Vezelay. May 29, 2012
The cathedral at Vezelay
Chicken or beef?
I like flying to Europe, into the night. Some people find long flights boring. Not me. I enjoy the food, the wine, and the reading and relaxation that follow.
Of course the service used to be much better. The wine would flow freely in the old days, and be followed by the post-prandial brandy. Now you have to ask for it. "Well, I'll have to go and see," she says, and just when you've given up hope, she returns with a little bottle hidden in the palm of her hand lest someone else see and want one too. I don't dare to ask for a second.
Once, on this very same flight, AC 870 Montreal to Paris, I was upgraded to business class. Champagne for starters, and then white wine with the fish, red with the meat, and not your usual plonk either, but a nice Aussie Shiraz, port, a Scotch or two, and then the plane landed. I didn't even have time to snooze in the comfortable recliner.
In Winnipeg, I jettisoned the iPad I was intending to take. It was just too heavy, so I'm tapping this out on my iPhone with one finger.
This morning, I took the RER from the airport, picked up a mobile phone at a Boutique Orange, and then caught a train from Gare de Bercy to Sermizelle-Vezelay. From there I was hoping to get a taxi for the 10 Ks into the cathedral town, but no such luck. I had to walk.
Imagine a 10 km hike around Elk and Beaver Lake ending in a climb up Mt. Doug. That's what it was like. And it was hot! And now my passport is soaked with sweat and I'm drying it out.
But I'm here now, and I have somewhere to stay, and I'm enjoying a leisurely beer.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
I like flying to Europe, into the night. Some people find long flights boring. Not me. I enjoy the food, the wine, and the reading and relaxation that follow.
Of course the service used to be much better. The wine would flow freely in the old days, and be followed by the post-prandial brandy. Now you have to ask for it. "Well, I'll have to go and see," she says, and just when you've given up hope, she returns with a little bottle hidden in the palm of her hand lest someone else see and want one too. I don't dare to ask for a second.
Once, on this very same flight, AC 870 Montreal to Paris, I was upgraded to business class. Champagne for starters, and then white wine with the fish, red with the meat, and not your usual plonk either, but a nice Aussie Shiraz, port, a Scotch or two, and then the plane landed. I didn't even have time to snooze in the comfortable recliner.
In Winnipeg, I jettisoned the iPad I was intending to take. It was just too heavy, so I'm tapping this out on my iPhone with one finger.
This morning, I took the RER from the airport, picked up a mobile phone at a Boutique Orange, and then caught a train from Gare de Bercy to Sermizelle-Vezelay. From there I was hoping to get a taxi for the 10 Ks into the cathedral town, but no such luck. I had to walk.
Imagine a 10 km hike around Elk and Beaver Lake ending in a climb up Mt. Doug. That's what it was like. And it was hot! And now my passport is soaked with sweat and I'm drying it out.
But I'm here now, and I have somewhere to stay, and I'm enjoying a leisurely beer.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 1. May 30, 2012. Vezelay to Breves (c. 30km)
Ubiquitous poppies
Many a true word spoken in jest
I must have walked a good 30 kms today, unhappily to advance only 14.2. I won't even go into details, beyond saying that my Flemish companion, Patrick, suggested jokingly that perhaps we were walking around in circles, and when we saw the cathedral in front of us after three hours of walking, we realised that we were.
We were the only pilgrims setting out today, and we attended the pilgrims' benediction in the cathedral this morning as the two religious communities sang Lauds. It was quite beautifully sung and at the end they called us up to stand between them for the blessing. Very impressive! Shame if it's all a load of old cods!
Patrick has the right attitude for the Camimo, finding everything amusing, even getting lost. He is something of an exception, he says, for Belgians aren't exactly known for their sense of humour.
Tonight we are staying at a typically European campsite in a field by a river. There are half a dozen tents or caravans scattered around us. People are sitting in their plastic chairs enjoying the sunshine while their kids ignore the half-hearted attempt at a playground and potter down by the river or climb trees. We are sleeping in what is euphemistically called a bungalow, but it's actually a kind of plastic tent on a square frame. It'll do the job. The weather is changing and It's about to rain.
Here's one to add to my collection of English translations by French people who think they know English well enough not to need a native speaker to check it out before they post it on their washroom wall:
By measurement og hygiene it is interdict to empty chamber-pots into the wash-hand basins.
Lots of flowers along the way. Some iris are still out, bluebells and buttercups abound along the verge, and poppies are thick in some of the fields.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
I must have walked a good 30 kms today, unhappily to advance only 14.2. I won't even go into details, beyond saying that my Flemish companion, Patrick, suggested jokingly that perhaps we were walking around in circles, and when we saw the cathedral in front of us after three hours of walking, we realised that we were.
We were the only pilgrims setting out today, and we attended the pilgrims' benediction in the cathedral this morning as the two religious communities sang Lauds. It was quite beautifully sung and at the end they called us up to stand between them for the blessing. Very impressive! Shame if it's all a load of old cods!
Patrick has the right attitude for the Camimo, finding everything amusing, even getting lost. He is something of an exception, he says, for Belgians aren't exactly known for their sense of humour.
Tonight we are staying at a typically European campsite in a field by a river. There are half a dozen tents or caravans scattered around us. People are sitting in their plastic chairs enjoying the sunshine while their kids ignore the half-hearted attempt at a playground and potter down by the river or climb trees. We are sleeping in what is euphemistically called a bungalow, but it's actually a kind of plastic tent on a square frame. It'll do the job. The weather is changing and It's about to rain.
Here's one to add to my collection of English translations by French people who think they know English well enough not to need a native speaker to check it out before they post it on their washroom wall:
By measurement og hygiene it is interdict to empty chamber-pots into the wash-hand basins.
Lots of flowers along the way. Some iris are still out, bluebells and buttercups abound along the verge, and poppies are thick in some of the fields.
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Day 2. May 31, 2012. Breves to Varzy (23 kms)
Dwarf wheat
There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio.
Patrick's girlfriend is writing a book on twin souls, who are apparently like soul mates, but with a spiritual, almost telepathic, connection. They can feel each other's pain, and he told me how, when he was ill in South America, she, at home in Belgium, suffered with him. And vice versa. If any of you out there have an inexplicable pain in your legs easing into a sense of euphoria as if you were drinking un bon petit vin de pays, then perhaps you are my twin soul.
But I shouldn't be facetious. Certain people may indeed experience this phenomenon. I would like to read her book.
We had a bit of a storm last night, and this morning the weather was fine again. Not so hot as yesterday. Good walking weather. We walked about half the time on minor roads, the rest on trails through the woods or across the fields.
Walking through the fields,I noticed that the wheat was barely two feet high, and I thought about the book Wheat Belly by Dr. Davis, and his contention that today's wheat has been bred to be so high-yielding that the stalks have to be much shorter to carry the extra weight of grain. Gone are the fields of waving wheat celebrated in song, or the ones I remember years ago in the West Australian wheat belt.
After reading this book and his claim that modern wheat is not what it used to be and contains all kind of harmful products, I went off wheat and lost about seven pounds. In France, of course, I have had to abandon this regimen. How could I survive here without eating bread?
I'm feeling quite fit, due to our Friday rambles and almost daily climbs up Mt. Doug. Thanks, Juliet and Paul.
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Patrick's girlfriend is writing a book on twin souls, who are apparently like soul mates, but with a spiritual, almost telepathic, connection. They can feel each other's pain, and he told me how, when he was ill in South America, she, at home in Belgium, suffered with him. And vice versa. If any of you out there have an inexplicable pain in your legs easing into a sense of euphoria as if you were drinking un bon petit vin de pays, then perhaps you are my twin soul.
But I shouldn't be facetious. Certain people may indeed experience this phenomenon. I would like to read her book.
We had a bit of a storm last night, and this morning the weather was fine again. Not so hot as yesterday. Good walking weather. We walked about half the time on minor roads, the rest on trails through the woods or across the fields.
Walking through the fields,I noticed that the wheat was barely two feet high, and I thought about the book Wheat Belly by Dr. Davis, and his contention that today's wheat has been bred to be so high-yielding that the stalks have to be much shorter to carry the extra weight of grain. Gone are the fields of waving wheat celebrated in song, or the ones I remember years ago in the West Australian wheat belt.
After reading this book and his claim that modern wheat is not what it used to be and contains all kind of harmful products, I went off wheat and lost about seven pounds. In France, of course, I have had to abandon this regimen. How could I survive here without eating bread?
I'm feeling quite fit, due to our Friday rambles and almost daily climbs up Mt. Doug. Thanks, Juliet and Paul.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 3. June 1, 2012. Varzy to Chateauneuf-Val-de Bargy
In the woods
Two roads diverged in the woods...
I took the one less travelled by.
I've been doing a lot of walking in the woods in the past three days, and not through your depressing pine plantations either, but real "English" deciduous woods of beech and birch with the sunlight filtering down and reflecting on the leaves. (See the photo.) And more often than not I've been taking the road less travelled by, sometimes walking along trails overgrown with grass and climbing over fallen trees that block the way. In three days I have not met another walker (apart from Patrick), neither pilgrim nor rambler.
On the first day, at a place where two roads met, we took the one more travelled by, thinking that it was the logical choice. And that made all the difference! We walked 15 kms out of our way. Now had my GPS been working....
Here beginneth a rant against Ma Bell.
Apart from allowing me to vent my spleen, it may prove instructive to anyone else thinking of using their phone overseas.
Because this a lonely route and not always well marked, I decided to use the GPS on my iPhone. I bought an overseas data package - 50 megabytes for $125. Bloody expensive, I know, but better than using the phone without one and ending up with a bill for $35,000 like the woman from BC.
Anyway, I arrived in France and the phone didn't work. To cut a long story short, my dear wife, Marcelline, phoned Bell, only to be told that I must call them, collect, from France. It turned out that someone at Bell had forgotten to turn a switch to set up my service. The cost to Marcelline? Several hours of wasted time on the phone with Bell, and much frustration. To me? Even more frustration from spending many hours trying to get the phone to work, losing most of the credit on my French cell phone because the "collect" option didn't arise, and walking around in circles for 15 kilometres. But my iPhone is working now, and I'm using it sparingly for its GPS. There, I've vented, and can let it go.
But the thing to remember if you are setting up a package to use your Canadian phone abroad? Make sure they take off the International restriction on your phone.
Some French villages have a sparkle about them. Varzy didn't, where we spent last night, and nor has Chateauneuf (not du Pape) where we are staying tonight. The region is quite depressed, I think, with businesses closing down and the young having to move to find jobs. The prices of houses are ridiculously low with a nice bungalow selling for 100,000, and fixer-uppers for as low as 19,000 euros. That's a good indication of the state of the local economy.
Yesterday was my birthday. Thanks to all those who sent birthday greetings and sundry best wishes. To celebrate, I had a beer with my walking companion, Patrick.
I suppose that there is some satisfaction in having exceeded one's Biblically allotted span.
Now of my threescore years and ten,
Seventy one will not come again.
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I took the one less travelled by.
I've been doing a lot of walking in the woods in the past three days, and not through your depressing pine plantations either, but real "English" deciduous woods of beech and birch with the sunlight filtering down and reflecting on the leaves. (See the photo.) And more often than not I've been taking the road less travelled by, sometimes walking along trails overgrown with grass and climbing over fallen trees that block the way. In three days I have not met another walker (apart from Patrick), neither pilgrim nor rambler.
On the first day, at a place where two roads met, we took the one more travelled by, thinking that it was the logical choice. And that made all the difference! We walked 15 kms out of our way. Now had my GPS been working....
Here beginneth a rant against Ma Bell.
Apart from allowing me to vent my spleen, it may prove instructive to anyone else thinking of using their phone overseas.
Because this a lonely route and not always well marked, I decided to use the GPS on my iPhone. I bought an overseas data package - 50 megabytes for $125. Bloody expensive, I know, but better than using the phone without one and ending up with a bill for $35,000 like the woman from BC.
Anyway, I arrived in France and the phone didn't work. To cut a long story short, my dear wife, Marcelline, phoned Bell, only to be told that I must call them, collect, from France. It turned out that someone at Bell had forgotten to turn a switch to set up my service. The cost to Marcelline? Several hours of wasted time on the phone with Bell, and much frustration. To me? Even more frustration from spending many hours trying to get the phone to work, losing most of the credit on my French cell phone because the "collect" option didn't arise, and walking around in circles for 15 kilometres. But my iPhone is working now, and I'm using it sparingly for its GPS. There, I've vented, and can let it go.
But the thing to remember if you are setting up a package to use your Canadian phone abroad? Make sure they take off the International restriction on your phone.
Some French villages have a sparkle about them. Varzy didn't, where we spent last night, and nor has Chateauneuf (not du Pape) where we are staying tonight. The region is quite depressed, I think, with businesses closing down and the young having to move to find jobs. The prices of houses are ridiculously low with a nice bungalow selling for 100,000, and fixer-uppers for as low as 19,000 euros. That's a good indication of the state of the local economy.
Yesterday was my birthday. Thanks to all those who sent birthday greetings and sundry best wishes. To celebrate, I had a beer with my walking companion, Patrick.
I suppose that there is some satisfaction in having exceeded one's Biblically allotted span.
Now of my threescore years and ten,
Seventy one will not come again.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 4. June 2, 2012. Chateauneuf-Val-de-Barzy to La Charite-sur-Loire
The bridge across the Loire at La Charite
If you go out in the woods today,
You're in for a big surprise.
We spent much of the day in the woods again in almost unbelievable peace and tranquility. We walked through all kinds of trees from scrubby poplars to stands of mighty oak that would once have furnished the French navy with masts. Not a soul to be seen nor a car to be heard! We noticed in the guest book at the gite that the last person passed this way three days ago.
We forget that in densely populated Europe there are vast areas of wilderness. Most people live in cities. I remember once walking along the Pennines without seeing a soul all day and thinking that a few miles away on either side were the industrial cities of Yorkshire and Lancashire.
And the surprise? Arriving at a little village to find a bar open where we could get a coffee. "Nay, Chas," Patrick had said, "There won't be anything open here." But, there was! And the name of the village? Chasnay. Amused by this fortuitous play on words, I then noticed that the bar was called LE CHASNE. "Is this a pun on the name of the village?" I wondered. "No, look inside," said Patrick. The walls were covered with hunting trophies. "It's a play on 'la chasse'." Intrigued, I asked the person behind the bar, "Le nom de votre bar, c'est un jeu de mots avec le nom de vote village ou la chasse?" "Neither, " she said, it's the name of the former owner." Ah, I thought, a quadruple coincidence. There's a moral here somewhere.
Today we are following the GR (Grande Randonee) and not our pilgrims' route. I should explain that there are two routes: the GR, also called La Voie de Compostelle, and La Voie de Compostelle which supposedly follows more directly the pilgrims' path. I'm following the latter because the distance to Saint-Jean-Pierre-de-Port is 900 kms rather than more than 1,000 by the GR, but last night on the toss of a coin we detoured three kms to Chateauneuf (on the GR) where we knew there was a restaurant.
In the afternoon, we came out of the woods into the heat of the sun. It was 29 degrees. We walked through the fields into La Charite-sur-Loire. We are staying tonight at another municipal gite.
I walked down to the bank of the river. We are well upstream from chateau country, but the river is still very wide, unlike the little stream that I crossed near its source on the Chemin de Stevenson some years ago. We are now eating outside at a restaurant as night falls.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
You're in for a big surprise.
We spent much of the day in the woods again in almost unbelievable peace and tranquility. We walked through all kinds of trees from scrubby poplars to stands of mighty oak that would once have furnished the French navy with masts. Not a soul to be seen nor a car to be heard! We noticed in the guest book at the gite that the last person passed this way three days ago.
We forget that in densely populated Europe there are vast areas of wilderness. Most people live in cities. I remember once walking along the Pennines without seeing a soul all day and thinking that a few miles away on either side were the industrial cities of Yorkshire and Lancashire.
And the surprise? Arriving at a little village to find a bar open where we could get a coffee. "Nay, Chas," Patrick had said, "There won't be anything open here." But, there was! And the name of the village? Chasnay. Amused by this fortuitous play on words, I then noticed that the bar was called LE CHASNE. "Is this a pun on the name of the village?" I wondered. "No, look inside," said Patrick. The walls were covered with hunting trophies. "It's a play on 'la chasse'." Intrigued, I asked the person behind the bar, "Le nom de votre bar, c'est un jeu de mots avec le nom de vote village ou la chasse?" "Neither, " she said, it's the name of the former owner." Ah, I thought, a quadruple coincidence. There's a moral here somewhere.
Today we are following the GR (Grande Randonee) and not our pilgrims' route. I should explain that there are two routes: the GR, also called La Voie de Compostelle, and La Voie de Compostelle which supposedly follows more directly the pilgrims' path. I'm following the latter because the distance to Saint-Jean-Pierre-de-Port is 900 kms rather than more than 1,000 by the GR, but last night on the toss of a coin we detoured three kms to Chateauneuf (on the GR) where we knew there was a restaurant.
In the afternoon, we came out of the woods into the heat of the sun. It was 29 degrees. We walked through the fields into La Charite-sur-Loire. We are staying tonight at another municipal gite.
I walked down to the bank of the river. We are well upstream from chateau country, but the river is still very wide, unlike the little stream that I crossed near its source on the Chemin de Stevenson some years ago. We are now eating outside at a restaurant as night falls.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 5. June 3, 2012. La Charite to Baugy
Bring back your bike!
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
It was a dark and stormy night, and still raining a gentle drizzle this morning as we left the town of La Charite. We walked along the road for most of the day rather than push through wet, long grass.
I first came upon the line from The Merchant of Venice in my mum's old poetry book, The Harp of Youth, which she had used at Miss Parnell's School for Girls almost a hundred years ago. I still have it and read it. All the great speeches are there.
The quality of mercy is not strained
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players
To be or not to be, that is the question
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears
Once more unto the breech, dear friends, once more
And as I walked along the road this morning, I found myself marching to the rhythm of other great, rolling iambic lines from The Harp of Youth.
Now Hector braced his dazzling armour on
And all day long the noise of battle rolled
When I consider how my life is spent
The world is too much with us, late and soon
Now my mother didn't thrust this anthology upon me; I just picked it up for something to read. But I attribute my love of poetry, or poetry in which the beauty is in the sound of the words, to that book.
As the old order changeth, I rail against many things, but none so much as the folly of an education establishment which no longer believes in exposing children to Shakespeare and the other great works of poetry which may give meaning and pleasure in later life.
The rain was probably a blessing, for our bodies had taken a beating from the sun during the past four days. Thus, I was now "twice blessed".
We stopped for lunch in a playground shelter in the little village of Couy, and again I thought of my mum who would shout "Cooee" across the back fence to summon her friend Thelma.
In the afternoon, I took a picture of a bicycle wedged into a hedge, with a flower basket mounted on its carrier. That's an old bike put to good use, I thought. "Good thing the Germans didn't come along here," said Patrick. It seems that in Belgium during the war the Germans stole many bicycles, and even today, when a Belgian is going to Germany, someone will say, "Bring back your bike!"
Later, a feeble ray of sunlight struggled down between the clouds, so we decided to leave the road and follow the trail into the fields. The woods are behind us now, and we are walking through gently undulating fields of grain - canola, oats, barley, and, of course, dwarf wheat.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
It was a dark and stormy night, and still raining a gentle drizzle this morning as we left the town of La Charite. We walked along the road for most of the day rather than push through wet, long grass.
I first came upon the line from The Merchant of Venice in my mum's old poetry book, The Harp of Youth, which she had used at Miss Parnell's School for Girls almost a hundred years ago. I still have it and read it. All the great speeches are there.
The quality of mercy is not strained
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players
To be or not to be, that is the question
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears
Once more unto the breech, dear friends, once more
And as I walked along the road this morning, I found myself marching to the rhythm of other great, rolling iambic lines from The Harp of Youth.
Now Hector braced his dazzling armour on
And all day long the noise of battle rolled
When I consider how my life is spent
The world is too much with us, late and soon
Now my mother didn't thrust this anthology upon me; I just picked it up for something to read. But I attribute my love of poetry, or poetry in which the beauty is in the sound of the words, to that book.
As the old order changeth, I rail against many things, but none so much as the folly of an education establishment which no longer believes in exposing children to Shakespeare and the other great works of poetry which may give meaning and pleasure in later life.
The rain was probably a blessing, for our bodies had taken a beating from the sun during the past four days. Thus, I was now "twice blessed".
We stopped for lunch in a playground shelter in the little village of Couy, and again I thought of my mum who would shout "Cooee" across the back fence to summon her friend Thelma.
In the afternoon, I took a picture of a bicycle wedged into a hedge, with a flower basket mounted on its carrier. That's an old bike put to good use, I thought. "Good thing the Germans didn't come along here," said Patrick. It seems that in Belgium during the war the Germans stole many bicycles, and even today, when a Belgian is going to Germany, someone will say, "Bring back your bike!"
Later, a feeble ray of sunlight struggled down between the clouds, so we decided to leave the road and follow the trail into the fields. The woods are behind us now, and we are walking through gently undulating fields of grain - canola, oats, barley, and, of course, dwarf wheat.
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Day 6. June 4, 2012. Baugy to Bourges (29 kms)
La cathédrale de Bourges
Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag,
And smile, smile, smile
We have fallen into a routine. We get up, buy a baguette, have breakfast, pack up, start walking, have lunch, arrive at a gite, have a shower, wash our stuff, find somewhere to eat, go to bed, get up, have breakfast, pack up...
Patrick is always launching into "It's a long way to Tipperary" without warning. Apparently, his parents had a record of Vera Lyn singing old war songs.
We set out this morning into a cold wind. The wild oats along the side of the road were bending almost horizontally towards us. The wind kept spinning the map that hangs around my neck into a hundred twists until it strangled and tangled with the cords of my glasses and Tilley hat. As always, when we arrived at the first village, we hoped for a bar open. No luck. At the second, yes, but the coffee was lousy. Then we had lunch in a bus shelter. Sixteen kilometres to go. It rained a little, on and off. On with the pack cover and rain jacket and off again. We trudged on.
We arrived in Bourges at five o'clock, our longest day yet. We ended up in a youth hostel a few hours later. It's often harder to find a place to sleep in a big town than a small village.
The cathedral at Bourges is the largest I have ever seen.
Click here to follow the next section of the journey
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And smile, smile, smile
We have fallen into a routine. We get up, buy a baguette, have breakfast, pack up, start walking, have lunch, arrive at a gite, have a shower, wash our stuff, find somewhere to eat, go to bed, get up, have breakfast, pack up...
Patrick is always launching into "It's a long way to Tipperary" without warning. Apparently, his parents had a record of Vera Lyn singing old war songs.
We set out this morning into a cold wind. The wild oats along the side of the road were bending almost horizontally towards us. The wind kept spinning the map that hangs around my neck into a hundred twists until it strangled and tangled with the cords of my glasses and Tilley hat. As always, when we arrived at the first village, we hoped for a bar open. No luck. At the second, yes, but the coffee was lousy. Then we had lunch in a bus shelter. Sixteen kilometres to go. It rained a little, on and off. On with the pack cover and rain jacket and off again. We trudged on.
We arrived in Bourges at five o'clock, our longest day yet. We ended up in a youth hostel a few hours later. It's often harder to find a place to sleep in a big town than a small village.
The cathedral at Bourges is the largest I have ever seen.
Click here to follow the next section of the journey
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