pilgrim, Steven, a Belgian, is staying at the chambre d'hôtes as well, the first fellow walker I have met since Paris.
There is something about cheese, isn't there, at the end of the meal? It brings out the flavour of the wine, and is itself enhanced.
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Day 16. May 23, 2013. Sorigny to Sainte-Maure-de-Touraine
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy
It was an easy day on rural roads across flat country. We left before eight, and made such good time, with only one stop, that we arrived at our destination in time for lunch.
We soon reached the open countryside, where I noticed a couple of enormous oaks, standing alone in the middle of a field. And then I saw a hawk in the distance swooping down after some poor creature that had gone to ground. I stood watching it for a couple of minutes, marvelling at its persistence and hoping that its prey would have the sense to stay under cover. Then I noticed another hawk doing the same thing. Ah! I had been fooled again. They were kites, attached to poles, doing such a good job that they would put the traditional scarecrows out of business.
I have never seen so many different attempts to save the crops, from the traditional scarecrow to the sound of gun shots, from strips of plastic blowing in the wind to the imitation hawks attached to poles.
The larks were with us again today, braving the winds above and singing in full voice, disappearing in the clouds only to flutter down once more. What is it about their song that is so uplifting? It may be that we hear them in the wide open spaces were we least expect to hear the song of a bird, and then we see them so high up, tiny birds, battling against the winds. They encourage us lonely travellers down below.
No, I didn't hear a nightingale last night, but my friend Steven the Belge heard a bird singing during the night that may well have been the nightingale. But the larks, too, pour forth their soul.
Steven is a congenial fellow, a graphic designer, who is somewhat dissatisfied with his present career, and is contemplating a change. He will make up his mind before he reaches Santiago. Another reason for walking the Camino!
I saw several herds of cattle today which would have pleased my old mate, meus amicus Johannes, amator vaccarum. And just those few words make me think of my old Latin teacher, Jumbo, aptly nicknamed for his elephantine stature, who would force me to conjugate verbs and decline nouns by grasping me by the hair and digging his knuckle into my head. I have a dent in my skull to prove it.
Moody, decline mensa!
Mensa, mensam, mensae, mensae, mensa. Mensae, mensas, mensarum, mensis, mensis.
For the one or two of you who might be wondering, we declined nouns according to what I suspect was the English method, ignoring the vocative case since it differed from the nominative only in the second declension. In North America, all six cases are included, and declined in a different order.
We used a little text book called Macmillan's Shorter Latin Course, which generations of schoolboys had transformed into Macmillan's Shorter Eating Course. Similarly, many years later, I taught from a textbook called The Fart of Poetry.
We stopped for a rest at the little village of Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois. There was no bar open, but we found a bakery which had decided to provide coffee for pilgrims, almost as a public service. There is a statue of Joan of Arc in the square in front of the church. She is supposed to have stopped in the village for a coffee on her way to war. Many towns in France make the same claim.
Tonight, after a lot of walking around the town looking for the Office de Tourisme, and then the lodging, we are staying at the municipal gite, an old stone hose half buried in a cliff, with a wood fire. Just as well, for it's going to be cold tonight.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
In such an ecstasy
It was an easy day on rural roads across flat country. We left before eight, and made such good time, with only one stop, that we arrived at our destination in time for lunch.
We soon reached the open countryside, where I noticed a couple of enormous oaks, standing alone in the middle of a field. And then I saw a hawk in the distance swooping down after some poor creature that had gone to ground. I stood watching it for a couple of minutes, marvelling at its persistence and hoping that its prey would have the sense to stay under cover. Then I noticed another hawk doing the same thing. Ah! I had been fooled again. They were kites, attached to poles, doing such a good job that they would put the traditional scarecrows out of business.
I have never seen so many different attempts to save the crops, from the traditional scarecrow to the sound of gun shots, from strips of plastic blowing in the wind to the imitation hawks attached to poles.
The larks were with us again today, braving the winds above and singing in full voice, disappearing in the clouds only to flutter down once more. What is it about their song that is so uplifting? It may be that we hear them in the wide open spaces were we least expect to hear the song of a bird, and then we see them so high up, tiny birds, battling against the winds. They encourage us lonely travellers down below.
No, I didn't hear a nightingale last night, but my friend Steven the Belge heard a bird singing during the night that may well have been the nightingale. But the larks, too, pour forth their soul.
Steven is a congenial fellow, a graphic designer, who is somewhat dissatisfied with his present career, and is contemplating a change. He will make up his mind before he reaches Santiago. Another reason for walking the Camino!
I saw several herds of cattle today which would have pleased my old mate, meus amicus Johannes, amator vaccarum. And just those few words make me think of my old Latin teacher, Jumbo, aptly nicknamed for his elephantine stature, who would force me to conjugate verbs and decline nouns by grasping me by the hair and digging his knuckle into my head. I have a dent in my skull to prove it.
Moody, decline mensa!
Mensa, mensam, mensae, mensae, mensa. Mensae, mensas, mensarum, mensis, mensis.
For the one or two of you who might be wondering, we declined nouns according to what I suspect was the English method, ignoring the vocative case since it differed from the nominative only in the second declension. In North America, all six cases are included, and declined in a different order.
We used a little text book called Macmillan's Shorter Latin Course, which generations of schoolboys had transformed into Macmillan's Shorter Eating Course. Similarly, many years later, I taught from a textbook called The Fart of Poetry.
We stopped for a rest at the little village of Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois. There was no bar open, but we found a bakery which had decided to provide coffee for pilgrims, almost as a public service. There is a statue of Joan of Arc in the square in front of the church. She is supposed to have stopped in the village for a coffee on her way to war. Many towns in France make the same claim.
Tonight, after a lot of walking around the town looking for the Office de Tourisme, and then the lodging, we are staying at the municipal gite, an old stone hose half buried in a cliff, with a wood fire. Just as well, for it's going to be cold tonight.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 17. May 24, 2013. Sainte-Marie-de-Touraine to Dange-Saint-Romain
What a piece of work is a man!
We left the gite early and walked the couple of kilometres into town for croissants and coffee. Then we set out into a very cold wind, under blue skies for perhaps the very first time.
We walked for a while on minor roads through fields of barley, wheat and canola. I am noticing more and more poppies. They pop up in the wheat fields, and they thrive along the verge. In fact, they grow anywhere they like, even on the top of stone walls.
Then we headed off along a farm track into the woods. How dark and gloomy and ominous they were! No wonder they have been the setting for so many tales of magic and mystery!
Today, I witnessed Man in various manifestations.
We left the gite early and walked the couple of kilometres into town for croissants and coffee. Then we set out into a very cold wind, under blue skies for perhaps the very first time.
We walked for a while on minor roads through fields of barley, wheat and canola. I am noticing more and more poppies. They pop up in the wheat fields, and they thrive along the verge. In fact, they grow anywhere they like, even on the top of stone walls.
Then we headed off along a farm track into the woods. How dark and gloomy and ominous they were! No wonder they have been the setting for so many tales of magic and mystery!
Today, I witnessed Man in various manifestations.
Le dolmen de la pierre percee
First, in his prehistoric role. At the edge of the wood, overlooking a field, a menhir stood alone, le dolmen de la pierre percee. What did he represent? A tomb? A deity?
And the hole? An eye, or simply natural erosion?
When I come upon these standing stones, which are seen all over Europe, I am always struck by the contrast between their present and past existence. Today, they stand alone in silence, but for the wind in the trees. In the past, they would have been at the centre of some strange ceremony with chants and cries and shouts as perhaps some deity was being worshipped or some human, sacrificed.
What were they like, these ancestors of ours?
Nothing beside remains.
For much of the day, we walked close to the railway line where TGVs whizzed by every ten minutes or so. To get to the village of Maille, we passed under the line at the station where we saw a grim reminder of man's inhumanity to man. Fastened there, was a plaque commemorating the SNCF staff and their families who had lost their lives in the Massacre of Maille. In the Second World War, 124 of the 500 inhabitants of the village had been murdered by the Germans in reprisal for the actions of the Resistance.
At our next stop we came upon the little Romanesque church of la Celle-Saint-Avant, built by monks on the site of the hermitage of St. Avant, who gave his name to the village. This was a place of refuge for the poor who passed by.
And the hole? An eye, or simply natural erosion?
When I come upon these standing stones, which are seen all over Europe, I am always struck by the contrast between their present and past existence. Today, they stand alone in silence, but for the wind in the trees. In the past, they would have been at the centre of some strange ceremony with chants and cries and shouts as perhaps some deity was being worshipped or some human, sacrificed.
What were they like, these ancestors of ours?
Nothing beside remains.
For much of the day, we walked close to the railway line where TGVs whizzed by every ten minutes or so. To get to the village of Maille, we passed under the line at the station where we saw a grim reminder of man's inhumanity to man. Fastened there, was a plaque commemorating the SNCF staff and their families who had lost their lives in the Massacre of Maille. In the Second World War, 124 of the 500 inhabitants of the village had been murdered by the Germans in reprisal for the actions of the Resistance.
At our next stop we came upon the little Romanesque church of la Celle-Saint-Avant, built by monks on the site of the hermitage of St. Avant, who gave his name to the village. This was a place of refuge for the poor who passed by.
Romanesque chapel used as a farm shed
A little further on we saw an unfortunate example of utilitarianism. A little Romanesque chapel, which once must have been part of a grand estate, now belonged to a farm and was being used for storing farm equipment. And breeding rabbits!
It is common enough to see deconsecrated churches being put to practical use. All around us we see them functioning today as private houses, theatres, antique shops, and even bars and restaurants. In Dublin, an 18th century church where Handel played the organ is now a fashionable place to eat and drink. It is better to use the building for a secular purpose than have it replaced by a parking lot or fast food joint.
But this was a unique historic building, almost 1,000 years old! To be fair, it was in good shape, and perhaps the farmer and his forbears were well aware of their responsibility to take are of it. Every feudal estate would have had its chapel, and many of them would have been pillaged by the paysans for their stones.
It is common enough to see deconsecrated churches being put to practical use. All around us we see them functioning today as private houses, theatres, antique shops, and even bars and restaurants. In Dublin, an 18th century church where Handel played the organ is now a fashionable place to eat and drink. It is better to use the building for a secular purpose than have it replaced by a parking lot or fast food joint.
But this was a unique historic building, almost 1,000 years old! To be fair, it was in good shape, and perhaps the farmer and his forbears were well aware of their responsibility to take are of it. Every feudal estate would have had its chapel, and many of them would have been pillaged by the paysans for their stones.
Just outside the village of Celle-Saint-Avant, we stopped to eat our baguette and cheese at a picnic table overlooking a lake. I had thought that I was too late for daffodils, but there they were, big King Alfreds actually growing in the lake, perhaps held back in their growth by the cold water. Or were they yellow iris?
We finally reached Dange, having walked many more kilometres than we were supposed to. We had made a detour to avoid construction, but had to cross a chantier Interdit au public anyway. This time the mud was fairly dry.
Tonight we are in another municipal gite, but this one lacks the charm of last night's. It is big and cold, and we have every electric heater we can find going full blast to try and warm the place up.
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We finally reached Dange, having walked many more kilometres than we were supposed to. We had made a detour to avoid construction, but had to cross a chantier Interdit au public anyway. This time the mud was fairly dry.
Tonight we are in another municipal gite, but this one lacks the charm of last night's. It is big and cold, and we have every electric heater we can find going full blast to try and warm the place up.
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Day 18. May 25, 2013. Dange-Saint-Romain to Chatellerault
What's in a name, she says, and then she sighs
As we left the village, the bell in the church tower struck eight. It was overcast, and ominous, so I put on all my rain gear. That ensured that we stayed dry.
The audible scarecrows were in operation. One made me jump, as if someone had fired a shotgun just a few feet away. It sounded again about five minutes later, but by then I was well out of range. I wondered if they were timed to fire at regular intervals, or at random, lest the birds get to know the timing and think that they had four and a half minutes to scavenge.
Half way to Chatellerault we made a little detour into the village of Ingrandes for a pause cafe. It was there that we realized that we had forgotten to leave the key of the gite in the letter box at the mairie. Fortunately the person who had given us the key lived in Ingrandes, so we were able to leave it at their mairie to be picked up. After that little time consumer, it was full speed ahead to our destination, a campsite on the other side of town.
I wondered about the origins of the place names that we saw on the signs that we passed, directing strangers to the local farms. These names, which make no etymological sense, even to a Francophone, must date back to antiquity.
Some place names, of course, have obvious origins. They may be geographical like Le Puy, or corruptions of the original Roman name like Orleans or Lyon, or they may be named for something found in the area, like Ouistreham, or after a saint like so many of the towns that we have been passing through recently. Scholars can look at these names and explain their origin.
But it's the names of the rural places that are interesting, the names of hamlets and farms and places in the middle of nowhere that must defy explanation by the etymologist. They usually sound French, because they have been spoken by generations of the more recent inhabitants, but they don't mean anything. They probably go back to the tribes that Julius Caesar battled against in the Gallic Wars, and even further, and even then, their origins may have been unknown to the local people at that time. Perhaps they go back as far as the dolmen with the pierced stone. These place names are all that survive of a language and culture.
We are staying at a campsite in a little trailer home or bunkhouse with a room each, for a grand total of 7€. It is three kilometres on the south side of town. The manager had his little joke as we staggered in. "It's not here," he said. "It's six kilometres further on."
But three kilometres south of the town means three less to travel tomorrow on the long section from Chatellerault to Poitiers.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
As we left the village, the bell in the church tower struck eight. It was overcast, and ominous, so I put on all my rain gear. That ensured that we stayed dry.
The audible scarecrows were in operation. One made me jump, as if someone had fired a shotgun just a few feet away. It sounded again about five minutes later, but by then I was well out of range. I wondered if they were timed to fire at regular intervals, or at random, lest the birds get to know the timing and think that they had four and a half minutes to scavenge.
Half way to Chatellerault we made a little detour into the village of Ingrandes for a pause cafe. It was there that we realized that we had forgotten to leave the key of the gite in the letter box at the mairie. Fortunately the person who had given us the key lived in Ingrandes, so we were able to leave it at their mairie to be picked up. After that little time consumer, it was full speed ahead to our destination, a campsite on the other side of town.
I wondered about the origins of the place names that we saw on the signs that we passed, directing strangers to the local farms. These names, which make no etymological sense, even to a Francophone, must date back to antiquity.
Some place names, of course, have obvious origins. They may be geographical like Le Puy, or corruptions of the original Roman name like Orleans or Lyon, or they may be named for something found in the area, like Ouistreham, or after a saint like so many of the towns that we have been passing through recently. Scholars can look at these names and explain their origin.
But it's the names of the rural places that are interesting, the names of hamlets and farms and places in the middle of nowhere that must defy explanation by the etymologist. They usually sound French, because they have been spoken by generations of the more recent inhabitants, but they don't mean anything. They probably go back to the tribes that Julius Caesar battled against in the Gallic Wars, and even further, and even then, their origins may have been unknown to the local people at that time. Perhaps they go back as far as the dolmen with the pierced stone. These place names are all that survive of a language and culture.
We are staying at a campsite in a little trailer home or bunkhouse with a room each, for a grand total of 7€. It is three kilometres on the south side of town. The manager had his little joke as we staggered in. "It's not here," he said. "It's six kilometres further on."
But three kilometres south of the town means three less to travel tomorrow on the long section from Chatellerault to Poitiers.
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Day 19. May 26, 2013. Chatellerault to Poitiers
So all day long the noise of battle rolled
Today, we walked in the footsteps of the Romans, the Moors, and the medieval pilgrims.
We set out into a thick mist. It was cold. We had eaten breakfast in the caravan, and hoped to find coffee along the way.
The mist was lifting a little as we crossed the Vienne. A cuckoo called. Was it mocking our hopes of finding coffee at Cenon-sur Vienne? Indeed it was! The bar was closed.
We headed south on an old Roman road which had once linked Paris and Bordeaux. It would take us almost in a straight line to Poitiers.
Following the crests of the hills, much of the route had avoided being paved over, and survived today as a farm track. The ancient roads which linked the villages on rivers and in the valleys were the logical routes for the bitumen which followed, but some of the higher military roads which stretched in straight lines between the Roman camps had escaped this fate.
Part of the road was now on a bicycle circuit, and the cyclists were out in force on what was now a fine Sunday morning. The chariot ruts of the past had become bicycle treads which stretched from one side of the road to the other. But in places, the road had become a bog.
Today, we walked in the footsteps of the Romans, the Moors, and the medieval pilgrims.
We set out into a thick mist. It was cold. We had eaten breakfast in the caravan, and hoped to find coffee along the way.
The mist was lifting a little as we crossed the Vienne. A cuckoo called. Was it mocking our hopes of finding coffee at Cenon-sur Vienne? Indeed it was! The bar was closed.
We headed south on an old Roman road which had once linked Paris and Bordeaux. It would take us almost in a straight line to Poitiers.
Following the crests of the hills, much of the route had avoided being paved over, and survived today as a farm track. The ancient roads which linked the villages on rivers and in the valleys were the logical routes for the bitumen which followed, but some of the higher military roads which stretched in straight lines between the Roman camps had escaped this fate.
Part of the road was now on a bicycle circuit, and the cyclists were out in force on what was now a fine Sunday morning. The chariot ruts of the past had become bicycle treads which stretched from one side of the road to the other. But in places, the road had become a bog.
Soon we passed Vieux Poitiers, where a tower was all that remained of a Gallo-Roman theatre. Archeologists were excavating the rest.
We stopped for a snack at the site of the Battle of Poitiers, where Charles Martel had driven back the Moors in 732 AD. What a battle that must have been! A turning point in history.
Continuing, we followed the route they had taken. And later the medieval pilgrims.
How can we be sure which path the pilgrims had followed when so many modern roads now link the the towns where they had stayed? In this case we can be certain that they had taken the route we were now following, since it led directly from Chatellerault to Poitiers, important pilgrim centres.
Providence smiled. The via Romana had become a bitumen road, and we came upon a golf course, which I remembered from previous years would have a clubhouse with a bar for the members. We took pains to scrape the mud from our boots, and sat down with a coffee in comfortable chairs overlooking a lake.
We stopped for a snack at the site of the Battle of Poitiers, where Charles Martel had driven back the Moors in 732 AD. What a battle that must have been! A turning point in history.
Continuing, we followed the route they had taken. And later the medieval pilgrims.
How can we be sure which path the pilgrims had followed when so many modern roads now link the the towns where they had stayed? In this case we can be certain that they had taken the route we were now following, since it led directly from Chatellerault to Poitiers, important pilgrim centres.
Providence smiled. The via Romana had become a bitumen road, and we came upon a golf course, which I remembered from previous years would have a clubhouse with a bar for the members. We took pains to scrape the mud from our boots, and sat down with a coffee in comfortable chairs overlooking a lake.
We continued across the gentle hills, enjoying the sun. This was probably the first really fine day I had experienced since Paris. The temperature reached a high of only 15 degrees, but it was warm in the sun.
Cooler, though, as we passed through some woods on the approach to Poitiers.
After another five kilometres, we reached the centre of town only to find the Office de Tourisme was closed. We had hoped to be directed to some cheap digs. Instead, we are staying tonight at an Ibis hotel close to the centre of town.
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Cooler, though, as we passed through some woods on the approach to Poitiers.
After another five kilometres, we reached the centre of town only to find the Office de Tourisme was closed. We had hoped to be directed to some cheap digs. Instead, we are staying tonight at an Ibis hotel close to the centre of town.
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Day 20. May 27, 2013. Poitiers
When will we ever learn,
When will we ever learn?
Steven the Belgian, my good companion for the last four days, has gone on ahead. I wish him well.
I am sitting in a large square in front of the Hotel de Ville eating my croissants and drinking my morning coffee. Pigeons coo about my feet, looking for crumbs. People walk about in the rather feeble morning sunlight, entering and leaving the square by little crooked streets which wind off in every direction. A musician hurries by, one instrument in his hand, the other on his back. Cyclists crisscross. Someone wheels his baggage from a hotel.
A young man walks around the centre of the square, darting in this direction and that, gesticulating wildly, shouting at nothing, not even the people who pass by trying not to notice him. In fact, he is careful not to shout at anybody, only the empty air, and the pigeons, and perhaps his black dog who follows him uncertainly. I fear for the dog when he makes him jump up onto a concrete bench. Is he going to harangue him? But no, he gives the dog a hug. Poor fellow, I am glad he has a loyal companion, perhaps the only living creature who loves him. He walks off, leaving the square, the dog trotting beside, wagging his tail, and looking up expectantly. What will the day hold for them?
Most of us sit alone at the tables, relaxing, enjoying the sun, contemplating the day ahead of us. But the peace is strained a little by a monologue from a woman a few tables across. Four women sit together, but only one speaks. The rest nod. And I try not to breathe in the fumes from a nearby smoker. Trucks deliver bottles and kegs with a clatter and a clang. Despite these minor inconveniences, I am content. Le bonheure est maintenant!
Like so many other cities in France, the central area has been closed off to all but service vehicles and the occasional bus, which get in and out by somehow making a barrier of bollards fall and rise as they pass over them. The square is huge, a sign of the south perhaps, where people spend more of their life outside, eating, drinking, and talking.
What an enlightened policy it is to give city streets back to the people!
When will we ever learn?
Steven the Belgian, my good companion for the last four days, has gone on ahead. I wish him well.
I am sitting in a large square in front of the Hotel de Ville eating my croissants and drinking my morning coffee. Pigeons coo about my feet, looking for crumbs. People walk about in the rather feeble morning sunlight, entering and leaving the square by little crooked streets which wind off in every direction. A musician hurries by, one instrument in his hand, the other on his back. Cyclists crisscross. Someone wheels his baggage from a hotel.
A young man walks around the centre of the square, darting in this direction and that, gesticulating wildly, shouting at nothing, not even the people who pass by trying not to notice him. In fact, he is careful not to shout at anybody, only the empty air, and the pigeons, and perhaps his black dog who follows him uncertainly. I fear for the dog when he makes him jump up onto a concrete bench. Is he going to harangue him? But no, he gives the dog a hug. Poor fellow, I am glad he has a loyal companion, perhaps the only living creature who loves him. He walks off, leaving the square, the dog trotting beside, wagging his tail, and looking up expectantly. What will the day hold for them?
Most of us sit alone at the tables, relaxing, enjoying the sun, contemplating the day ahead of us. But the peace is strained a little by a monologue from a woman a few tables across. Four women sit together, but only one speaks. The rest nod. And I try not to breathe in the fumes from a nearby smoker. Trucks deliver bottles and kegs with a clatter and a clang. Despite these minor inconveniences, I am content. Le bonheure est maintenant!
Like so many other cities in France, the central area has been closed off to all but service vehicles and the occasional bus, which get in and out by somehow making a barrier of bollards fall and rise as they pass over them. The square is huge, a sign of the south perhaps, where people spend more of their life outside, eating, drinking, and talking.
What an enlightened policy it is to give city streets back to the people!
La Baptistere Saint-Jean
I have spent the day in this wonderful town of Poitiers, strolling around, just soaking up the atmosphere. I have only had time to see a little of what there is to see.
I shouldn't say this, but to me, the cathedral seemed a big barn of a building, too wide for its own good, each of the side aisles being the width of the nave of a smaller cathedral. More impressive is the Romanesque church Notre Dame la Grande with its sober decorations in the nave. It was even more memorable for me for the beer I enjoyed afterwards on a terrace behind the choir. This is the France that I love.
I shouldn't say this, but to me, the cathedral seemed a big barn of a building, too wide for its own good, each of the side aisles being the width of the nave of a smaller cathedral. More impressive is the Romanesque church Notre Dame la Grande with its sober decorations in the nave. It was even more memorable for me for the beer I enjoyed afterwards on a terrace behind the choir. This is the France that I love.
Mural in the side chapel of la Baptistere Saint-Jean
The real treasure of Poitiers is the Baptistere Saint-Jean. Its baptismal pool, dating from the 5th century, was a witness to the first Christians in Europe. The rest of the building was restored in the 12th and 13th centuries. The painting on the mural of the side chapel also dates from this period.
When I asked a young woman where the cathedral was, she said, "Which one?" To me, this was a manifestation not of a secular France, but a new indifference towards and ignorance of la patrimoine, the heritage. No one would have given me that answer a generation ago.
Tonight, I am staying in perhaps the quaintest hotel I have ever stayed in, truly a lodging d'autrefois. I am on the third floor, of course, that's why it's so cheap (35€),and I reach it by climbing first to one floor, then the next, each time walking down a corridor to find the next flight of stairs. There is no rhyme or reason to the arrangement of rooms. Little clusters at the same level have their own staircase. Perhaps because I am a pilgrim, I am staying in the room known as Angelique, but I could have been put in Absinthe, Aneth, Aubepine, Basilic, or had I paid a little more, Bergamot, Cannelle, Camomile, Capucine, Citronelle, Eglantine, Fenouil, Giroflee, Guimauve, Marjolaine, Mascade, Melon, Pavot, Pistache, Primevere, Rose, Valeriane, or Vanille. The price increased as the alphabet progressed.
The first shall be last.
Click here to continue.
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When I asked a young woman where the cathedral was, she said, "Which one?" To me, this was a manifestation not of a secular France, but a new indifference towards and ignorance of la patrimoine, the heritage. No one would have given me that answer a generation ago.
Tonight, I am staying in perhaps the quaintest hotel I have ever stayed in, truly a lodging d'autrefois. I am on the third floor, of course, that's why it's so cheap (35€),and I reach it by climbing first to one floor, then the next, each time walking down a corridor to find the next flight of stairs. There is no rhyme or reason to the arrangement of rooms. Little clusters at the same level have their own staircase. Perhaps because I am a pilgrim, I am staying in the room known as Angelique, but I could have been put in Absinthe, Aneth, Aubepine, Basilic, or had I paid a little more, Bergamot, Cannelle, Camomile, Capucine, Citronelle, Eglantine, Fenouil, Giroflee, Guimauve, Marjolaine, Mascade, Melon, Pavot, Pistache, Primevere, Rose, Valeriane, or Vanille. The price increased as the alphabet progressed.
The first shall be last.
Click here to continue.
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