http://www.charlietocompostela.co.uk/
I would like to have climbed a Himalayan mountain, hunted with the Beaufort, scuba-dived in the Red Sea or flown a light aircraft around the world. These unfulfilled ambitions of mine, although not totally impossible to achieve in later life are not practical considerations for reasons of physical fitness or financial cost.
There is one thing however that I can do that will not only provide the ultimate in personal fulfilment, but can be a means to help others less fortunate than me.
On March 22nd 2001 I set out alone and unsupported by vehicles on foot on a 1,000 mile pilgrimage from Le Puy in Central France to Santiago de Compostela in North West Spain.
HOW CAN YOU HELP ?
Quite simply I would like you to pledge me a sum of money per mile that I achieve. For instance if you pledge me one single penny per mile I cover you will be asked by me upon my return to England to send a cheque for £10.00 payable to either of the charities I have chosen. If you pledge £1.00 per mile, then the amount called for would be £1,000.00
You can pledge in two ways. Either complete the online form and submit it, or print out and fax the completed form.
If I fail to achieve my ambition of reaching Santiago de Compostela your pledge will be called for the appropriate number of miles.It is my intention to cover the 1,000 miles from Le Puy to Santiago in 100 days arriving towards the end of June 2001.
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Charles Ranald
Charlie to Compostela
West House
Itchen Stoke
Hampshire
SO24 0QZ
Tel: 01962 779327
e-Mail:gasjl@hotmail.com
Le Puy en Velay in France has been a famous starting point for the 1000 mile pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella for more that 1000 years and at one time it is reputed to have taken 500,000 pilgrims along its famous chemin each year. Arriving at Le Puy by car from the north is a dramatic spectacle. Suddenly before the unsuspecting traveller is a 200 degree vista resembling a verdant green moonscape dotted with conical mountains. These are the Volcanoes of old and add to the two other claims to fame in this bustling town of 29,000 souls. Lace making and green lentils. Made famous by trendy British restaurants the Lentils du Puy come from here.
Like any other place a restaurant can be a joy or a trial to put up with. We got the second option as the mincing waiter did us the favour of slapping everything down on the table as he pushed his way passed the courteous diners. Next evening at "La Pierre" we were treated like Long lost friends and promised to make an early return.
Wednesday's visit to the Maison St Francois for the traditional stamping of the pilgrim's passport gave a foretaste of the less charming attitude of French servants of religion. If a Quince could look more sour on a bad day that was the expression on the faces of the two sallow faced fonctionaires greeting would be pilgrims of whom there appeared to be none. I asked one to smile for me, but his response was but un-printable.
Above the austere and gloomy, Cathedrale Notre Dame there is giant 16 metres high statue Of the virgin and child. Sited atop one of Le Puy's rock pinnacles it is sufficiently big to permit visitors to climb the interior right up to the virgin's crown. The Cathedrale itself has a black Madonna and Child standing above the high altar. Her colour has no African connotations, but supposedly reflects hard out door labour in the sun by Her worshipers.
A 9 o'clock mass in the Cathedral chapel was hastened along at a cracking pace. But there was not a single other pilgrim to be seen. A charismatic English vicar who walked this route himself in 2000 warned me that loneliness for the French 500 miles might well be a pain to bare. After a tearful farewell from my family At the traditional "Place du Plot" I set off to ascend the near 300 metres to my first resting place, just 8 km away. Sure enough the Camino is beautifully waymarked for this early part of the route, but despite the superb walking weather, it was frequently a relief to see and touch the next waymark. More damage can be done by over enthusiasm on an un-trained physique in the first week, than at any other stage. Hence a steady, build up to the average 20km per day is strongly advised.
There is no cellular coverage here at Saint Privat d'allier. A taste of countryside hospitality at saint Christophe-sur-Dolaison. Supper with farmer and his family was simple but plentiful even though I probably drank their wine ration as well. Trying, to be a genuine pilgrim I am all too ready to finish the bottle, particularly if its' a lowish alcohol (12 degrees) VDQS.
Friday 23rd march. Set off in glorious weather for a four and a half hour schlep to Saint Privat. Had it not been for the perfect temperature and walking conditions accompanied almost throughout by skylarks (why do they sing so beautifully whilst they climb for no apparent reason?) I could easily have had second thoughts about the enormity of the whole thing. As it is I am seriously concerned that 10 miles per day is a hefty target considering the severity of the terrain. Once again there was a 300 metre climb and descent to cope with. A travelling shop just happened to be parked at a turning point in Montbonnet and I was able to buy a cheese, ham and mushroom pastry for my lunch, a trusty packet of childhood favourite "Vache qui Rit" and lo and behold there was a kit cat waiting for me. St Jacques appears in many guises. Gites Etapes - the French equivalent of a Youth Hostel are empty at this time of year, so having looked at the newly opened one here, I decided that despite its cleanliness the local hotel was almost as cheap and certainly more lively. and I can have the, privilege of a single room with shower. There'll be enough privation on the chemin in the months to come.
Little did I reckon yesterday what would be in store for me today. After a healthy but arduous 14 km walk from Saint Christophe-Sur-Dolaison I found St Privat d'Alier to be a reasonable resting place. The village gite although clean and new was like a morgue. Not a pilgrim in sight and indeed after three days it seems the whole pilgrimage is an illusion.
It was no illusion when I attacked the 17.5km flog from St Privat to Sauges. So steep are the slopes on either side of the gorge d'Alier that when descending in a few places I actually had wriggle my way down on my bottom. A missed turning cost me half an hour, to be followed by a 450 metre climb so steep that steps are cut into the path and an iron handrail provided.
The beast of Gevaudon is much talked about in these parts. This ghastly monster wolf devoured 120 people between 1764 and 1767. At two places I saw memorials to the dreaded creature and make no apologies for having been relieved to have seen them only as I approached Sauges at the end of a seven hour trek.
With limbs swollen and aching it did me good to learn that Sauges is known as the quitting place for many would be pilgrims. No gite for me tonight, but a 2 star hotel with running hot and cold and sprung interiors. They say that today's etape (leg) s the hardest in the French part of the route. Let's hope they aren't going to send me back through wolf infested country.
After the stress of Saturday's (24th March) assault course and forced march the promise of a good dinner at a pretentious ** hotel beckoned. The difference between a one or two star hotel is a matter of honesty. The previous day in a one star, the room was bigger and enjoyed a view. The breakfast was compris and far more generous. In the two star joint the dining room was squeaky clean, but Madame's shoes squeaked too as she ceremoniously served a piece of slightly stale brown bread with metal tongs. On the two star menu at 125Fr., only one item of the starters did not demand a supplement and the same applied to entrees. In a nearly empty salon I suddenly found myself seated to a primitive looking couple who immediately started to role their own cigarettes
Three days of balmy weather was too good to last. So with a temperature drop from near 20 C down to 7 C the rain came too. Exactly as expected the light-weight poncho coverall is impossible to put on single handed. Water gets in everywhere as the wretched garment flaps about like an uncontrollable spinnaker.
Being out of human earshot by many miles I got the chance to try out the English pilgrim's favourite - HE WHO WOULD VALIANT BE. At my prep school we took it in turns to play the harmonium for evening prayers. It was the same sort of wheezy box that Harold Wilson was seen removing from Number 10 to be replaced by the elegance of Ted Heath's grand piano. My one and only contribution to the school boy congregation was that very hymn Unfortunately, I could never master pedal pumping at the same time as striking tuneful keys. So the valiant pilgrim seemed to breathe his last before the verses ended.
Damp and rather cold I have finished a Sunday promenade of just three hours and 10 km to arrive at an idyllic farm house with chickens, water pump and milk churns positioned like nursery toys.
A banging on the door of my most comfortable , but lonely Gite made me realise that there were other human beings in this remote part of the world where farmers share their house with the cattle. It is strange and unforgiving to be without radio, tele or any English reading matter for the long spell between arriving at late midday and the following morning.
The banging was Madame the Gite owner who had decided to provide me with room service for dinner one hour earlier than arranged. Not, I hasten to add for reasons of respect to my age, or for fear that I should pervade her kitchen with a malodorous body. It was simply that Madame with the family had spent a raucous Sunday afternoon enjoying lunch in the company of a copious family including grand-children, one of whose birthday it was. She wanted an early night. Some rather thin vegetable soup, a flat omelette and a huge grey sausage relaxing in a translucent bowl of gooey rice. Together with yoghurt, fruit and cheese I could hardly have asked for anything better. A half litre of unattractive red wine helped the relaxation process.
Sleep came fitfully as I wrestled for the first time with a confining lightweight sleeping bag. The farm yard cockerel was no respecter of the move to summer time, whereas Madame had misjudged it and provided breakfast somewhat late. The prospect of a 22Km walk was a bit daunting, but thanks to fair weather, the seven hours it took included a few moments of actual pleasure. At 1250 metres altitude I stopped at a refuge specially provided for pilgrims. Sited in the shadow of the Chapelle de St Roch, it was a welcome opportunity to shelter from the near freezing temperature. Woodland signs up here are not only for pilgrims, but for cross country skiers as well.
The descent down to Saint- Alban-sur-Limagnole was gentle with a steadily increasing temperature. I met at the road side a friendly lady tending her spring garden. We chatted away and she was under the impression I was a Belgian. I suppose it is a compliment to be taken for a fluent French speaker, which I most certainly am not. I firmly protested that I was just a wandering Scot. To my shame I declined her sweet offer of something to eat or drink. Shyness on my part I think.
Arrival at Saint Alban was quite a rude awakening as I hadn't studied my walking guide sufficiently well to absorb the fact that the little town's raison d'etre is support of the regional psychiatric hospital. The sight of oxygen cylinders being trundled into the institutional buildings only strengthened the actual pervading smell of chloroform, which stuck in my nostrils for several hours. Route de St Jacques waymarking failed me miserably for the final kilometre into town and when I asked at the Centre d'Accueil for information about Gites and Hotels, I was met with uncomprehending stares. The little town is populated with mentally handicapped folk giving it an air of melancholy that accompanies the grey slate rooves and grey stone houses. For the time being no warm red tiles and pinkish stone work.
Being Monday, what small commercial activity there might have been was closed and I have ended up in what I can only describe as an un-classified zero star hotel. I was shown a windowless bedroom, which I firmly refused as waves of panicky claustrophobia swept over me. All was well and I have the one next door with an opening window.
My cynicism about the zero rated hotel I arrived at yesterday should be retracted, for despite the surly welcome the dinner proved to be a winner. Two thickly sliced turkey breasts served with a sauce au girolles was a mini masterpiece.
At the bar I noticed an inverted magnum spirits bottle with an optic that loudly bore a label "CLAN CAMPBELL WHISKY" Using my tortured French I tried to explain to the bored Madame that in the Scottish Clan system, the Campbells are very much un-loved by my Clan - the MacDonalds. I even tried to illuminate the subject by showing her my Clan badge worn in my beret next door to the scallop shell symbol of St. James. If that was too much to grasp, she would never have understood the black humour of the blown out tartan trews. Twenty five years ago I ran a crazy little Scottish boutique in the South of France. Stock was garnered from all over the Highlands and transported by various means to "LE SCOTCH SHOP" near St Tropez. The Thane of Cawdor himself from Cawdor Castle provided copious stocks of good quality Scottish souvenir goodies including a generous length of tartan with which to dress the premises. Being a pretty colouring of dark green and blue I had myself run up a pair of trews. I wore them in the shop to impress the French punters, whilst a tape recorder blasted out "Amazing Grace" ten times an hour. Little did I realise that the tartan supplied by the worthy Thane was Campbell and this did not fit well on a MacDonald Clanranald backside. After three days or less they split wide apart in elegant protest, never to be repaired.
The only other overnight residents in the hotel were inevitably lodged in the rooms adjoining mine and wafer thin walls did nothing to keep out the snores of two railway workers within.
The walking is starting to take on a life of its own and today was the first one in which foot soreness has not intruded. Admittedly it has only been a ten mile stretch, but that included a two hour non stop climb.
To my intense disappointment, I have discovered that "tabacs" in the Auvergne and Lozeres don't sell re-charge cards for my type of mobile phone, even though "Nomad" is reputed to be the premier network of France. Now left with just 80 Fr in credit it has been relegated to emergency use only until such time as I reach a major town.
Tomorrow brings a forecast of rain and the prospect of a 27 Km trek across the dreaded "Aubrac" - a deserted plateau where the unwary can get lost. How nice it would be to have a walking companion. Several previous pilgrims have pre-warned me that the presence of St. James is often felt when making this particular traverse. Tomorrow's stories may make interesting reading.
With a forecast of cold and rain for the next two days the prospect of crossing the "AUBRAC" filled me with apprehension, resulting in a sleepless night. Sure enough the morning broke grey and threatening. As I chewed on a second class breakfast the patron, already on his first aperitif of the day, suggested to me that I should avoid crossing the AUBRAC on the footpaths due to flooding. A glance at the map showed the D987 did a good job of tracking the pilgrim path to NASBINALS and the distance more or less the same - 27Km
As I left at 8 o'clock to follow the road, a huge weight was lifted from my mind. For the last six days I have been walking on tracks and paths with not a soul in sight or earshot. Quite rightly there is no system established of checking out and checking in, so if I had slipped, tumbled or taken a turn it could have been days before anyone found me, even with the benefit of an "out of range" mobile phone. At least on the road there'd be passing motorised Samaritans in the form of a little white van driver i.e. a French equivalent of a British Vauxhall Astra borne artisan.
Both roads and paths are well sprinkled with evidence of St Jacqes. Chapels, Crosses and tourist office notices make it abundantly clear that this is the chemin de Compostelle. The temperature was near freezing and as I entered the Dartmoor like terrain the heavens unleashed their worst. First there was sleet, then snow, then back to rain. No waterproof gear that is carryable can cope and in a matter of minutes I was drenched. Out of nowhere at a crossroads there appeared a cafe/bar, which beckoned like a life belt. It was warm, smoky and tiny, inhabited by a well built nut brown peasant, who greeted me in a tongue I couldn't comprehend. Behind the bar La Patronne alternated between chain smoking and stirring the contents of a black witches' pot, which must have been her lunch. This time the response to telling the two that I came from Scotland brought forth gales of mirth when they discovered that I didn't have the bag pipes with me. Thank goodness "Les Corn-a-muse" is a name I'd learned some twenty years ago when I sold Japanese made sets of red tartan decorated bag pipes to eager tourists in Le Scotch Shop near St Tropez.
The fields will soon be carpeted with wild flowers and already white crocuses and little daffodils are springing up abundantly. In two to three weeks time this area must be paradise. The long horned cattle have black rimmed eye-brows and black velvety trimmings to their ears.
Nearing NASBINALS a car passed me in the opposite direction. Having passed he slowed down, turned round and drove up beside me. I had not the slightest worry as to the driver's intentions. He merely wanted to see if I was alright walking alone in such a lonely spot. Learning that I was a pilgrim Compostella bound, he understood and asked me if I had enough money. Had I said "no" where does life go from there?
NASBINALS, is a welcoming sort of place compared with the last two stopping spots. It had the usual invisible Office de Tourism. It wouldn't have made any difference if I'd found it instantly - it was closed on Wednesdays.
My bedroom In the welcoming hotel at NASBINAL'S had a window opening towards the church and its spire. Dramatically it was floodlit after dark with an odd affect of a shadow of the spire forming a cloak above it. Soon, I was to learn that not only do public building clocks in this region keep good time, but the church ones make a double strike when reaching the hour. Hence, at midnight it chimed twelve times with a repeat performance thirty seconds later.
Now, seven days out from Le Puy I am neither ahead nor behind an intended schedule of 10 miles per day - NASBINALS is 70 miles from Le Puy. The weather forecast for Thursday 29th March was everything I had dreaded. Rain with snow above 1000 metres. Thunder and lightning later in the day.
This is a good and happily run auberge with at least four other guests staying. After a good slug of Glen Fiddich I was ready to test the regional speciality of "Aligot". A cheese fondu is one of the world's most divine inventions, so when I learned an Aligot was a cheese and potato mix, nothing had prepared me for the consistency of the off white paste, which arrived bubbling from the oven. It was a puree of the two ingredients, with an overweight sausage lying dormant on top. It was gluey, heavy and stringy, but quite tasty. Two or three forks full was all I could take as the cheese mixture met its predecessor a large whisky and soda - it set like concrete. Deep sleep was out of the question as I wrestled with the idea of inviting my talented decorator wife to try it out as an extra strength poly-filler de luxe.
The bedroom window shutters blew closed in the night with a bang. So it came as a shock to find an inch of snow lying prettily beneath a threatening sky. At breakfast local opinion was that the main D987 would be open across the high part of the Aubrac where it reaches more than 1,300 metres. Any idea of following the waymarked pilgrim's path had long been forgotten. To have any chance of survival it was road walking or nothing as the paths had become snow covered and invisible. It was encouraging to note that the "department" claimed to keep the road clear of snow only between the hours of 0700 and 2000 - I hadn't planned to walk at night.
The first hour's climb kept me as warm as could be expected, but at times I must have resembled a "yeti" with a hunch-back. So much so that half an hour later a car coming towards me stopped and spilled out its three occupants armed with cameras. "Are you a pilgrim ?" questioned one of the two charming ladies. "Yes, but a slightly mad one and I am a Scotsman too !" They were Parisians with a holiday house somewhere in the region. They said there are lots of walkers in the summer, but they had never met a real pilgrim before, let alone a winter one. Several photographs later and a promise to send copies to England left me with a warm feeling of friendship. Just as well they took those photos, because half an hour later an integral part of my little camera fell off. So much for well made Japanese technology.
On reaching AUBRAC, to my shock I found that the minor road leading to St-Chely-d'Aubrac, where I was planning to end the day after 16 Km., was closed by the snow and impassable. The only option was another 24Km to ESPALION. Not a mouse stirred in the totally deserted AUBRAC, so the prospect of another five hours was horrific even though it entailed a descent of another 900 metres.
9 Km short of ESPALION a welcome sign said 500 M on the left "Ice Cream and Drinks". Indeed it had both, plus a bedroom with luke warm heating and dirty bedclothes. Who cares ? After a second day of about 27Km and what seemed to me like Arctic conditions, any refuge was a treat.
This is a second attempt to write today's copy, having wiped out about 1000 words of text, which took me over an hour to put together.
It turned out that the ice cream and cold drinks cafe I had chosen as a refuge was in fact a lorry drivers' rest up at SAULGES. Supper, served promptly at 7'oclock was perfectly good and being at the base level it required more dishes than the so called smart eateries. Soup is brought to table in a warm round stainless steel toureen and then self slopped into a cold soup plate. Entrees are always delivered warm on a hot oval metal dish and pushed across to a cold plate. This never happens in the posh places. It is plate service all the way with a sprinkle of coloured powder around the perimeter.
No question of using the bedding provided, so the leg binding lightweight sleeping bag was brought into action for a second time. Even though I had descended some 700 metres the dawn saw another half inch of slushy snow lying outside and it was bitterly cold. One cup of tepid coffee and stale bread was enough for breakfast. Considering that the whole overnight experience including a litre bottle of red wine had cost only 150 Frs there was no cause for complaint and there was no temptation to linger.
Second shock of the morning was that I had miscalculated how far I was from ESPALION. It was actually 12 and not 6 Km. SAINT-COME-D'OLT was a very pretty village, but even though I had dropped another 500 metres it was still unacceptably cold.
1 Km later I passed a road side undertaker's business, which combined some fine stone masonry and marble. To my delight the showroom's principal display was a huge advertisement proclaiming their specialisation in "MOVING BODIES ABROAD" This merited a picture, so when I was struggling with my crippled camera I was approached by a member of staff, who wanted to know if he could be of service. I assured him that I could well last the day.
ESPALION is an actual town complete with roadworks, making a pedestrian's task quite difficult. Having crossed the River Lot using the ancient pilgrim's bridge I re-joined the pilgrim path, but not for long. Feet were starting to give me hell, so for the first time I tried out trainers instead of leather boots. Very little difference and in fact they seem to generate more heat than comfort. At that moment I caught a glimpse of a red squirrel and heard the first cuckoo. So cheering was it that I picked a little bunch of cowslips and stuck them in my hat. I hope the jolly yellow colour doesn't give the wrong idea to passing motorists. One stopped and offered me a lift to somewhere I hadn't heard of, so I explained that pilgrims don't take lifts from anybody.
Third shock of the day was at 3Km short of ESTAING, my destination for the night. There, in the middle of the road was a yellow sign saying "Road Closed" and instructing motorists to take a deviation going back to ESPALION. Knowing that ESTAING lies the other side of the River Lot I was worried that the bridge was down. Eventually, I stopped a car and got a happy answer to my question, Yes, the bridge is closed, but a special temporary one for pedestrians has been erected.
ESTAING is dramatically sited, dominated by the huge Chateau of the Counts of Estaing. I keep wondering if Giscard D'Estaing got his illusions of grandeur and absurd manner of speech from this exquisite place.
As I crossed the foot brdge I was hailed by a fellow pushing a bike. He was thrilled to see his first pilgrim of the year and insisted that I stayed at the "Hospitalite St Jacques", a lay organisation offering accommodation to pilgrims. He freely admitted that the place was empty, so when checking with the Syndic d'Initiative I was swayed in favour of the Hotel Armes on the river bank.
Nine days now I have been flogging along without a rest. The first 100 miles is complete and tomorrow there'll be a long lie-in and some TLC for my feet.
What goes "clunk" every Thursday morning in parts of England's Hampshire and in remoter parts of the "Aveyron" in France ? Answer - a black plastic wheely-bin. We may be members of the European Union, but it as come as a late surprise that harmonisation of refuse disposal should have descended down to such minutiae as the design and manufacture of members' weekly rubbish buckets. Has some Brussels Commissioner, one wonders, declared his interest in the supply of these standardised receptacles ?
Having decided to make today my first day of rest, I told the friendly hoteliers of my decision. "Fine" they said until I asked them that as the central heating was virtually turned off, was there somewhere I could dry my just washed pristine socks and "Hilditch & Key" underpants. A mask fell sharply over Madame's face who said "No", this was a two star hotel and not a Gite. Presumably, hotel guests never need to wash their smalls.
As a matter of curiosity I made a courtesy visit to the lay-organised "Hospitalite St. Jacques" that I mentioned yesterday. Situated in the heart of this ancient little City, the first thing I noticed apart from their warm reception was the glacial cold of the building's interior. No heating of any kind and an oppressive chill as the two-family community started their immediate gentle pressure to have me join them in early afternoon prayer. Sadly, one glance at the prison cell like dormitory had me bolting for the door as claustrophobia started closing in.
Suddenly, in a chilly morning sunshine I met the first pilgrim. Within seconds of talking to this Adonis of a man attired in a jaunty mountain beret, I realised that there was no chance of walking in company with him. He'd already done 12 Km this morning and was heading straight off after coffee for another 16 Km to GOLINHAC. That was when a 62 year old Swiss dame appeared. Wearing a backwards facing baseball cap the Swiss- Allemande speaker told me that she had already walked from Basel. That's 1000Km and she had done it in four weeks. If that is the marching standard of other pilgrims I've got a lot to learn. For me Conques in two days time and Cahors by 11th April seems a better pace to aim for.
Fishing on the banks of the Lot is not a male preserve. Amongst a dozen serious maggot dippers there was one old woman, who cautiously let me see the contents of her water bucket. A dozen silvery 8 inch 6oz chaps were swimming lazily within it. My knowledge of fresh water fish is limited, but the fisherwoman said they were Cabaud and very good eating. Moments later she had climbed into her motor and presumably sped off to prepare tomorrow's Sunday lunch leaving the men to grumble about their lack of luck and poor weather conditions.
I was having an early evening beer at the cafe opposite my ESTAING hotel when two pilgrims arrived within an hour of one another and I learned that they had come about 20Km today and were headed for the Gite. I had enjoyed my first non- walking day and was getting into good shape for tomorrow.
I was about to eat the usual early dinner alone when these two French pilgrims re-appeared from their gite to ask if they could join me. A jolly evening followed and the natural affinity between fellow pilgrims deepened in proportion to the quantity we drank. Jacques and Gerrard are two 60 year olds and had only met that day. The former was tall, amusing and had recently retired from a career with France's equivalent of the BBC. Gerrard, was short, rather bad tempered and ate his moustache as he spoke. He also pinched and ate the pansy so daintily included with my salad. They both seem happy to walk up to 30 Km per day, whilst I am settling to the originally planned 16-20Km. Gerrard, like many others is doing his pilgrimage in three stages and may not even be completing it this year. Judging by his complexion I wouldn't be surprised if stage one will be his last. I know that if I was to adopt a similar idea I would never come back. I knew it was going to be hard, but it's much worse than I feared. A very dear friend from Paris asked me today if I was enjoying it and I had to say "No", but how marvellous it would be when it was finished.
This morning it was great to awake to the promise of a beautiful early spring day. It is, after all, 1st April. Little was I to guess what was in store for me when the hotel patron rightly suggested I should telephone ahead to the Auberge/Chambres d'hote called "Le Battedou" at GOLINHAC a mere 16 Km hike. He did it for me, but failed to tell me that "Le Battedou" was not actually in the centre of GOLINHAC, but just a few steps away after passing a church.
Certainly the route was gorgeous, but meant climbing the ultra steep crossing of a minor hairpin bend laden road. So narrow was the path in part that looking down gave a nasty feeling of vertigo. GOLINHAC is wonderfully located, but modernly antiseptic. What little commerce there was had closed and not even the church cat was to be seen around. 3Km earlier I'd seen a painted road sign arrowed to "Le Battedou" 4.5Km, but that was presumably meant for motorists. Sure enough just metres after the GOLINHAC Church there were two more signs to the elusive Auberge. One said 8Km by road and the other 2.5Km presumably by footpath. Its telephone was switched to answerphone and nobody I could find in GOLINHAC knew anything. As I started the descent I began to panic. What if the whole thing was an April fool? A slippery knee-jarring drop of say 250 metres was no joke. Thank goodness it was only 2'oclock in the afternoon, and light until eight. I almost prayed that St.Roche - the pilgrim's friend with a dog and a bleeding leg, - would help me out of this one. My woes weren't over when my companionable "Communicator" failed completely, leaving me with the prospect of writing everything by longhand and posting it back to England.
Finally I stumbled upon a Hansel & Gretel like hamlet in the middle of nowhere, of which only half of the eight or so munchkin cottages had roofs. On finding what looked like the principal dwelling I peered through the glass door to see an unkempt looking oaf lolling on a plastic sofa. The oaf shambled to the door and with total lack of grace admitted he was expecting me and "yes" I could have an evening meal.
I gently explained to him the confusing signing to the place and asked if I could be driven up the hill tomorrow to re-start my trek onwards to ESPEYRAC. He replied "No, you are on a pilgrimage and should expect to re-climb" I could hardly believe my ears and in response to his question as to how I'd got here from GOLINHAC I nearly said "By f.....g parachute."
I have to admit that the hamlet is adorable if such utter solitude is appreciated. My tiny cottage is cleverly restored and there is actually an electric heater to help in the overdue drying process of the laundry. Thank goodness the "Communicator" problem was the battery, but having a fully charged spare has spared that anguish.
The time for evening noshing at "Le Battedou" arrived and apprehensively I presented myself at the cookhouse door. Inside the oaf stood glowering and beckoned me to sit, rather like a dog. The table was narrow and to my concern he planned to sit directly opposite wielding one of those mad hunter's knives for which this region is famous. He turned out to be more of doltish rustic than an oaf. He said nothing throughout the whole grisly eating experience, which thank goodness lasted only 45 minutes. That's a small exaggeration because I did at least learn that today's price of a male donkey is around 1500 Fr and a female is worth anything up to 5000 Fr. I left all the lights on during the night in my little cottagette. It warned off the spooks and claustrophobia. Before going to bed I had sought out the dolt's Dad, who quite reasonably and kindly offered to give me an 8 Km lift back up to GOLINHAC so long as I was ready by 0730. You can be sure I was waiting outside his door in very good time.
In cool, but lovely weather I walked and sometimes limped the 20 Km to ESPERYAC followed by the famous CONQUES. Full of self pity I slipped and half-slid on my backside down the nearly one in one footpath for the last half hour. There is no practical way of checking out the best resting place at the end of a seven and a quarter hour trek. So I was most fortunate to fall into the pleasant Hotel St. Jacques, which offered room with working heating and (my goodness!) a bath - all for a reasonable 200 Fr. The previous night was almost as much.
After a divine clean up, I was about to enter the vast and beautiful Romanesque Abbey, when I was hailed by the crazy reversed cap Swiss lady whom I'd met two days ago at ESTAING. Remembering that she'd already walked over 1000 Km from East Switzerland I was surprised to see her so near to my comparatively snail like progress. Apparently her sister in law had visited her here at Conques for a day. To make up for it she proposes to walk 40 Km tomorrow.
The Swissie, Erica-Louise, invited me to come and have supper with her and other pilgrims at the Abbey hostel. We sat down prompt at 7'oclock. Three Italians, two French, a Sweitzer Deutche and a Jock. It reminded me of school meals at an Irish Christian Brothers school in Naini Tal, India many years ago. There, silence was obeyed whilst a Brother read something learnedly ecclesiastical to accompany our dahl and curried vegetables. This evening, there magically appeared a Frere of the most un-canny likeness to a close friend. This nameless Brother was at least 6 ft 6" tall and the gentlest and kindnest-mannered person one could ever wish to meet. The food was excellent and a small offering in their box was all that was required.
Erica Louise, earlier in the evening, had shown me sleeping accommodation in the hostel and I regret that it was everything I had feared and worse. Twenty metal bunks of three tiers each. That's up to sixty pilgrims sleeping rough in total darkness except for torches. I cannot and will not face this even if I feel ashamed to admit it. France, it seems will be OK, with small hotels and Chambres d'hote available, but Spain may be another story.
MOTO MEETS MEDIEVAL My two lasting impressions of magical Conques maybe unreasonably irrelevant, but that's the way it is. Between the East-facing end of the world's most beautiful Romanesque Abbey, and the deeply sincere hostellerie run by the Brotherhood, lay twelve neatly placed open sarcophagi. "Was one for me?" I asked the gentle giant of a Frere. "Wouldn't you rather have heat and light?" replied this elevated figure.
This morning before eight o'clock, parked outside and in front of the Abbey's glorious tympanum was a late model Harley-Davidson. A medieval Abbey accompanied by a stylish piece of pre 1939 machinery.
Conques, the hidden mystical village, is a French National monument and as such is quite superbly run. The two star Hotel St. Jacques where I stayed was friendly, cosy and comforting. Including a real bath the price was a modest 200 Fr.
Leaving Conques was every bit as difficult as arriving yesterday. What took 30 minutes to descend took one hour and fifteen minutes of red faced sweat to ascend on the other side of the valley this morning. Half way up the sometimes hand-rail assisted 500 metre ascent I paused at the little Chapelle. Somebody, I thought, makes a physically demanding sacrifice on a regular basis to come here, even if just to sweep up leaves blown into this little place of peace.
Having gained the plateau in a heather covered terroir, I faithfully followed the balise (Chemin de Compostelle waymarks) for a relatively gentle three kilometres. On meeting a minor tarred road I turned right as clearly signed and which was confirmed by a sweet elderly lady taking her daily walk. It was only after 2 Km that it dawned on me that the signs and my map were in contradiction with one another. Military background and aviation navigation convinced me that the map-displayed route was the better choice. It cost me an extra 4 Km today and an eight hour slog to cover what was technically only a 20 Km hike to DECAZEVILLE.
Decazeville is an uninteresting open cast mining town, which provided me with an opportunity to experience a modern 2 star commercial hotel. The aseptically designed bedroom has no shelves and no proper wash station lighting with a floor floating like a paddling pool. The restaurant attached was something else with "reps" of all manner lined up at single tables to take their standard meal. Too late to verify, I watched one such "costumed" rep with tie, blue chemise and double vented jacket, saunter out. "Was he?", I asked myself an area salesman for some great chemical company or did he sell coal mining machinery?
LIVINAC CLAN GATHERING
I enjoyed the guilty feeling of lying abed till eight o'clock and after a leisurely self-service breakfast in the plastic eating station, I set off on the tiny 4 Km leg to LIVINAC-LE-HAUT. Wearing trainers was a temporary transformation in walking comfort. I climbed the stiff ascent out of DECAZEVILLE like a young goat and popped into a church to see yet another statue of St Roch. At last I got the story of the travellers' favourite Saint. He was afflicted by the plague and for some reason or other he got what looks like a nasty wound on his upper leg. Most statues show him flashing this gaping wound on a chubby thigh. The poor fellow was banished from villages so his faithful hound went daily into town to steal a cheese for master. All the statues show the dear doggie with his mouth stuffed with Camembert gazing adoringly up at St.Roch.
It was in that Chapelle that I saw a little notice advertising Chambres d'Hotes at LIVINHAC-SUR-HAUT signed by a Mr.Robertson and adding "English Spoken" As my family is related to the Robertsons, this was a meeting not to be missed. Here I found a shambolic Bastide occupied by this evidently lonely and divorced sixty year old. He runs a popular B & B in a lovely setting and welcomed me with a cup of tea. Evening meal no problem he said, but little was I to realise that this meant driving the 25 Km to FIGEAC, buying a kitchen table for 130 FR at a charity-run bric-a-brac shop, taking the broken motor mower to be mended, and finally by me guiding my host around the CAPDENAC hyper-market. I forget to mention that I too bought something at the BRIC-A-BRAC before tying the inverted kitchen table onto the roof of his battered Renault. It was an ancient English language thriller I bought.
A Swiss couple of a certain age, have turned up having walked today in the rain in five hours from CONQUES what took me eight hours yesterday. With luck I'll get them to fix me up with a suitable lodging in FIGEAC tomorrow. It's a big town and they'll get there hours before me.
I've bought two bottles of rouge as the totally non-English-speaking Mr. Robertson seems to be teetotal.
Having helped Mr Robertson with the cooking whilst he took a series of telephone bookings for the summer, we sat down to a first class supper of real home made vegetable soup, chicken roasted on a bed of onions - served with oily noodles. Then followed a delicious chevre, which I had chosen myself that afternoon at the slightly smelly low grade CAPDENAC Hyper-market.
The Petit Suisse had dropped in earlier for a teeny weeny drink and then disappeared back to their quarters. They don't seem to eat properly, those two, as I confirmed later today.
Mr Robertson and I said our fond farewells with promises of an early visit by him to my home in Hampshire. I have started to wonder if I am getting like my father, who was a kindly man. In fact he was an infinitely better giver than taker. On one occasion during a rare visit to London he befriended the sales manager of the gramophone department of Peter Jones. Before you could say "turn-table" he had invited the man to Scotland for his holidays. He turned up with family and stayed for a week whilst my poor mother had to look after them.
DECAZEVILLE is a depressed area with a significant population still of Polish Russian and Scottish who came here at the turn of the century to work the open cast iron, and coal mines. The numbers have been reduced since then by three quarters and since 1910 the River Lot is no longer navigable.
Wearing trainers all day I made 24 Km to the charming big town of FIGEAC. Having left a genuinely depressed area it was interesting to see the difference a few miles can make. The Petit Suisse left 30 minutes after me and then overtook 6 Km later. Thereby proving that they walk 50% faster than me. I caught them up having a road side snack later, and a meagre meal it was too. Just a few bits of cheese and an apple.
The Church chimed in again with its second treat in two days. By the Eglise at ST. FELIX there is a grand parking area attached to the Mairie. There, I noticed a Monsieur setting up a table laden with food. I hailed the good chap to ask him what he was selling ? He replied that he wasn't selling anything, but setting up a lunchtime nosh for a group of sixteen pilgrims who were following on. I was invited to join in, but had eaten my fill long before the others arrived. These folk were walking accompanied by a minibus carrying all their kit and just doing the stretch from Le PUY to CAHORS. Not a bad idea for those who want to enjoy it without being slaves to self inflicted personal load carrying discomfort.
Having booked a room at the Hotel de Bains in FIGEAC, I was appalled to find the place locked up when I arrived at 3 PM after a seven hour walk. Only by a chance meeting with a local did I get a wink and a nod that suggested I should disturb the manager's afternoon liaison with a neighbouring hotel's manageress. I rang a private bell and La Voila a few minutes later he appeared.
Last night's stay at FIGEAC looks like being the last bit of comparative comfort for a while. The hotel was very adequate, once I had sorted out the problem of the absent amorous patron. I ate in a Pizzeria - an enormous treat after the standard evening menu. It was a good one too, called Vulcano and fortunately, despite its spicy content it left me in non- eruption mode.
The Petit Suisse joined me at the Pizzeria and tucked into a plate of Tagliatelli Bolognese. It looked disgusting. When the Swissy told me he'd worked 39 years for Shell Switzerland and still couldn't speak English I concluded that he couldn't have been very senior. We decided to send an e.mail greeting to my dear eighty year old brother in law who also worked all his career for Shell. He, good man, ended up as Chief of Belgium Shell. As yet there's been no reply.
Set off in light rain, which turned into drizzle intermittently for the rest of the 20Km schlep to GREALOU. Gorgeous country totally devoted to cattle breeding. En route I met and chatted to a dear old rustic who, when I said that we were both troisieme age - because we were both over 65 - hotly denied this and said that he was quatrieme age being 84. It was impressive to see him wearing wooden sabots yet driving a tractor with absolutely no problem. I can't imagine British agricultural health and safety regs permitting the wearing of such primitive footwear.
On approaching the divinely situated hill-side village of FAYCELLES I suddenly got the scent of honey-suckle. After the continuous smell of cow dung, it made a welcome change. FAYCELLES has superb views of the Lot valley and would rate high in my opinion as somewhere to consider as a holiday retreat. Its proximity to FIGEAC would make it particularly attractive. As a curiosity, yesterday evening I may mention that I saw the first non-French car in 15 days. It was proceeding the wrong way steadily up a very narrow one way street in the old part of FIGEAC . Not a very popular thing to do in these days of "Foot & Mouth" for a vehicle sporting a GB plate.
Arrived at this zero star dump to find a group of kids were in full occupation of the pool table. No sign of the patron as his wife had taken him to hospital for an as yet unknown reason. The bedding is dirty and the broken wardrobe has in it things I'd rather not describe for Telegraph readers.
I believe the Petit Suisse will be going on ahead tomorrow on a 28 Km slog to LIMOGNE-EN-QUERCY. Too much for me, so it looks like an equestrian gite for me instead, but it's not yet decided.
A road-side encounter with a friendly local yielded the following observation. "The country from here to MOISSAC is beautiful. After that" he added "it is boring, but the worst part is the awful people of MOISSAC" "They are all C...."
(283/1211) Much as expected the meal in last night's dump was rotten, but I was so hungry a so called "breaded meat" went down a treat. The Petit Suisse may not be the most sparkling companions, but it is good to have somebody there to share pilgrim experiences either good or bad.
GREALOU is an isolated little village in the heart of a very depressed area. The relais we stayed in serves as an alternative to the village hall and by 8 'oclock it was full of people who could best be described as young marrieds. Lined up against the bar seven men with three young children on their laps. In the body of the room sat or strolled seven young women each of whom was smoking with a degree of amateur affectation. Finally, five more children of noise creating age. They charged around the pool table with a variety of plastic or tin vehicles hooting like Redskins on a war path. Nobody drank anything other than one of those lividly coloured syrops so adored by the French for mixing with the beer.
In the middle ages pilgrims were natural victims of robbers. Now in modern times it is done another way - the more remote and the more disgusting be the hostellerie, the more expensive it is sure to be. "Les Quatres Vents" lived well up to expectation.
Madame's husband is staying in hospital for a few more days having had his operation. Nevertheless, this loyal woman was anxious to get in to see him as early as possible next morning. I hadn't realised the significance of her wish until later. My sleeping bag did sterling work and I enjoyed my own fleas rather than those of God know's who'd been using the bed before. Breakfast was pathetic, whilst the bill was not. Les Petits Suisse departed for their 28Km hike to LIMOGNE-EN- QUERCY and I told Madame that I'd be leaving about 30 minutes later. "No problem" she croaked. "Just turn out all the lights and leave by the emergency exit." Fine that was until I found myself ejected into the walled backyard as the fire exit clanged shut behind me. Only by piling three crates of empty bottles on top of one another was I able to scramble out to freedom.
Thanks to a friendly local wearing a stylish Australian bush hat I was able to get my poncho completely over the ruck-sack. I can see no way of solving this problem single handed and today was to be a day of heavy April showers.
I passed the first Neolithic "Dolmen", which in simple terms look like a giant's picnic table with room to sleep beneath. Nobody quite knows why or what they are, but then that applies to the Avebury stones and even Stonehenge. It is only 10Km to CARJAC - a pretty place, nicely sited at the foot of a 700 ft high arc of limestone cliffs.
Hopefully, I have nearly licked the foot problem, maybe thanks to "Arnica" in both pill and cream form. I strolled into CAJARC feeling like John Wayne - a different world from the one I left behind just two and a half hours ago. A rich little town with a Saturday afternoon market. Evidence too of Brits abroad. I couldn't help but speak to one couple having not breathed a word of English for sixteen days. He told me that last year they'd bought a fully restored farmhouse near LIMOGNE and intended to retire "disgracefully". Judging, by the taughtness of his bright blue Pringle cardigan he'd certainly made a good start. His wife, having spotted the silver scallop shell I wear in my beret asked if I was some sort of "holy man."
In this civilised little town I have fallen to temptation. Pilgrim or no pilgrim, I bought yesterday's Daily Telegraph and a Tom Clancy mini block buster. Life is looking up.
SHODDY GOODS RISK LIVES
300 kilometres up and still going, much to my own surprise. CAJARC proved to be a pleasant interlude. A rich and apparently well run little town displaying all the characteristics of French country life so loved by the tourist industry. The hotel was amongst the best of them - charming, good food, clean and fairly priced.
Four small items of kit have broken already and I list them in order of importance, but put in reverse: 1. A hopefully non critical part of my little FUJIFILM camera just fell off leaving some of its guts exposed. It still seems to work, but only time will tell.
2. The poorly designed transparent fronted map case has split so that pencils and other small things have just fallen out. (source YHA shop Covent Garden)
3. A watch strap worn compass just broke, fell off and was lost. Today was a walking day with no points of reference and the only way to navigate through acres of scarcely signed scrubby forest with 100% cloud cover was by compass. I did get lost and quite frightening it was too. It caused an extra 2 kilometres to reach LIMOGNE-EN-QUERCY. (source YHA shop Covent Garden)
4. The Platypus water carrier is a brilliant idea that allows the walker to carry up to 2 litres of water in a plastic reservoir packed inside the ruck-sack. A transparent tube from the base of the Platypus leads up to face level, permitting easy drinking through a one-way suction valve. The valve fell off today and immediately the contents of the reservoir were flowing rapidly into my jeans. By the grace of St. Roch I rescued the departed valve and stemmed the flood. How will that be in the forthcoming sweltering heat of the Spanish Mestres ? (source YHA shop Covent Garden)
The walk between CAJARC and CAHORS poses a distance problem. Either the legs are far too long for me, like 30 Km, or too short, like 10 Km, which is a waste of a day in this unintentional strife to get to St Jacques de Compostelle and get it over with.
I am sure that countless books have been written by learned professional walkers on the subject of surface. Already, despite wearing heavy duty hill-master boots I can recognise blindfold the difference between pebbles. shale, split-rock, goudron, bitumen, sand, clay, mud, grassy and mossy. Walking slightly downhill on a springy mossy surface would be a dream for 25Km, but life isn't like that. It was a mix of all sorts that Brought me 18Km today to this scruffy little place. At the Chambres d'Hotes I found just outside the village I received the warmest welcome by the eighty year old couple who were determined to do everything possible to make sure my stay was a comfortable one. Priced at a five year unchanged 170 Fr for bed and breakfast seemed like a fantasy at this pretty cottage, but no, the dear people want to keep it that way.
Tomorrow's events are already pre-conceived, and different they will certainly be.
I am fast getting bored with soup. It is just an excuse to use up old odds and ends and then to soften bread that's past its sell by date. I've only had one proper soup in 19 days and that was made with artichokes and real stock. Last night's potage at the Cafe Galopin in LIMOGNES was thin and sloppy. The chicken and semi-soggy chips weren't very appealing either. It is a lively cafe hugely popular with youngsters who, after a rowdy table football tournament, set about demolishing great helpings of cured ham and good chips. At their table for twelve the numbers were nine guys and three dolls. The balance didn't seem quite right even for a quiet Sunday evening.
In mileage terms it is just a hop and skip on to VARAIRE, where the prospect of a bite to eat looked promising. Having endured a wasted 40 minutes getting on the right route to VALAYTS I took advantage of mixing with human reality before an imminent worldly exclusion.
French youth with mountain motorbikes has taken to using 1000 year old pilgrim paths in the same way that modern man in Great Britain now insists on driving a four by four lorry. I met a group of six such bikers, who with enormous enthusiasm told me that they were following in reverse a 50 Km section of the Chemin de St. Jacques. I strongly disapprove, but then I disapprove of mobile phones too. Yet here I am resting in a 12th Century Convent tapping out this piece for e.mail distribution. (There is no network signal in VALAYTS. Orders from above ?)
The choice of CONVENT DE VAYLATS, was not a religious one. Rather more its location between CAJARC and CAHORS. The Covent itself is a massive towered building in a beautiful state of repair. The thirty sisters welcome pilgrims only and offer them simple accommodation and food. It was Sister Marie-Cecille who greeted me with a warmth I hardly knew existed. This little person even tried to help me lift my rucksack up the narrow wooden stairs leading to my room in the attic of an adjacent converted stable building. It is immaculately clean if bitterly cold.
The evening meal is served at 6.45, which promises an early bed. Yet again I was to be the only pilgrim staying, but I was to be the semi guest of honour at supper amongst six old ladies who are winter residents at the Convents. Old is a relative term, but of the six the youngest was 85. The most talkative and vibrant was 101. I have never knowingly met a centurion before, but I shall never forget her happy cackling laughter.
First course was tapioca soup, which like the frog spawn it is, I could well have done without. Then arrived delicious individual quiches au jambon. Luckily for me not all the old ladies could cope, so they passed some on to me. One bottle of wine amongst seven doesn't sound a lot, but when I was virtually the only one to drink I did really rather well.
Pudding consisted of yoghurt and a little wrapped fruit cake. Two of the old ladies secretly passed their cakes to me as provision for tomorrow's long walk to CAHORS.
As bed time approached (7.30 p.m.) Mother Superior appeared to say hello. Charming, warm and friendly she stamped my pilgrim's passport and murmured that an offering of 120 Fr would be gratefully received after breakfast tomorrow.
CAHORS - TOWN OF MEMORIES. At least a few people are reading the DAILY BLEAT judging by the number of squawks I've received from all over, thanks to the complete absence of network signal at the CONVENT DE VAYLATS. Good for you Sisters if you have managed to keep those hideous transmitter stations out of your space.
A poor breakfast was served to me in solitude by dear Sister Marie-Cecille and her farewells were almost tearful. You can't kiss a little Sister, but I'd like to have given her a hug.
The long 25 Km slog to target CAHORS was partly easy going and partly horribly rough. Let no-one, but no-one tell you that adequate signing, two guide books, plus two maps are sufficient to get you from A to B. Three times I got "off track" today through no genuine fault of my own One was caused by a village having a by-pass built around it. "Chemin de St. Jacques" signs are no match for a troop of land sculpting JCBs.
The second serious telephone question arrived today when I was asked "What are you really getting out of this ?" The answer for the present is "Very sore feet indeed, but potentially some amazing memories of achievement ." The intermittent rain was no help today as I still haven't solved the problem of fitting my poncho single handed.
10 Km before reaching CAHORS the whine of a heavy metal turbo prop transport aircraft woke me up to the real world. The smaller French equivalent of a Hercules was practising circuits, then disappeared into the gloom. My own arrival at CAHORS was marred by driving rain and full cover at around 900 ft.
A telephone call to the Bureau de Tourism was answered by an obviously pretty airhead. She couldn't grasp that I was a walking stranger, who hadn't the faintest idea where Place Francois Mitterand was let alone how far away it was from my location at the Southern tip of the town. She only knew how to tell me to pop in to pick up a plan. As it turned out nobody else seemed to know the whereabouts of Place Francois Mitterand. It takes at least 100 years to be recognised in France.
TIME TO GET CLEANED UP It was the pretty girl in the Bureau de Tourism who convinced me that I needed a wash and polish. Steadfastly she eschewed my request for a decent 2 star hotel nearby. 1 star or zero star was what she thought I deserved and hence I ended up in this nasty little back street number. As soon as I was showered and changed it was down to the launderette where the most delightful owner/operator insisted on speaking English and giving me the drying cost of my laundry for free. "A pilgrim deserves some help." he said.
I lashed out on a 95 Fr menu at "La Taverne", where I think we dined in 1981 whilst on our honeymoon. Things never are the same, but that is a boring private story. Brouillade des Oeufs aux truffles, Boudin Noir sur onions and a creme caramel to kill for. It looks like another 23 Km n the morning because there just ain't nothing any sooner.
In retrospect last night's dinner at "La Taverne" in CAHORS was a disappointment. The previous owner built up a fine business because he was a great chef. When he retired and sold the restaurant it totally lost its style as confirmed by the removal of its one or two Michelin stars.
I left a little souvenir at the nasty Hotel de Paix. Accidentally I left a puddle in the bed. Not what readers might expect from a 68 year old gent, but a leak from my "platypus" water carrier, which had just been re-filled. That'll give them something to think about.
Only minutes later I got my come uppance, when the Caisse d'Epargne hole-in-the-wall cash machine refused to shell out with my bank card. The so called 'top toffs' bank redeemed itself magnificently today. Of late they have had a bad press, implying that they are cold shouldering their old and valued customers in favour of super rich pop stars. When I rang them with an expensive mobile call they immediately called back with a lucid explanation of what might have been the problem. Next stop moneywise is MOISSAC in a few days and let's hope the till spews out the goodies.
During the long and unrelenting day's march my thoughts kept returning to the question asked two days ago i.e. what am I getting out of this ? There's certainly no spiritual zeal. St James himself hasn't been seen for days. At one stage the roadside evidence was plain to see, but now the re-arrangement of land by huge machinery has destroyed what must have been inspiration for early pilgrims.
It is only support from friends and family, which is actually fuelling the motor which drives the legs. At one point today I was hideously close to thumbing a lift back to CAHORS and the prospect of a comfy train. (Except that they are all on strike) "Charlie, pull yourself together and don't be such a wimp." I shouted aloud to anyone who'd listen. For a while it worked, but as yet there's not the slightest magnetic pull towards an illusionary COMPOSTELLA.
My choice of lodging for tonight at LESCABANE was limited. One Chambres d'Hote, no reply, and the other about 4Kms off the route. The patron asked me to call him by mobile when I got in sight of the village. Failing which call from the kiosk. Neither mobile was within range and sure enough the kiosk phone was bust. I discovered a new quite smart gite next to the church, which had a working payphone. Fifteen minutes later a scruffy old Normandian turned up in his broken down car and drove me to his equally scruffy scrap-yard dwelling. The evening was spent in front of the huge screened tele, whilst an ample, but lowly supper was served.
Promises to return me to the village tomorrow morning are nervously awaiting fulfilment with a forecast of 3 degrees for the morning.
Departure from LASCABANES could not have been soon enough and the final irritant was to find no loo paper in the bog. I complained loudly to Madame who blamed Monsieur. Apologies all round before the cheeky sod said he wouldn't charge the 10Fr each way transport fee to and from the village.
Sadly it all has an aura of tragedy. Their son was murdered in Paris a few years ago and their daughter died of cancer last year. He has the shakes and the property is for sale . What more can I say ?
LE MOULIN DE TAURAN AT LAUZERTE
A small Manor House, a stream beside it which feeds the mill, all set in casually stylish garden. An Alsation sits at my side whilst I tap these few words. I'm surrounded by about twenty chickens scratching and dust bathing. Two sweet children have been playing on the swing for the last half hour when not carrying around in their arms either another chicken or a tortoiseshell tabby. Michel apologises for the ghastly noise as he mows the lawn for the first time this spring. Clare is forking over some tree-surrounding soil to the delight of the chickens, who follow greedily. Tabbby is sitting in the wheel-barrow for no other reason than that is where she wants to be. Half a dozen fat white geese waddle past the brown donkey and his friend the mule. The chestnut tree has been out for a few days now getting ready to provide shade for warmer days to come.
After more than four hours trek from LASCABANES I climbed up to MONTLAUZAN for there was no other way round it. I de- rucksacked for lunch to eat my two and a half inch thick sandwich prepared by the dressing gowned Madame at breakfast. Round the corner appeared a couple out walking and inevitably we exchanged friendly "How do you do's." Patrick and Dominique are a French couple enjoying an Easter break in a region renowned for its food. Having gorged themselves at LAUZERTE last night they commendably chose a four hour walk to compensate today. Minutes later we were sort of friends and walked together for the re-maining 6 Km back to LAUZERTE including a photocall with a massive, but friendly Sanglier for company. They extolled non stop the delights of La Moulin de Tauran, their Chambres d'Hotes of last night, and how right they were. The grange, which stands apart from the Manoir is restored and decorated in a manner which could only bring tears of delight to my talented wife, who strives eternally to achieve simple perfection.
It was infinitely worth the small detour to reach it and I was received as if by friends when greeted by Jospehine, Jean- Pierre, Michel and Clare. Ignorance was repaid times over as I discovered something called "table d'hote" which is far removed from "chambres d'hotes." Quite simply it was "Wolsley Lodges" overseas. Jean-Pierre and Josephine quit their successful coffee importation business a few years ago and with their respective partners Clare and Michel, bought this run down rhapsody and restored it into what it is today i.e. a dream.
Dinner was with Jean-Pierre and Clare plus another couple of French plook with their dog and toddler. The scoff was magnificent including copious "magret de canard" straight from the farm. Jean-Pierre's Cahors wine was poured from a double magnum.
MOISSAC MEANS MEASURE UP
So enchanting was "Le Moulin de Tauran" at LAUZERTE that I can't help mentioning it again. Last night's dinner is worth listing In terms of content and value:
An aperitif
Good soup
Pate de canard a l'orange
Magret de canard avec legumes
Fromage (Caboc, Camenbert, chevre)
Tarte au citron
Cahors red more or less a gogo
The bill ? 100 Fr
Because the telephone signals were so weak I had to send from outside. Hence when I got up early this morning to send messages I went and sat outside on the steps. Immediately a little white chicken came and sat on my feet. I think she wanted to lay an egg.
I left with a courgette jam sandwich in my rucksack plus an orange and apple All with the compliments of my hosts.
Even I am surprised that one quarter of this daunting trek is behind me and despite multiple misgivings about continuing, there is now little excuse for wimping out. The initial shock of loneliness has diminished and thanks to the amazing communication facilities available there has been some wonderful support from friends and family. Averaging about 11 miles per day, target Santiago is currently running at 21st June.
With a good drink I actually look forward to the evening sessions with this little communicator despite its shortcomings. "Eat your heart out Nokia, you had your chance to give some minimal support to this venture. If your machine breaks down I'll be the first to say so."
The rolling country with fewer valleys is coming to life. Lilac abounds, the broad beans for animal feed are well advanced and there are actually a few sprouts showing on the vine stocks. By now I must have walked through a few thousand farms and the impression is continually one of relative inefficiency. There are no big fields and therefore no large equipment. An average size tractor is all one ever sees. Even the biggest spraying equipment has a span of only about 10 metres.
When the problem of the "knackers yard image of old cars" is dealt with it will be time to clean up the rest of the rusting junk that litters the countryside. It's not just the household rubbish that needs to be cleared away.
In the middle of nowhere I came across a little walker's hotel situated in a hamlet with the rather charming name of "Auberge de l'Aube-Nouvelle" The patronne was friendly and it has a welcoming atmosphere.
25 Km to Moissac took just on seven hours - a lot of which was road work on which I wore trainers with the aim of avoiding tendinitis. Moissac is a largeish town famous for its Abbey Church of St. Pierre. It is here that this whole pilgrimage idea began for me when nearly two years ago I saw two pilgrims walking slowly through the streets.
I can't be bothered to prove it, but I reckon I walked across a TGV level crossing today. The last 1.5 Km into Moissac is a very minor road paralleling the railway. What looked to me like a TGV went slowly by and a few metres later I strolled nonchalantly over a crossing.
For the first time in 23 days I have a bedroom which is light. A rest day is called for. A pity it couldn't be tomorrow, Easter Sunday, because it would have been nice to attend a service in Moissac's beautiful Abbey.
Mobile phones are no respecter of time and place and they frequently ring at the wrong moment. Today, Moscow called me just as I was going into a shop at closing time and was fending off small surges of Algerian kids footballing their way up and down the street. It wasn't a relaxing conversation.
I was warned about ten days ago that the trouble with Moissac is the people. When I went for a beer at "Le Murrayfield" pub and not unreasonably told the barman I'd been brought up within spitting distance of the great rugby stadium. He just puffed his cheeks and let rip a light verbal fart.
SATURDAY MARKET IN MOISSAC
This almost exclusively Algerian town has little to offer except its wonderful Abbey Church. With a rest day beginning, I lolled around the breakfast table, revelling in the luxury of not walking anywhere. Clean laundry (found the laverie again yesterday) and the prospect of drinking at lunch maybe.
Even before the pleasure of the first aperitif of the evening I popped my Carte Bancaire into a hole in the wall machine, in the hope that the top peoples' bankers wouldn't let me down. I selected English as the language of choice because I reckoned that my French was even worse than their English. PIN number OK, Amount OK then wait and wait and wait. At that moment my card was chucked back at me without so much as a thank-you. "That's it" I gasped. Next train back to England and try to find an excuse for quitting with minimum loss of face. As I turned my ashen face away from the glowing screen there was suddenly a near silent squeezy noise as six new 500Fr notes slipped from the lips of the money-milking machine.
First, a proper visit to the Abbey and its Cloisters to seek out a stamp for my pilgrim's passport. I found the one and only priest, who was occupied with giving someone some open advice. He was sitting next to a confessional box with his parishioner sitting opposite. The moment he'd finished I approached and asked the priest for his stamp. Rather curtly he replied "There is a service about to start. Come back in half an hour." I showed him my beret with its still gleaming silver coquille de St Jacques. I then explained that I didn't reckon that was the way to treat a pilgrim who had just walked more than 400 Km to see his church. A broad smile appeared and he beckoned me into his retreat/electrical control room, where from a locked cabinet he retrieved the rubber tampon. "The congregation can wait a few minutes" he said, as we exchanged pleasantries. The service began at four minutes past its scheduled time of eleven 'oclock.
The pervading smell in the Abbey was not incense, but garlic. It's Saturday market day in MOISSAC and many of the female members of the congregation had just finished their shopping, leaving baskets in the aisles brimming with lovely scented produce.
I gather that last year a pilgrim from LE PUY walked here in 10 days with a Husky dog. The sledge dog must have done a lot of pulling up the steep bits - it has taken me 23 days.
My goodness, Patrick & Dominique have turned up again. Here they are having a rapid glance at MOISSAC and find me sitting in the sunshine, enjoying a glass of beer whilst tapping away at the mini-keyboard. It was they who sent me to Le Moulin Tauran the day before yesterday. Now, they're concluding their gastronomic and wine buying tour.
A 12 year old Algerian boy smiled his way up to my little table to admire this "Communicator". He was a sweet young kid with great enthusiasm for what I was doing. When I showed him how I retrieved a message from my eldest daughter, who lives in Capetown, South Africa, it was all too much for him and he collected his mates to come and watch the show. On good advice I have bought a new guide book for travellers on "Le chemin de Compostelle" It goes under the unlikely title of MIAM-MIAM-DODO. My guess is that it translates into yum- yum-bibis. It lists and details every hotel, gite, chambre d'hotes, table d'hotes, restaurant, camp site and religious lodgement on the chemin from Le Puy to St Jean-Pied-de-Port. It carries no other information such as maps, distances or terrain. It costs 80 Fr.
France may grumble about the arrival of the Euro, but they have embraced it with enthusiasm ready for 1st January 2002. Everything is priced in both units and last night's dinner was actually priced in Euros with Ffr offered as an option. My tip to travellers is to remember these numbers: A night in a gite should cost around 7 Euros. Breakfast should cost around 3.5 Euros. An adequate meal should cost around 9 Euros.
EASTER SUNDAY
Instead of joyous MOISSAC Abbey bells ringing in my ears, departure from here will forever be remembered by a non stop rendering of Glen Miller's theme tune to Sunday "Forces Favourites" with "Jean Metcalfe in London and .someone else in BAOR somewhere" Comforting stuff from another age. This was the hotel's muzak contribution, which had got trapped into one repeating section.
Jacaranda trees in the square are coming out and there is the prospect of a beautiful day for walking along the towpath of the canal de Garonne. Here the canal, a river, a main road. the TGV and a towpath all run closely parallel with one another. The country has completely changed to flat open plain with fields. Much bigger than prevail in the Massive Central. No more cattle, but untidy arable farms instead.
An unexpected sight in the distance are the twin cooling towers of a mighty power station. Steam rising from them in the cool still air makes an imposing spectacle and is a reminder of the pilot's friends, the twin towers of Didcot in Oxfordshire.
It's only 21 Km to AUVILLAR from MOISSAC. It is an exquisitely restored large hilltop village with an arcaded square and a medieval market hall. The charming Hotel L'Horlogue is welcoming and so, instead of going on the extra 8 Km to SAINT ANTOINE I fell for its allure and booked in for a mini lunch and an overnight stay. I'll pay for this tomorrow with a 30 Km flog to the next accommodation.
Most travellers whether on foot, bicycle or even car are fed with information by travellers coming from the other direction. The Chemin de Compostelle is one way only and for us pilgrims each day is a step into the unknown. St. Jacques and St. Roch are pale images of themselves now and I haven't seen roadside signs of them for at least a week.
It's time for some gastronomique sacrilege. I'd love a pizza, a curry, a Chinese take away, a plate of pasta with a good sauce, or some fish-cakes with a hint of ketchup. Sure, I'm in the pastureland of the duck, but how much of the dear quackers can I absorb ? Already I've eaten Foie gras de canard, pate de canard a l'orange, terrine de canard avec ses foie gras, aiguiellettes de canard, salade des gesiers de canard, confit de cuisses de canard and twice I've had magret de canard. I reckon I must have eaten two whole non-airworthy amphibians in the last ten days.
I missed out on the chocolate this Easter This must be the compensation.
LECTOURE - THE LONG ONE
Staying at the prettily over restored village of AUVILLAR may have been a mistake. I got there too early and wasted half a day's walking. The French were enjoying an enormous Easter lunch and it was only with difficulty that I got out of being pressed into a huge dinner with the same menu de Pacques.
In terms of night stops it seemed that there was no option, but to go for LECTOURE, which was no less than 37.5 Km away. The map looked as though the going would be reasonable except for the switchback railway layout of the chemin.
Three people I talked to at the great value Hotel d'Horloge said they'd like to walk with me the next morning. One was a rather self-satisfied Australian economics professor. Although staying at the hotel he never showed up this morning and may, for all I know have left before dawn. The two others were a standard pair of female school-teachers. Standard that is to all European countries i.e., colourless, aged around forty and boring.
I awoke to rain and the prospect of a lot more to come. The forecasters were damply accurate and it kept up a steady drizzle or downpour for the eight hour flog across various surfaces such as bitumen, mud, goudron and long wet grass. It's the latter, which no walking boots can cope with. Rubber is obviously impractical and the new gortex I would imagine is less waterproof than well dubbined leather.
The two grey French women appeared from their gite at 0745 and walked with me for the first two hours. Their need for a cup of tea from their thermos flask meant that they stopped at an unlocked church whilst I went on. BARDIGUES, FLAMAREN and MIRADOUX came and went. Seemingly an interminable trudge to the elusive LECTOURE with its appearing and disappearing clock tower.
The chip on the shoulder of the Hotel de Bastard is well earned, and seldom have I received such a rude telephone greeting as when I rang from the town limits to book a room. On arrival I was compelled to fill in one of those little white registration cards required by General de Gaulle and celebrated in Freddie Forsyth's "The Day Of The Jackal". Can any reader confirm for me that they are still required by law ? My view is NO, but the hotel reception said take it or leave it.
LECTOURE is a scruffy run down sort of place and Hotel de Bastard would very much come into that category were it not for its restaurant, which is truly magnificent. If it isn't starred in Michelin it should be.
CONDOM IT IS AND ONE THIRD ON THE CLOCK Breakfast at Hotel de Bastard was superb and included copious Jambon du Pays, Prunes, Cornflakes, Croissants, Yoghurts, Pain Raisin and fresh baguettes. The hotel does not enjoy Michelin's grace and the magnificent chef/patron said "They don't like us". He is a charming man and I wonder if he realises that it just might be the rude creature at reception who infuriates the inspectors ? Maybe she's his daughter.
There were three other breakfasters. who we'll call Lars, Doris and Knightsbridge. The first two were pilgrims priviligee like me, and the third was a rather snotty forty something English woman besporting dark specs on her head and accompanied by a Harrods plastic carrier bag. "I've bought a house near here" she announced, "and I'm going to let it." That said, she swept out to tend to her affairs.
Lars and Doris are a bit different. He is a 6' 4", 210 lbs, 53 year old Norwegian plumber. Doris is guess what? - a 53 year old Suisse/Allemande school teacher. We walked together towards CONDOM through gloriously rich and rolling arable country for half of the day. Planted with wheat, maze and vines, it has completely replaced the raw savagery of previous weeks when abandoned farms, hamlets and even villages were the norm. Lars loped his vast frame along the road, whilst I felt like and must have looked like Dustin Hoffman in "Midnight Cowboy" trotting, skipping and shuffling along in order to keep up. It was road work most of the way to CONDOM, but although it's shorter than the current GR 65 it's mighty hard on the feet.
There is some confusion as to the exact kilometrage I'm covering each day. One reader has rightly noted discrepancies and inconsistencies in my copy. The billed distance between LE PUY and SANTIAGO is 1495 Km or 929 miles. The extra 71 miles to make it a round 1000 is probably accounted for by the further journey beyond to FINISTERRE. At the moment I've no wish whatsoever to go the extra mile.
The actual GR 65, which reasonably well tracks the historic pilgrim path, zig zags around for a multiplicity of reasons. It is not always possible or practical to follow the GR 65 for reasons including: floods, land slips, road works, autoroutes, weather conditions (sic; The Aubrac, where both the chemin and the road were closed)
Short cuts make for speed, but getting lost as I often did in the earlier parts, would I reckon even out the declared distance walked.
CONDOM
What a warm and welcoming town it is, with its glowing stone cathedral at the centre of a proudly clean and lively city of just 8000 inhabitants. Sited in a shallow basin some eight kilometres wide it is for me the epitomy of what a Gascony town might be.
Selecting the right lodging is impossible without a mass of heavy up to date guide books. So when I chose Le Relais de Cordeliers from my MIAM-MIAM-DODO I had no idea what I was in for except the address and the price. The latter was 270Fr to 450Fr, so I was distinctly nervous wen I shuffled in with dirty boots and a 12 kilo rucksack. What I got was the warmest of welcome including an accepted offer to dry my freshly laundered socks. The room, which is fine, has the lowest price.
Gastronomy in the Gers is marvellous, but despite the vigour of each day's walk enough is enough. Yesterday, the amphibian pilgrim provisionally said au revoir to ducks and tonight says hello to Pizza au feu du bois. In a stone vaulted cavern, the delightful people of CONDOM are enjoying themselves.
The delightful owners of this little modern "Logis des Cordeliers" cannot do enough to please their limited clientele. My socks were returned to me all dry and neatly rolled. Then followed the bowel shifting fear of where was I going to spend tonight. Had I known how lousy it was going to be I might well have followed "Plan A"
The pilgrim path passes the apparently beautiful tiny medieval town of LARRESSINGLE. It is completely walled and fortified with exhortations from many not to be missed. Then comes MONTREAL-DU-GERS, another interesting fortified town near to a part-recovered archaeological dream of a Gallo-Roman villa. This leg involving a walk of about 17 Km was just right until I tried to find somewhere to sleep. Out of the five possibilities listed in MIAM-MIAM-DODO, one was closed, three were full and the fifth didn't answer the phone. Other local guide books were produced by the patron, but to no avail. The only hope was to walk to MONTREAL, try one's luck and if everything failed then take a taxi to EAUZE.
With leaden sprits I set off and quickly joined up with other walkers, who were equally concerned about the problem. The only solution was to cut out LARRESSINGLE and MONTREAL and then head direct for EAUZE, a schlepp of around 33Km all on unmarked and unsigned hard surfaced lanes. A perfect formula for bashing feet and getting lost. We did both.
I semi-teamed up with Philip, a Lille bank manager, who had learned some English in the Calais branch of his regional bank. As we got to within 20Km of EAUZE a little research indicated the possibility of a restaurant and bar with rooms at BRETAGNE D'ARMAGNAC.
Sure enough, having marched through the ups and downs of vine growing country the romantically named, BRETAGNE D'ARMAGNAC appeared on the horizon some 2 Km distant. I fell upon a charming little empty cafe managed by a 55 year old plump "pieds noir" lady. After a glass of "Floc", the much appreciated local aperitif of jus de raisin fortified with Arrmagnac she took the Lille bank manager and me across the road to a 300-year-old building of lathe and plaster made just about habitable for humans. She proudly explained that it wasn't possible to open or close the loo door with the loo seat down, but it could be closed once installed inside.
The cold is intense with the so called chauffage as good as useless. So much for so called swanky hotels, which one dear reader has accused me of exploiting. Tonight I'm settling in the corridor of a tumble-down on the way to the bogs. I'm sleeping tonight on my inflatable mattress tucked up inside my sleeping bag.
One postscript before nightmare time. At Le Puy, the town- planners are building an underground car park beneath the buildings attaching to the Cathedral. It is reported that the explosions have split some of the rock in the great old buildings attaching to the Cathedral and are awaiting witnesses to come forward with proof of the desecration.
Message from Charles' Website Editor: Appologies to readers for not updating the site over the last few days, I've been having a baby. Well, actually, my wife was having the baby, I just provided technical and motivational support, organised logistics and supplied communications and transport. So I'm very happy to say Jake James Ridley Latter was born on Easter Sunday, and is now back at home with us and doing fine. No need for this message really, I couldn't help it and besides, I am in charge of this site! EOM Justin.
NOGARO
Having shivered for most of the night despite Madame's more than adequate dinner I was glad to get back to her cafe and the warm. Having packed her little granddaughter off to school she presented Phillip (The bank manager) and me with a cup of lovely coffee, two baguettes, half a kilo of butter and a big unopened pot of strawberry jam. When it came to pay she asked for 210 Fr and declined to charge us for breakfast because we were pilgrims. She bears more than a passing resemblance to one of London's would be smartest French hostesses. The age and visage are alike, but Madame is a comfy soul as well.
Phillip, poor fellow, looks remarkably unfit and apart from his early corpulence, suffers badly from eczema and hay fever of the eyes. His pink face was all puffed up this morning and he had to arrange to find a doctor in EAUZE who would prescribe him something suitable.
Weather is running something like two days fine and one day wet. Today was the wet one's turn. Within minutes boots are filling up nicely following frequent dives into the ditch to avoid aggressive on-coming traffic on the 5Km road walk into EAUZE. Although I've remarked on different walking surfaces before they are so uppermost in my mind that I must repeat; Goudron or bitumen for speed and maximum pain, earth tracks excellent for easy walking, long wet grass fills the boots in minutes, mud is slippy and slightly dangerous, rocky paths are where extreme care needs to be taken to avoid falling. I had a bit of each today on the 25 Km march to NOGARO.
For the first time I saw the worrying side of a duck farm. I came across a large muddy field holding what I would guess to be about 1000 grubby white ducks. They weren't attempting to feed, but were just herding themselves aimlessly around in the mud. In the field next door there was a farm building similar to a light aircraft hangar. Here were at least another 500 little white quackers and three humans doing something suspicious. I thought I was going to witness a forced feed during the last few days of their short lives. Happily, I was wrong and apparently they were being vaccinated at a rate of one every five seconds. Vaccinated against what I couldn't find out.
The country is almost exclusively cultivated with vines and surprisingly the rows are planted with a variety of course grass. Around lunch time I saw a quite smart car parked at the corner of a vine field. Things must be good for viticulteurs I thought as I got nearer. In fact the couple turned out to be a commercial traveller stopping for a bite of lunch with his lady friend. It just might have been my sad pilgrim's face and tales of having walked 500 Kms that moved the kind lady to offer me some lunch. Like a friendly dog I smiled and said yes please. The result was a super ham sandwich and a paper napkin. Her bounty was most gratefully received.
Twice during the walk and once whilst resting afterwards the tranquillity was shattered by sonic booms. The first was like a booming whoosh, whilst the second had the frightening crack of a tank gun firing. The third shook the window seriously of my hotel bedroom. I thought that sonic booms were strictly banned in Europe, but France has always sensibly followed its own ideals.
Three signs of Spain getting nearer sparkled into view today. First, I saw a Tapas bar in EAUZE, Second I walked down Avenue des Pyrennese in EAUZE and thirdly I gazed in awe at the little bull fighting arena in MANCIET. You need to be terribly thin to dash behind one of three wooden protection shields strategically placed around the oval arena.
The country remains just as rolling, verdant and welcoming as I stagger across the Gers, but the house styles are changing. Gone are the red roofs and stone walls. Instead a Gers version of what the British are accustomed to in Normandy i.e. black and white timber framed houses of varying size. Here, they are brown timbers and coffee coloured plaster. The new ones built in the same style are completely false with no real timbers.
The cold continues but this can't be forever as every cafe is equipped with ceiling fans lying dormant with wings folded until summer arrives. I learned this evening that this time last year temperatures soared in this region to 40 degrees and caused many pilgrims to pack it in and go home.
Readers will be hard pressed to find LUPPE-VIOLLES on the map. It is half way between NOGARO and AIRE-SUR L'ADOUR.
Last night at NOGARO I stayed at the rather grubby Hotel Le Commerce. As it's located in the Place des Cordeliers I was keen to ask the Patronne a little more about the origin of the word having learned a few days ago that they were pre French Revolution wearers of a thick waist cord. As the word appears quite often in this region I might have known that a local wouldn't have the faintest idea of its own history. Sure enough La Patronne just blew her cheeks and shrugged. She was a cheeky, but friendly number with an unusual sense of humour for a French woman. Her knowledge of the NOGARO motor racing circuit was more her line of country.
Paul Armagnac, a local Mr Big, bought the disused aerodrome some years back and has apparently made a great success of attracting top drivers and riders to the circuit. A group of eight team quelque chose came to the hotel restaurant last night lending colour to the scene.
As I went into the dining room there was Lars the Norwegian plumber besporting a fabulous digital camera with three pilgrim woman fawning over him - a Swiss and two Germans. At the next table were two more Swiss women. Yes, all five are teachers. Most of them have to go back to work next week, but it proves the rather reassuring fact that the Chemin de St. Jacques is a safe place for women on their own. Instead of having yet another excessively long day ahead I decided to walk just 14 Km or half way to AIRE-SUR-L'ADOUR.
MIAM-MIAM-DODO came up with "Le Relais dArmagnac" at LUPPE-VIOLLES, which offers pilgrims: a welcome vin d'honeur on arrival, Dinner, unlimited laundry, breakfast and a picnic lunch. All for a remarkable 300Fr.
Amid cold sunshine and two German girls for company I set off from NOGARO and promptly got lost before getting out of town. A quick enquiry at the gleaming Credit Agricole put us right and to my delight the Monsieur who guided us crossed himself and asked me in English to say a prayer for him when I reached Compostella. The German girls are going home on Sunday, one to Cologne and the other to Berlin.
The Cologne teacher is on her fourth year of accomplishing the whole pilgrimage in stages from Le Puy to Santiago. She's only taking a week's holiday this time, but reckons to complete the journey in the next two or three years.
The hotel at LUPPE was a success thanks to the excellent 300 Fr pilgrim's package described yesterday. I took full advantage of the free laundry and this morning's free picnic. Dinner was well below the now expected high standards of Gers cooking. In fact the proffered soup "Veloute de Cep" had every resemblance to a packet of mushroom potage from Nestle.
The evening was a jolly one in good company of the two German school teachers. One is jokey and likes a drink, whilst the other is earnest and bravely puts up with a leg problem. Both speak pretty good English and some French. They're not named here for a reason that will become all too clear later in this piece.
We set off to do the 16Km walk to AIRE-SUR-L'ADOUR in a bitingly cold North East wind. Passing two huge white duck farms at a distance of not more than 100 metres it was impossible to appreciate that large white patches some 50 yards square were in fact massed ducks in resting mode.
The region approaching the River Adour is flat and dreary, mainly planted with maze as far as I could tell. The heat and dryness in this area must be stupefying in the summer as the huge prairie like fields are traversed by 500 metre wide water gantries fed from the River Adour. They sprinkle the entire surface when the need arises. The cost of this operation must indicate that the maze crop is a valuable one and pays the cost, let alone the abstraction fee from the water authority.
In the middle of one 2Km dead straight stretch along a disused railway line, there suddenly appeared a little oasis in the form of a bench with a purpose built back rest for rucksacks, a scallop shell, a written invitation to help one self to bottled water and an invitation to write a message in a specially provided notebook. The benefactor of this munificence then appeared with his sweet dog. He is Louis Berdoulet, an 87 year old peasant who loves to greet pilgrims as they pass. He told me with sad sincerity that he had been a prisoner of war in Austria for five years of his life and his attitude towards my two German companions was hardly overwhelming.
A bicyclist came by at that moment in full touring kit. Pulling a little single wheel trailor, this sporting Swiss gent told me that he had ridden from Bern in Switzerland and hoped to be in St. Jacques in less than 20 days from now.
For the second half of the day's walk an unpleasant icy and thundery storm swirled around us and despite being well protected with so called waterproof gear, the wetness was most unpleasant. So much so that when I came to photograph a diminutive wayside memorial stone I didn't dare expose my already slightly damaged camera to the downpour.
The text on the small stone monument said: "TO THE MEMORY OF (TWELVE NAMED MEN) OF THE MAQUIS WHO IN 1944 WERE MURDERED AND THEN BURNED BY THE GERMANS" I was shocked and quivered slightly at the stark reality of what I had read.
The two German girls/women are teachers, friends of mine and pilgrims. We have walked together now for two days and a bond of trust has simply developed. To them both I addressed exactly the same question. It was "Do you feel any sadness and or guilt about what you are looking at now ?"
The earnest one answered instantly with a jutting chin and a single word:
"NO"
The Jokey one, I semi felt, winced at her companion's brevity and I think I saw a tear beginning to form in her rain soaked face. There in a word is what I have feared from Germany and my attitude towards them can only continue to be tempered with distrust.
Some chaos reined as we finally marched into AIRE-SUR- L'ADOUR. The girls wanted to find the bus stop for their early departure tomorrow morning back to Cologne and Berlin. That done and thanks to their explorative nature we went into a not to be forgotten "Restaurant L'Ahumat" - a warm and "sympa" place with a humming atmosphere of good management at give away prices. To my delight, terror and excitement I suddenly noticed that a single male diner at a strategically placed corner table was openly wearing a double side black webbing shoulder holster and presumably its attendant weapon.
Rather than pass up such evidence of Wild West behaviour, I checked with La Patronne. At first she denied that the "shot- gun" was actually armed, but then confessed that he toured the area in his capacity as a surveillance man. She couldn't or wouldn't tell me, who pays his wages.
Whether or not because of our interest in the subject she offered to drive us back to our hotel. We accepted.
What sort of hell or purgatory is it that equals an early evening at "L'Auberge" at ARZACO-ARRAZIGUET on 22.4.01 ?
It has been a rotten day for many reasons. Dawn broke to a grey overcast and a weather forecast of cold and showers well below the seasonal norm. With a temperature of just 3 degrees, the day's walk of 25Km to PIMBO required wearing woollies and gloves. The German girls pushed off early at 7 a.m. to catch their bus. I'll miss them as walking companions and resign myself to plodding across this inhospitable stretch of country very much alone. There have been multiple variations to the GR 65 in the last two years, which lends a certain frisson to map reading, because although in general the famous red and white "balises" are reasonably evident, they frequently bear little resemblance to the map.
More and more open plains appeared devoted to growing maze with last years harvest held in huge cages alongside every farm.
Claustrophobia has plagued me for 45 years and there is not the slightest sign of it going away. Waves of terror sweep towards me at the thought of being trapped in even the most modest of enclosures. Today's attack came at the least expected moment.
Finding accommodation in this deepest part of France at a latitude not much different from BIARRITZ is mighty difficult. It either means a 35 Km march or a baby one of 5 Km. Research came up with a Chambres d'Hotes at PIMBO just 25 Km from AIRE-SUR-L'ARDOUR.
Half way there, gazing through an undeterminable visibility, I suddenly saw a bone chilling vision. It was a solid panoramic barrier of grey and snow capped peaks. From side to side I realised that I was gazing at Spain and the Pyrenees - a mountain chain I'd have to deal with in coming weeks. Till now France has seemed to be home with St James and St Roch keeping a protective eye on this pilgrim's welfare.
ARE YOU THERE ST JACQUES ?
PIMBO was a tiny bastide village with a welcoming Chambre d'Hotes with an equally welcoming patronne. To my horror and possibly unreasonable fear, she showed me to an attic room with just a skylight for outside illumination. In seconds I was down the stairs and into the street to escape the terror of enclosure. La patronne was sweet and understanding as I pleaded my excuses and faced up to another 6.5 Km footsore flog to ARZACQ-ARRAZIGUET.
Here, at the little rainswept village, the "Vielle Auberge" looked welcoming and indeed it was until I found that my pre-booked room was the premier number one on offer. Newly decorated with a single 40 watt overhead light and a prison style loo beside the bed, in estate agent parlance it boasted a 3 metre view to the hotel and restaurant's WC. The smell perfectly matched the view.
I was not to be alone at ARZACQ-ARRAZGUET, because the two Swiss dames from NOGARO swept into the bar soon after me. These two deserve some explanation. Both teachers from Lake Constanz, the younger 50 year old is an undeniably pretty hypochondriac with an aversion to greasy food. Her companion or girl friend is older plainer and dozier, but between the two they follow an unusual walking formula. They take a taxi in the morning to their chosen distance to walk and walk back to their point of departure i.e. the hotel we are staying in now. After a second night at the same place they again take a taxi to the same chosen place and then walk forward to the next selected stopping place.
These Swiss ladies like to eat as early as possible and the pretty one says that at home she has her evening meal at 6 pm. Hence, when we had Sunday supper together it was a struggle to keep them out of the empty dining room at around that time. We agreed to follow their unusual formula together tomorrow i.e. taxi to POMPS and walk back 17.5 Km to here. This way there's no cheating, but it does mean facing a germ laden bar as the only place to sit and write.
Mobile telephone connectivity from here is NIL, so expect a network silence for the next 48 hours.
If not the longest it must have been one of the longest night's of my life. By 1030 pm I was to all intents and purposes locked in my cell with the 40 watt bulb glowing overhead. The hotel/restaurant lavatory corridor clanged shut leaving any return to the bar's humanity impossible. The emergency door to the street was a one way solution only.
Betjeman and Tom Clancy were rationed to ten minute sessions least they ran out before dawn. There was an owl sitting a top the prison wall that not only hooted continually, but he woosh-wooshed as if a gust of wind was seeking entrance to my cell.
Dawn or a sort of grey light is just arriving at 0730 and release time is due at 0800. Medium heavy rain and a temperature of less than 10 degrees is forecast. Wet tractor drivers are parking outside and coming in to the bar for coffees whilst Barry White plays on the music box. This is no St. Tropez. It is France profonde with worse to come. Pride, vanity and determination are currently losing as I plan an escape route back to civilisation. One possibility is to take the planned taxi on to another place and maybe flee from there. Why would that be better ? No for the moment it makes sense to stick with yesterday's plan.
0900 HRS
The two Swiss ladies arrive for a horrendously late breakfast and announce before sitting down that "WE ARE QUITTING BECAUSE OF THE WEATHER AND OUR MORAL COLLAPSE"
I QUIT WITH UTMOST SHAME.
Terror of being alone in these conditions with shelter at a premium and even if I find it I cannot bear the prospect of entrapment any more.
I telephoned home and found a surprised wife, who poor darling just cannot understand what has happened to me and asked if I need a doctor. No I don't want a "f.....g doctor", I just want to get away from the cold, the hail, the dark and the solitude. I am a townie not a nature man.
Now at PAU railway station awaiting the 1509 TGV to PARIS I have said goodbye to the two Swiss ladies who are returning to Zurich and have met Simone a 62 year old French woman from LYON, who completed the entire LE PUY - COMPOSTELLA two years ago on her own without any problem. Now, she too has quit from a resting place in a wooden shed not far from ARZAQE-ARRAZIGUET. Her reason ? "Rain, hail and unacceptably foul conditions."
The usual early morning grumblings from dogs and family greeted me at 0430 this morning as the great return to pilgrimage arrived. The last shave for 45 days left me gleaming and sleek to match the close cut hair specially shampooed for the start . That only left the 35 litre rucksack to be trused up like haggis.
No long drawn out farewell at Heathrow as I bade farewll to a darling wife who drove me there in comfort. Memories of leaving Le Puy on March 23rd flooded back. Then the departure was a half kilometre walk up the rue dss Capucines in full view of a weepy family. The thousand mile walk in prospect was more than daunting and little was I to know that apart from hotel staff and bed and breakfast patrons I was to meet virtually no one for the next three weeks.
Today, I have the delightful company of Peter Collinson, a super fit 35 year old financial adviser. As might be expected at this time of year the Air France flight to Paris was delayed by ATC for half an hour and despite being permtted to carry our 10-12 kilo rucksacks as hand luggage it soon became apparent that the transfer between Charles de Gaule and Orly for the flight to PAU was ging to be a game of chance in terms of time.
For the crowded domestic flight to PAU our rucksacks and Peter's metal, foldng walking stick were forbidden in the cabin. Arrival at PAU was civilised and in next to no time a taxi was whizzing us along to the donkey farm at Merlacq. Countryside looking lovely after recent rain thus leaving a pleasant 21C The maize, which was just appearing in April, is now a good seven foot tall and looks more or less ready for harvesting. The tobacco crops have already been harvested and seen hanging in the newly built sheds (almost certainly EU subsidised) the blonde leaf looks more like a drying chamois leather than a potential killer roll-up. This leaf, known as Burly is used as a blending tobacco particularly used by mint flavoure smokes and also by Marlborough.
Madame greeted us with coffee in mid afternoon and I checked out the donkey situation. They are for hire at a rate of 200Fr per day or 1200 Fr per week. A lovely idea to hire one, but despite having our luggage carried for us the poor beast might be more trouble than he's worth. The cost of rentng a castrated donk for the pilgrimage between Le Puy is a modest 5,000Fr., plus the cost of transport say 2,000Fr. Feeding is no problem as a few carots or mealies is all he wants each evening. He doesn't need a field and can be tied up almost anywhere.
A pleasant afternoon stroll of 3 Km to ARZACQ took me back to the dreaded Vielle Auberge from where I bolted around the 23rd April. Then it was cold, sleeting with a black and glowering sky. My morale was non existent. Today with pleasant sunshine it's all different. The ghost of claustrophobia is hopefully laid to rest and a holiday mood prevails in advance of tomorrow's walk to POMPS.
La ferme du Bibane deserves its rosette as awarded by the excellent publication MIAM-MIAM DODO, which many don't believe really exists. If only its equivalent existed in Spain now only four days away. This donkey farm was warmth personified.
The welcome was modest and gentle with our two rooms adorned with donkey memorabilia such as bits, halters, stirrups, saddlery and bridles. Two month old "Milou" was an adorable wire haired, slightly long legged Jack Russell. He is to be engaged as the farm ratter.
I may have maligned ARZACQ-ARRAZIGUET because during my gloom laden stay there in April I hadn't realised that around the corner from the dreary Vielle Auberge there was another square with a little market and a fair modicum of charm. Dinner with the farm owners was a delight as we tucked into soup, rilette de porc. home made politically incorrect boudin noir, cheese and coconut pudding. The total bill for the night covering dinner b & b was just £10 Anyone interested in coming donkey walking in the Pyrenese next year with a 68 year old retired pilgrim should join the queue quickly to avoid disappointment.
An early start found Peter and I testing out our comparative speeds and within minutes it was obvious that on hill climbs he actually appears to accelerate. Otherwise we seem to walk at agreeably equal tempo with an exponentially decreasing level of chat as the day wore on. We saw a snake, which I am told was not an adder. What looked like two highly coloured protectively clothed road workers appeared 400 metres ahead, but as the distance closed I noticed their over and under 12 bore shot guns slung broken across their shoulders in the style of Guy Ritchie in gangster country sporting mode. These were no roadmen, but brave chasseur awaiting an unknown quantity of dog driven sangliers. They'd already waited on site for two hours without seeing anything and said that time was no barrier. Whether these terrifying 100 kilo beasts would charge I do not know, but for me I'd rather wait up a tree.
Twice through my bad map reading we took wrong turnings on the way to MORLANNE, which is a few kilometres off the "Chemin". It is all to easy to go wrong when off track and without the homely red and white signs called "Balises".
Result ? An extra 6 Km at least was added to our walk making a minimum of 23 Km for the day. Le Manoir at Morlanne is a superbly situated Chambres d'hote/Gite and it gave itself a 3 epis (star) in MIAM-MIAM DODO, but it failed dismally to meet our pilgrim's expectations. Dirty, run down and overgrown best describes first impressions. At 1500 hrs our room wasn't ready (Yes, we had to share) and the totally Frenchified, but German patronne told me that clients weren't normally accepted until 5 PM. There was no hot water either because the boiler was bust. The small swimming pool looked like a cloudy grey duck pond and was best left to the other French demi pensionaires. They couldn't even raise a glass of wine, but we got a tin of tepid beer instead.
Dirty, scruffy and lazy is the best way to describe the management of Le Manoir d'Argeles at MORLANNE. Gorgeously sited with a huge West facing terrace looking at the 60 mile distant French Pyrenees. Warm beer was the only drink available and we sat solemnly waiting until 9.30PM before a sort of gong sounded and ten of us trooped into the grand salon in the company of six non-English speaking Germans with whom we had the greatest difficulty in communicating.
The dinner was quite edible, but being German cooked it was heavy and stodgy. Wine was copious and encouraged me to talk to the Patron about his project which involves uncovering a previously un-mentioned detention centre at GURS near here. Seemingly, at the time of the Spanish civil war and later, refugees from Franco were locked up there together with many other "undesirables" including many Jews and Gypsies. In fact 4,000 GURS prisoners were shipped from there to AUSCHWITZ. Would anyone with knowledge about this little known story please share it with me.
Peter C was more than thrilled to learn by his state of the art messaging device that England had beaten Germany by 5 to 1 in the World Cup Soccer qualifier. The gloomy Krauts were quick to remind us that Michael Schumaker was bound to win the Grand Prix next day. Sharing a room with another bloke is not a regular habit for Peter or me, so we were both delighted to find that neither snored. The only problem came this morning when Peter lost one of his two boot inner soles. It came as a relief to find that it had been nicked by the very friendly family dog, who being a Pyreneen Mountain dog had nursed it carefully instead of destroying it as would have been the case with our two low flying German hounds.
Blisters and some heat turned out to be a problem today. We walked through hectares of maize fields standing every bit as high as an elephant's eye. We had steep climbs and plunging descents, but after 17Km instead of the planned 29Km we bottled out and checked into this ** hotel at MASLACQ. I am suffering from blisters now, which makes me walk like Dustin Hoffman in "The Rain Maker". We still have 160 Km to go to PAMPLONA with a planned arrival date of 8th September. Simple arithmetic makes it clear that we are going to have to step up our average speed a little.
Nick Neve, my fellow trustee of the Royal Aero Club Trust has come up trumps. With his wife he has rented a Gite near St. Palais and has kindly offered Peter and me accommodation plus transport to and fro from the "Chemin de Compostelle" He intends to collect us tomorrow from near NAVARRENX and then drive us to the gite. Next morning he'll hopefully return us at bon heure to our walking point.
There is a tiny aeroclub here with a visiting 65 HP Piper Cub and a 90 HP Moraine Rallye. It was a nostalgic moment to see them there and I chatted to their plots without daring to admit that my licence expired at the end of July probably never to be renewed.
One of the most charming TV programmes appeared on the screen in the bar of the Hotel where we decided to stay. It delightfully showed a young French couple teaching a little family of geese to fly in the company of his microlight. The valiant honkers had been inducted into the art prior to hatching from their eggs. I was entranced, but nearly wept when one of the flyers got her wing entangled in part of the microlight's rigging. Hopefully, she only suffered a sore shoulder.
Earlier in the afternoon, having halted at the roadside for a snack of bread and cheese I found myself tottering and waddling on getting going again. Before I knew what was happening a car had stopped, turned round and drawn up beside. A distinctly pretty woman wound down her window and offered to drive me a suffering pilgrim to the nearby gite. I can only see that as an incredible act of kindness.
The Hotel Magouber at MASLACQ, was a poor example of a Logis de France. Reception was polite, the rooms standard whitewashed rough concrete, but the swimming pool looked clean and inviting. Dinner was second rate served by a surly and abrupt creature totally intent on spoiling our appetites.
Leaving MASLACQ at 0750 made it the earliest start of the entire pilgrimage. The plan was to get well beyond NAVARRENX, but poor map reading plus confusion with Alison Raju's guide book made that look unlikely. Instead, we reached NAVARRENX by around 2 PM to be met by Nick and Pat Neve with their estate car and a cold beer. Peter nearly ran over the bridge to greet them, such was his enthusiasm for a cold drink. Nick is a fellow trustee of the Royal AeroClub Trust and with astonishing generosity has rented a gite for this week suitably located near the Chemin de Compostelle. With his charming American wife Pat, their aim is to give solid support to the pilgrim and his young escort. Hence we are staying two nights as their guests and are being driven to the start point on two mornings and retrieved from the finish point on two evenings. Nick is an enthusiastic aeromodeller and has brought with him two flying examples. One is an electrically powered glider that he demonstrated in the calm of the evening climbing up to about 1000 ft where he guided it to fly in the company of a buzzard. As the great bird of prey circled in the thermals, so did Nick's glider until the turbulence caused the glider to drop lower and out of touch with the bird.
Relieved of more than half of my knapsack's load today we set off by car back to NAVARRENX from where Peter and I walked 31Km back to near ST PALAIS. Despite wearing trainers instead of boots the foot pain was horrid with blisters making themselves disagreeably obvious. Instead of covering the 31Km in 5 hours as we optimistically predicted, it turned out to be 7 hours. Once again Raju may have misguided us which caused an additional 5 Km to be added to or schlep.
On the plus side I saw a kingfisher dart away through the reeds on a river bank and a buzzard taking off from the roadside. On the negative side poor Peter took a tumble on an un made up road, which could have been quite nasty. By the grace of God there was no damage.
Tomorrow is another 31Km to St Jean Pied de Port and after a night in a hotel there it will be farewell to France.
Just 433 miles to go and apart from unspeakable foot problems morale is pretty good.
At the end of a tough day on Thursday 7th September thanks to my navigation stupidity we checked into a modern hotel in ZUBIRI. The village itself survives on a vast magnesita factory and quarry. The hotel is constructed within an old stone building, which disguises the modernity of its 10 bedrooms with their swish bathroom sanitary ware more fitting for the Ritz Madrid. Hosteria de Zubiri has good food too although it was curious that the amateur management only part laid the tables seconds before we sat down. Senora at the desk with her silvery gold coiffe was tedious beyond belief and I was on the verge of quitting when Luis Dominguez hove into view. A quiet 56 year old American travelling light and alone is a Spanish speaker and he gently sorted out the simple problem of checking in.
As Peter C was to be whipped off to Pamplona and Bilbao next morning Luis and I agreed to walk the 20 Km on to Pamplona together. Peter has been a brick for the last week as he acted as my minder, coach and friend. I would never have moved at an average of 15 miles per day without his encouragement. The walk to Pamplona turned out to be a hot and tedious flog only enlivened for me by the sight of two Honda Fireblades racing one another on the main road at a speed that looked like in excess of 150 mph.
PAMPLONA was silent as the grave as we entered the old town through a magnificent gate in the rampart walls. It was siesta time, which belied the incredible din that was to burst forth much later in the night.
Hotel Eslava is an old fashioned hotel, - Light, well sited and cheap. To my delight Glen Allan has arrived from Hampshire via Bilbao and what a welcome sight he makes. Not only is he carrying a rucksack, but a canvas holdall as well complete with boating jacket, tie and leather shoes. As long as I don't have to carry his sartorial equipment he may well increase our chances of getting an upgrade in a refugio if that is not a contradiction in terms.
The delectable Marianne and her husband Manuel guided us to a terrific tapas bar on the main drag where the bull running festival astonishes the world. Marianne is no slouch on the subject of bull fighting and is a great source of information. I learned that I had wrongly guessed the South East corner of Frances's greeting to new found wealth was due to spurious hidden money. No, it was the people of the South West themselves who, when feeling disadvantaged that they hadn't benefited from the wealth that tourism brings decided to do something about it. They protested by taking direct action and tipped all their rubbish onto the South West Atlantic beaches ! They got their subsidies.
The nosh in the Tapas bar was wonderful ranging from squid, ham and pimentos to salted cod with the salt taken out. There are 270 bars in this small area of the old town and they all seemed to doing a roaring trade. Alcohol has become a major problem for Pamplona as all the kids are spending their modern day wealth on foreign booze such as whisky, vodka and rum. Rolling out of bars as late as 0600 hrs the day is then spent mostly in bed.
The Ernest Hemingway impact is strongly felt, even though he died in 1978. Hotel Le Planta is still standing rather scruffily in the Plaza del Castillo. His fame has not all been for the good as is represented by the flood of drunk Americans who come to run with the bulls during the festival. Being inexperienced and drunk there are many accidents including fatalities. Glen Allan managed to get himself a Spanish credencial in Pamplona and was invited to pay 20 Duros for the privilege. The Duro is the predecessor to the Peseta by hundreds of years thus proving that things only change slowly in this ancient part of the world.
The countryside is now desert like having left the foothills of the Pyrenees and it was quite odd to visit by car today with Marianne PUENTA LA REINA. I was surprised to find a Maltese like atmosphere, with canaries, porticos, barred galleried windows and pinkish coloured stone.
We visited Marianne and Manuel's new village house. It is some 10 Km from PAMPLONA close to an important river stocked with trout and ecrivisse. Theirs is the second biggest "Casa" in this 700 population village. About 150 years old it is huge and built on three floors. Much much bigger than I had expected - in fact a veritable manoir. It is being totally restored and modernised by them, at hideous cost to be spread over five years. My words don't do justice to the splendidness they will doubtlessly achieve.
On this my first rest day spent partially on catching up with writing these scribblings I have also resorted to cutting off the forward "uppers" of my trainers so as to give some air space to nastily damaged big toes. Hopefully by tomorrow walking will be easier.
For me it's hard to believe that as long ago as Saturday I hobbled into PAMPLONA to find Glen Allan well installed at the Hotel Eslava.
Having been spoiled rotten by the adorable Marianne Reynell de Garcia and enchanted by little Thomas a board meeting was held and the present members passed a motion that Marianne and Thomas should join Glen and me for the final triumphant 100 Km into SANTIAGO. We can take it in turn to carry the little fellow presently weighing in at just 9 kilos.
Early morning today after a relatively quiet night the new member of Equipe Ranald decided to set off at 800hrs, but not before the latter day cross between Garry Cooper and Hugh Grant, had arranged for his suitcase of sartorial delights to be forwarded to him, care of the pilgrim's office in SANTIAGO.
Public transport took us to the PAMPLONA city limits, during which time it became horribly apparent that we were far from alone. The streets of PAMPLONA soon after 0800hrs were adorned with pilgrims discharged from the refugio. Unshaven, unslept and probably hungry young people were on their way. PAMPLONA lies West of the Pyrenees and consequently the land formation undergoes a dramatic change. No longer forests, cattle, bustling rivers and towering mountain, but brown and yellow coloured sierras. Seemingly PAMPLONA lies in a 50 mile radius dustbowl leaving a compact fortified town surrounded by a sprawl of modern day development.
It was a glorious day for walking and inspired Glen to get into the spirit of pilgrimage. It is a relatively short 23 Km walk to PUENTA LA REINA climbing steadily then steeply for the first two thirds of the distance followed by a steep descent then flat for the rest. The route crosses a natural wall of hills some 800 metres high, which is studded with no less than 40 giant three bladed windmills. Blowing a 20 knot Northerly wind, these giant turbines are generating electricity for PAMPLONA.
The climb was agony as both heel and toe blisters made every step a memorable event. Suddenly an observation of fellow pilgrims made it obvious that boots were not the fashion item of the day. Instead all manner of sandals were being worn and I decided to join them. The day before in PAMPLONA I had savaged the toe caps of my trainers with the trusty Swiss army knife and I swapped hot confining Brasher leather for the airy feel of unfettered feet. The result was astonishing and for the first time in 10 or possibly 40 days I was walking without pain. I fairly flew down the hill leaving poor Glen to question his own first day performance.
Towards the end of the five hour walk we were stopped by two German women asking to take our photos. Not as pin ups please be assured, but as evidence that we were genuine scallop shell wearing pilgrims. Glen's comment that he wasn't prepared to accept bloody day trippers holding us up will long remain a giggle.
It is stubble burning time and we were unlucky enough to have to walk across the downwind path of a blazing field. Apart from choking in the smoke for five minutes I couldn't help but be reminded of the stupid TV ad that shows a Renault car racing through burning sugar cane with a grinning macho man arm wrestling the tin car's wheel.
PUENTA LA REINA is quite small, but rightly famous for its 11th century pilgrim's bridge across the river Arga. Before Queen Urraca built it the poor old penitents had either to swim for it or risk the devilry of murderous ferrymen. With Spanish hours being so completely different from the rest of Europe it makes a three o'clock in the afternoon arrival a perfectly natural time to have lunch and anyway most places are closed in the evening.
A visit to the local pharmacy is a revelation. At opening time (1630 hrs) there was small queue of pilgrims - me amongst them, looking for quick fixes for their some times bloody feet. A whole display is devoted to Compeed, which a proprietary brand of second skin plasters. All shapes and sizes were being bought by a multi national bunch of sufferers. The chemist should re-name itself THE COMPEEDOS FRANCES.
Distances walked and distances to go mean nothing when such horror as happened just hours ago. The World Trade Centre in New York has I think, been raised to the ground. The Pentagon has been partially destroyed. Two United Airlines aircraft have been hi-jacked and caused the massacre in a suicide attack.
In my ignorance and detachment from world events as I trudge through Northern Spain my thoughts are as follows: Thank God to the best of my knowledge none of Glen's or my family and friends is likely to have been killed or hurt. I presume it is effectively Palestine attacking Israel via its adoptive parent the U.S.A. It won't cause a world war. U.S. defence stocks should, in due course fall as people appreciate the futility of ICBC's, Star Wars, Polaris etc., when a guy with a GPS and a home made bomb can simply hold the U.S.A. to ransom. Chest beating about detective work successes is proven to be a useless hubris.
The walk today of 23 Km was quite tough being a switch back with a top to bottom of around 250 metres. A cloudless day with wind made the sun relentless and we tottered into ESTELLA after 6 hrs plus half hour to find the hotel. Even after washing and cleaning up it's easy to spot a pilgrim by the way they walk i.e. hobbling, tip-toeing or shuffling. This ville of 13,000 souls looks neglected, run down and just plain poor. We are just about to sally forth down town with little expectation of getting much better than a second rate meal.
Estella had a miserable approach to it, passing smelly dirty water, broken down farms and what looked like broken down power stations. The town itself seemed equally run down and shabby. One of the main squares "Plaza de Santiago", instead of being a place of civic pride was more like a children's foot ball ground. However, like Kennedy's assassination, Churchill's funeral and Mountbatten's murder, Estalla will be etched in my mind forever as the place I was at on the day that America was violated by terrorism and maybe 10,000 people killed.
Despite the town's population of 13,000 it sported only two third rate hotels and one dreary restaurant with a bolshy waiter. Glen and I ended up there in its 1930's style decor reminiscent of London's larger Odeon cinemas. Except for a group of 14 Norwegian pilgrims all eating together it was deserted. For some unknown reason the Snowmen and women broke into a tuneful rendering of "It's long way to Tipperary", followed by applause.
Goofy the waiter made it perfectly plain that serving food was not really meant for him as he solemnly declined to explain what any of the 1800 pta menu was about. No water, no salt, no pepper no butter is standard form. Our moment arrived when from the end of the room came a glorious rendering on a well tuned piano of some of the best Gershwin, Porter, Kern and Berlin that I have ever heard. Brashly I bribed Arild the troubadour the price of his supper to play for another half hour. Arild turns out to be no ordinary school teacher as he had said , but a university professor of music. and the mercenary fellow pocketed the bribe and gave us another 10 minutes. His rhythm had Fats Waller, his synchronised improvisation had George Shearing and his dexterity approached the speed of Neville Dickie. For a while, armed with a good drink (Navarra Rosada 800 pta the bottle) I was in heaven. Would any reader in contact with him please tell Llewellyn W about this - he'd understand.
As well as using this brick like machine to send and receive messages as well as a mobile telephone I have a little Spanish mobile as well. For the life of me I have been unable to find a way of charging it up with more credit. After abortive attempts at keying numbers into a wall located ATM I found a tobacco shop in ESTELLA which sold scratch cards and greedily I bought a 2000 pta lifesaver. Could I deal with it ? could I hell. Nor could any other of the lightly brained juniors I found lolling in the bars. This afternoon I cracked it and loaded the little wonder with 2000 pta minus no less than 276 pta taxes. Next move is to find out how much it has in total in its tummy.
The 20Km walk today was stunner in terms of open scorched prairie growing grapes, asparagus and already harvested wheat. The stubble is burned leaving a vast patchwork quilt of chocolates, coffees, umbers, yellows, sometimes seared with stripes of black. No shade in perfect walking conditions favours early morning starts. We passed a lady pilgrim of a certain age (like us) resting in one of the few shady spots and Glen granted her his blessing by describing her as a "Gutsy old thing." Ho, ho.
20:50 Here we are nearly 9 'o'clock in the evening and back at the Hotel Ezequiel where we got to in time for late lunch. Everything is broken, dirty or misplaced. A light lunch for Glen and a snack for me followed by a wee sleep. Come the evening we looked forward with enthusiasm to dinner having noticed restaurant MAVI on the corner leading into the square. Menu was freshly typed and beautifully presented (as the estate agents say) and the opening times said 2030hrs to 2230hrs. Was it open ? Was it hell. Like the Hotel Monaco next door it had gone bust and rolled down the shutters. This seems to be the way with Northern Spain, which makes the guide books less than useful. Oh well the extra weight a pilgrim has to carry is part of the price to pay.
So, fifty pelegrinos crashed their way into the dining room of the Hotel Ezequel to the astonished gaze of one Moroccan waitress. Many people gave up waiting and disappeared into the dark and presumably back to their refugio to sleep on empty bellies. Eventually we got a bite and plenty of free Rosada, which at 13% did the trick.
Our new found Norwegian friends - all 15 of them are pushing off tomorrow by bus to I am not sure where, but it turns out that they aren't really pilgrims, but more holiday makers on a walking tour. What's more two of them weren't even teachers as I had thought. They were social workers specialising in the modern subject of child abuse. With the long dark nights in the frozen North I'd have thought the meddling do-gooders would have found a fertile winter hunting ground.
A sort of half day today as 26 Km to LOGRONO seemed like too much for Glen and I inclined to agree. The problem was accommodation at VIANA as there was no reply from one hotel and the second with remarkable rudeness said that they were full. So about 100 pilgrims spilled out of their respectful bedding places before 0800hrs and were soon strung out along the 16Km trail to VIANA. Walking along, quite unlike March and April when I saw not a soul for 21 days it is now a matter of semi walking in procession. Going too slowly brings overtakers, who soon stop further on and get re-passed. Consequently the same 100 pilgrims arrive in the next town at approximately the same time or at least with an hour of one another.
The openness of the prairies is dramatic as we get farther away from ETA territory and towards BURGOS. Still made up of brown patchwork fields with the only difference between 1000 years ago and today was the lack of oxen ploughing and brand new EU paid for tractors.
Marianne Reynell de Garcia had warned me that the Spanish don't smile and grovel the way the British do. In fact a smile is reserved for someone they don't like such as an un-welcome foreigner. Judging by the surly cow at this Hotel La Granja in VIANA we must be much admired, because eye contact is nigh impossible and even then the replies to questions are mono- syllabic.
Although this shabby hotel was fully booked last night it was mysteriously empty today as we checked in at early lunch time. The little town's claim to fame as far as I could see was tat it was where Cesar Borgia died and there is supposedly Michelin starred restaurant of the same name. Fed up with eating pretty disgusting food I checked out Restaurante Borgia and found a shabby place. The menu may have been fine, but the prospect of paying 6,000 pta did not appeal for eating in a dive where there were highly unlikely to be any other customers. As a result we spent the evening at "Pitu" which was noisy and cheap. Here I learned the wine custom when taking the standard menu at about 1200 pta (£4.50) The price is for three courses, bread and a bottle of very decent tinto. The problem comes if you need a second bottle, which amongst three people you certainly do. The waiter a bottle of filthy dregs and dumps it on the table. No amount of coercion could solve that problem.
The walk from VIANA to NAVARRETE is 22 Km passing the big town of LOGRONO on the way. Leaving shortly after 0730 we reached LOGRONO before 11'oclock and in time for a breakfast which was un-available at VIANA as the whole place seemed to be closed until midday. A few moments later I had seen the mighty statue of an equestrian St James the Matamoros. The great Saint used to appear in the sky to aid the brave Christians in their fight against the Moors.
Briefly I got a glimpse of a horse riding pilgrim leading his be- decked and baggage laden steed along the pavements of LOGRONO. It was a lovely sight, specially as the delightfully politically incorrect animal was leaving his mark with regularity.
Two examples of the Spanish attitude to pilgrims came as we were leaving LOGRONO. First a man drew up in a car beside a tall and solo male pilgrim and insisted he accept as a gift a rather heavy and un-wieldy wooden cross for use as a walking stick. Only minutes later another car drew up and gave the pilgrim couple in front of us some boiled sweeties to help them on their way.
This time next week we should have only three weeks left to go before reaching SANTIAGO. Who knows ?
Only a mini walk today of 16Km from NAVARETTE to here was covered in record time in beautiful sunny, but cool weather.
Towards the end of the stroll we walked up a narrow gully that gave out a surrealistic feel as it was entirely decorated by pilgrims with little stone beacons, pyramids, towerettes and other funny shapes. All made from round edged boulders ranging in diameter size from two inches to 12 inches. These boulders lie around everywhere and indicate that there must at some time have been a river flowing down the gully to wear the stone into such rounded form.
2Km from NAJERA painted cleanly and clearly on a factory wall is a 700 word poem written in Castilian. It tries to explain why pilgrims make their journey ending the last line by saying "Only He Above knows" Whilst reading it a little white motor rolled up and out stepped a saintly little beret wearing priest who chatted to us totally unintelligibly for five minutes. I'd like to think that he gave us a blessing, and if he didn't I can at least pretend it was.
With no choice we have moved into a posh hotel complete with CNN television in English. This is the first time that Glen and I have heard, read or seen any English news. We have been starved of own language news by newspaper, word of mouth or tele since the ghastly happenings of 11th September. What little I have seen so far is even more shocking than I had feared. In a funny way being detached as I am from the real world I can think about it more rationally than when being bombarded with 24 hr news.
NAJERA was en fete last night with men dressed in white playing excruciating music on their brass instruments as they staggered through the streets. Glen was kept awake by the explosion and the super volume amplifiers pumping out Spanish rock music.
Getting out of a hotel early in the morning is always a problem for a pilgrim. Even if payment of the bill the night before has been accepted, which it usually isn't, there is the question of actually getting passed locked doors. Today, the dim witted night porter was in sole charge, once I had shaken him wake from the comfort of his *** leather sofa in the middle of the grandiose marble floored hotel lobby. With commendable skill he produced the two bills, but they were wrong and we had been slightly overcharged. His motionless facial expression indicated that if we came back at midday instead of 0745 as it was perhaps somebody would look at it. Quite simply if we didn't pay the police would arrive and the just imagine it. We paid and scooted to set out on the 21 Km trail to here.
I hadn't reckoned on the endurance of Najera denizens. They were still singing, dancing and revelling as only an inebriated Spaniard can at 8 o'clock in the morning. The efficient local authority was making a good job of clearing up the human detritus decorating the cobbled streets.
The new pair of boots I bought yesterday have immediately been found useless. Each step puts an unbearable pressure on my two big toes with hellish pain. So it is back to the toeless trainers and poor old Brasher's leather boots consigned to the bin.
The weather is much cooler today, but fortunately no rain. As we got to AZOFRA with tongues hanging out for a cup of coffee, which we had been denied at NAJERA, we found the village in a state of drunken incomprehension. Both bars were closed.
The RIOJA countryside has changed from vines to barley and the soil taken on an even darker hue of red. Right in the middle of nowhere bulldozers and land scrapers have moulded a 40 hectare area of red dust into the distinctive form of a golf course. I learned that there is to be a country club with 800 apartments. Difficult to see who would want to go there, but maybe it will turn out to be another Aspen or Soto Grande of the North.
An overweight American couple came into view wearing their traditional brightly coloured lycra leisure garb. They were trying to walk from PAMPLONA to BURGOS, but found taxi rides an easier way of doing it. Claiming that lack of training was the problem they'll soon be heading back to Washington if they can get a transatlantic flight.
Out of the blue a PROTECION CIVIL Land Rover pulled up beside us and asked if we were alright for water. A nice gesture I thought.
Reached here in well under six hours to find a pleasant bar and restaurant with disgusting rooms. One friendly joker at the bar said he'd been a chauffeur in London for 40 years, but he'd learned about as much English as a football yob on holiday at Magaloof. The other friendly soul of a certain age was keen to show us pictures of himself in his days as a matador - he was stylishly known as "El Nino"
At last Marianne Reynell's theory that the Spanish only smile at you if they don't like you has been disproved. At lunch a pretty and nicely endowed waitress beamed her way around the dining room serving the paella followed by inedible chicken.
CAMINO NOTICE: Today, Alexander and Emily Allan have been added to the daily e.mail list with their respective hotmail addresses. Please will they acknowledge this message and pass on its contents by whatever means possible to their mother.
Last night at SANTO DOMINGO DE LA CALZADA was a mixed experience. It is a fine city with a glorious Cathedral and several hotels including a lovely Parador well outside a pilgrim's means. We stayed at Hostal El Rio which despite a pleasant bar serving a few tapas, had truly disgusting bedrooms and a wash room. To look under the bed for such things as lost socks or loose change was to invite a visual shock in terms of nastiness.
The Cathedral is the burial place of Santo Domingo, who died aged 90 in 1109 having devoted most of his life to the needs of pilgrims. The Cathedral is most famous for its semi farmyard display of a living brightly illuminated pair of fowl. The white cock and his pretty white bride live in a shrine reminding visitors of a famous pilgrim legend. Once upon a time when a young pilgrim and his parents stayed in the town he was falsely accused of theft. He was tried, found guilty and hanged. His distraught parents continued with their pilgrimage and on their return being unconvinced of his death visited the site of his execution where they found him hanging, but alive. They hastened to see the judge to plead for his release. The man of justice was busy eating his lunch of roast chicken and soggy chips and proclaimed that their son was as dead as the chickens on his plate. Immediately, the roasted fowl grew wings and flew into the air as living proof of the boy's innocence. Now their successors now live in celebrated harmony in a consecrated hen house in the cathedral.
As Glen and I made an evening stroll we saw American Stephen come staggering out of the refuge and quickly learned that he had walked 34 Km today to catch up. After few drinks at Cafe Suiza his slight smugness diminished and he admitted to pain killing pill assistance. A suburban Paris dentist and his wife joined us in tucking in to a generous helping of finely cut Spanish ham. Although expensive at 2000 pta, it's a real treat and the same price as my filthy bedroom.
On leaving SANTO DOMINGO we crossed the bridge over Rio Oja, which was totally dry and probably had been so since May or June. After passing the birth place of St Domingo I did some brief calculations and worked out that Glen has done his first 10 miles averaging a cracking 14 miles per day. At this rate, 15th October looks a possible target date for SANTIAGO.
At Recedilla del Camino I looked into the 12th Century church and being peaceful and quiet I went to light a candle. There were the candles for sale priced to please. As I popped a few pesetas into the slot, to my amazement I realised that the candles were electric and I had bought four tiny torch bulbs. Now at the Hotel Belorado we are gearing up for the next two days combination of climbing and refuge sleeping.
CAMINO NOTICE: Sincerest apologies to Glen for yesterday's typo. I complemented the old fellow on achieving his first 10 miles when of course it should have said 100 miles. Such is the carelessness of a slap dash author. Sorry Glen.
From the land of the toothpick where every male over the age of sixteen is either picking his teeth or walking about the place with a toothpick jutting from his mouth. We revelled in the relative luxury of a one star hotel when we stayed at the Hotel Belorado. Own rooms plus running water and double glazing. On reaching Belorado itself, we had passed some 30 pilgrims ahead of us queuing to be allowed entry to the refugio. They looked like better fed refugees and judging by their comments were treated the same way. Insufficient beds, broken windows in the garage dormitory and 100 metres to the washing facilities. Our friends Remy et Michelle couldn't take it and went off to find some paid for accommodation.
The bill for two at Hotel Belorado was 14,500 pta, which may have been correct, but no way was there any explanation of its make up. I think they just choose the first figure that comes into the head. Now that we have crossed the Rioja and moved into Burgos the drop in wine quality is matched by an increase in price. Today's lunchtime rosada instead of being fruity and free was tangy and slightly corked. Not a vine to be seen from one horizon to another, but just thousands of hectares of dusty gold barley stubble, the harvest from which is used as animal feed. Poverty in the villages is painfully obvious with deserted houses and broken down churches. A comparison with the richly bloated Pays Basque in South West France is more than stark.
Just a tiny step today of 11Km wtih the intention of avoiding the refugio at SAN JUAN DE ORTEGA, which even the Confraternity of St James guide book describes as dirty and unhygienic. Instead, after an early start tomorrow we should make the next one at ATAPUERCA and the following day a short haul into BURGOS. The trouble with taking small steps is the boredom factor of what to do after lunch. A kip for 2 hours is all very well, but that still leaves five hours until dinner at the El Pajero transport cafe with the only place to sit being a bar echoing to the din of fruit machines, television, card players, screaming children and Spanish hubub. Such living hades doesn't favour a quick fire repartee between Glen and me who would be the first to admit that his hearing couldn't compete with an elk. I have read the first part of Somerset Maugham's "The Razor's Edge" in paper-back and have now torn it in half and given, Glen the beginning. This will lighten my load tomorrow by an ounce or so.
4100FT FT
Please note folk my first 1000.5Km has been and gone and I am celebrating this insignificant fact by boozing at quite the nicest restaurant I have come across since arriving in this country of extremes.
Last night at the transport cafe El Pajero we had to go through the hell of finding nothing to do after lunch except rest. The village of VILLAFRANCA MONTES DE OCA appears to be derelict and is situated on a nightmare corner of an ultra main road. Vast lorries thundering through make departure a serious hazard for pilgrims, who run the risk of being mashed beneath a juggernaut. At dinner i.e. the second meal of the day we met Ed and Cathy a somewhat over weight pair of what one might call typical Americans. He, a retired U.S. army colonel specialising in communications lives in Dayton, Ohio. As we started our dinner he suddenly asked if I was the actual Charlie of web site fame? When I spluttered an acknowledgement, he said that their journey had been influenced by the maps I had displayed on the site.
Pleased to get out of El Pajero this morning and thanks to it being a transport cafe we got an apology for a breakfast - hot milk, with a dash of coffee and a croissant. After a familiar climb of 200 metres during which we gloried in the frost and frozen cobwebs, the trail levelled off as we rose gently walking through a forest of Holm Oaks to just over 1250 metres, which is higher than Ben Nevis in Scotland. Not surprisingly it is cold up here in brilliant sunshine and a North East wind. SAN JUAN DE ORTEGA is a tiny deserted hamlet with a huge restored church and an abandoned monastery, whose sole commercial activity looks like roasting big red peppers over an open wood fire before wrapping them up in newspapers and then peeling off their skins.
We were headed for a refugio at OLMOS DE ATAPUERCA, but 3Km earlier at ATAPUERCA we spotted an appealing looking restaurant obviously new and keen to do business. Out of the blue appeared little Tammy Lloyd of VIANA fame. Jokingly she said was waiting for old men to buy her lunch! These two old boys fell for that one and in return she introduced us to a new 20 place refugio opened last week. Pretty, clean and with double bunks this must be my introduction to communal living.
Restaurante Palomar is charming and served us a delightful 1500 pta menu discounted to 1200 pta for pilgrims. My lentil soup with boudin was exceptional. The refugio stamped my passport and charged 600 pta for the accommodation. Brazlians are bountiful on the Camino probably accounting for 20% of the pilgrims, so inevitably conversation has turned to Paulo Coelho and his book "The Pilgrimage". This best seller has been a massive influence on the numbers walking from RONCEVALLES to SANTIAGO. Now I am getting comments from friendly Brazilians who say that he never actually walked the Camino, but went by bus. The fact that the book was written as a novel and not an autobiography is not acceptable to the critical Brazis.
ANOTHER PUBLIC APOLOGY; This time to A.P the flying banker, who picked me up today with my error about the height of Ben Nevis. Schoolboy scribbler that I am, I had believed the noble pile was 4001 ft, but no, apparently Scotland's pride is more at 4,400 ft. Sorry A.
Last night's refuge was an eye opener. Take a bomb site, place it 4,000 up in scrub land, plant a semi derelict church and then restore a cow shed in charming taste. Result ? the new privately owned 20 place refugio at ATAPUERCA. 10 double bunks (vertical, not side by side as one saucy reader has suggested) in one room with a communal washroom having just 2 loos, two basins and two showers. There is virtually nowhere to put your stuff, which means removing only bare minimum such as sponge bag and socks. Lights out at 10 o'clock, but there is a safety light glowing all night. Deep breaths, self control, drink and prayers kept claustrophobia at bay as I slipped into my sleeping bag on the lower bunk beneath another unknown male. He gave no trouble and the pre-warned threat of a goollie crushing never happened as he clambered upstairs. Instead, a few gentle wind easings filled the upper matress.
Earlier we had a light supper at the charming little restaurante referred to yesterday. Such was its good reputation that four young German pelegrinos had walked 6 Km from San Juan de Ortega to get their evening meal. A good Samaritan waitress drove them home.
A strange culture in the refugios exists that no lights are turned on in the morning before daylight. Consequently, my rucksack possibly now contains other people's nasties instead of mine. After a cold 0730 hrs start we climbed steadily out of ATAPUERCA for about 250 metres before the sun broke through the horizon behind us. There, spread out in a giant saucer of light smog was the 20 Km distant BURGOS. The final 5 Km approach to BURGOS is rightly reported to be the worst 5 Km of the whole Camino and we had no qualms in taking the bus into town. A cash till, a pharmacy ( for my horrid toes) and a Daily Telegraph got us ready for the schlepp here to a council run 12 bed refugios. There seem to be no hotels available for the next 30 Km. so just perhaps I'll become a real pilgrim after all.
Meanwhile, we learned that poor Tammy, who we caught up with yesterday has succumbed to a bad knee, a cold and a panic attack in the night. I gather she took a taxi to BURGOS clinic for some advice. Poor girl, I hope we see her in a few days.
TARJADOS is a right dump and the Fonda in which we had hoped to find a room exists no longer - just a pair of metal shutters clanging in the wind. The refugio is clean and friendly thank goodness, but we are hungry for our supper.
Waiting at the cookhouse door was the scene at TARDAJOS'S only bar/restaurante last evening. A nasty main roadside bar with a locked dining room. 9 PM was the supposed opening time and amazingly at 9.05 hrs the door was opened to reveal a perfectly decent dining room with 30 places. 16 starving pilgrims stormed in like tourists at a Corfu hotel. By 10.15 feeding time was over, but it wasn't bad for its 1000 pta price. Add to that the 500 pta refugios charge and wives will be glad to see that ancient pilgrims are getting nourishment and shelter for about a fiver per day.
One loo and one basin doesn't make for ideal sanitary conditions amongst a mixed 16 men and women, so the sooner we were on the road the better. It is not only the Spanish people who get up late and even the cockerel this morning held his breath until 0730 hrs. To my delight, the church clock at RABE DE LAS CALZADAS played the chimes of Big Ben at 0800hrs as we passed through. Two French pilgrims were convinced we'd bribed the priest. A 20 Km walk across the early part of the meseta was actually a beautiful experience. Horizon to horizon there is nothing whatever to see, but some distant electricity pylons. I wasn't lonely, because with about 50 pilgrims all marching at about the same time of day we were never more than 10 minutes between walkers. A warm front is passing through bringing a daytime temperature rise of about 10 degrees. The going was dusty track and dusty rubble with occasional examples of ancient pilgrim art i.e. hundreds of Camino side cairns built of hand picked stones. I can't verify whether this is the original Camino, but if it is these cairns could well have been in existence for 1000 years as they have been continually been part knocked down by storm and flood, but rebuilt loyally by passing pilgrims including me.
Now at Hontanas an ultra remote semi deserted village there is a newly created private refugio for 28 people. It is a cleverly converted large stone village house run by a hard working lady called Victoria. Instead of just one large dormitory, the double bunks are partitioned off into a series of units. To my cruel amusement Glen has for his topside nightime companion a Brunhilde of huge proportions. The wooden bunk structure creaked, groaned and slightly buckled as she heaved her minimum 160 lbs up the rickety contraption. At this moment of writing my top berth is empty, but I'm sure Glen will get last laugh.
All sorts of rumours circulated in the village of HONTANAS about the loonie bar owner cum restaurateur who refused to open the door of his premises. Some said that you had to take him your own food and then he would cook it for you. Apparently, despite the reasonableness of this idea, he ate it as well. Others said that girls shouldn't go there alone. Whatever, Glen and I couldn't get a drink there nor at the refugio. The result was that I saw the great walker himself nursing a bottle of Coca Cola instead of his usual jumbo sized beaker of J & B. Fortunately, I was able to persuade the slightly reluctant management to sell me a dubious bottle of tinto with two glasses. A more unlikely site for pre dinner drinks could hardly be imagined as a motley group of Froggies, Manuels, Brazzos and Krauts sat yapping in the late afternoon warmth of a deserted village street.
Communal supper wasn't at all bad and I run the risk of becoming a refugio junkie as we spend the 3rd successive night in a pilgrim's shelter.
Glen declared war on his travelling medicine chest and there is now to be an auction of all the patent devices or else they'll be scattered strategically along the Camino.
An 0750 hrs departure today took us down a lovely valley leading to the magical spectacle of a one thousand year old pilgrim's hospital with an arch spanning the road. Thoughts turned to the thousands of pilgrims who must have been nursed there as they fled from disease on their way to Compostella. Under the arch of this wonderful building there are two little niches in the wall. Now used for leaving messages, but in years gone by were places where bread was left for passing walkers.
We passed CASTROJERIZ, where we had intended to spend the night, but decided not to as the journey was too short. Instead we were faced with a frighteningly steep climb to regain the high plain of the meseta. It turned out to be a climb of little more than half an hour, but it was a test of lungs and knees as we hoisted ourselves up an estimated 1,000 ft without the benefit of any breakfast.
As we neared ITERO DE LA VEGA the rain arrived - for me the first time in 22 days. Fortunately we have reached this church side refuge complete with hot showers and electricity. The local shop has undertaken to cook for us tonight, so let's hope we'll get to eat it.
Having passed BURGOS it seems that the walking ramblers have quit and we are left with a far more determined bunch of pilgrims most of whom intend to reach SANTIAGO just three weeks away.
French dogs on the route de St Jacques could have been a problem. Quite often they leaped out at me and but for the most part they were chained, I'd have been attacked. Now in Spain the difference is astonishing as the dirty mongrel chaps wag their tails and seemed to smile a welcome. A dear little yellow crested blue cockateel nearly got kidnapped today from a bar as it strutted sweetly along the counter. It would surely lend a little style to our arrival with a parrot on the shoulder.
The welcome at ITERO DE LA VEGA was different in that as we approached the middle of this remote little village there was the usual central square with a fountain and a regulation E.U. wheelie bin. This bin however, was under the control of a charming Fernando, who hailed us in English to enquire if we were looking for the refugio. Handshakes all round followed by a flow of remarkably good English, which he claimed to have learned after a one month visit to London two years ago. He insisted in escorting us personally to the refugio cautioning us to dodge the dog shit, the clearing up of which was his real and paid for role in life. Sadly he was unable to join us for a beer.
There are no restaurants or cafes here, but we learned via the pilgrim's bush telegraph that a tiny shop owner would cook for us if we gave some notice. Indeed, four of us ended up having a jolly supper in Miguel's kitchen, a tiny room complete with rickety chairs, a sofa and of course a tele. Before the supper Glen and I learned the real Spanish facts of life by having a drink at one of the two bars in town. The place was empty except for the gaga old proprietor, who had great difficulty in tearing himself away from the bull fights being shown on the tele. Even then he could hardly manage to pour me a glass of wine let alone a J & B for Glen. Sad to say, the bullfighting sickened me and I had turn away instead of remaining glued. All my macho feelings about, skill, tradition, artistry, courage and dance dissolved as I saw the brutality of the actual, taunting, weakening and ham fisted killing. How on earth the EU hopes to harmonise the law when something like this exists is an unanswerable question. The other bar was packed to bursting as an almost exclusively male clientele watched a football match.
The refugio was adequate, but nobody turned at the appointed hour to stamp our pilgrim's passports or collect the meagre 500 pta lodging fee. There were the usual bunch of walkers, but no one to whom we have become particularly attached. A youngish American couple of bible readers pass their time reading psalms to one another, but strange as it may seem to us , that is surely what pilgrimage is all about. We left late this morning for a planned half day with expected rain. Sure enough it wasn't long before we were clad in our serious water proof clothing, whilst others donned a selection of bin liners, plastic under sheets and carrier bags. My toeless trainers are still doing sterling service, despite being the opposite of waterproof and very prone to collecting undersole stones.
After two hours or so we came across a bar which was open, but not surprisingly there was no one there to serve. Eventually a surly old crone appeared who provided much against her will, four cups of coffee.
Now installed at the Hotel San Martin in FROMISTA I have revelled in the luxury of a first proper wash in four days, whilst some of our poor fellow pelegrinos are slumming it in the refugio next door. This place is far to grand to permit the drying of smalls on the balcony, so our friendly pilgrim neighbours have let us use their washing line.
As we trudged along today for a short 14 Km, out of the blue two of our semi walking companions Martin a Dutchman and Wolfgang an Austrian (what else ?) started singing Land of Hope and Glory. How could I explain the ghastly self destructing leadership that Britain is encouraging with abolishment of Land of Hope and Glory plus Jerusalem from the last night of the proms. Farewell the country I was born in and hello a breed of suicidists.
I drew the short straw here at the Hotel San Martin in FROMISTA. The surly lad at reception, who turned out to be the barman as well, handed us two keys and told us to sort out for ourselves which was which, Glen got a nice room facing the famous Romanesque deconsecrated church and I got a pokey one at the back. I flinched at it and wanted to complain, but Glen being a true gent insisted on swapping over in my favour. Thanks Glen - here is the keyboard for you to play with for a change.
In my view Charlie is the true pilgrim. It seems that his feet have been hurting since he left Le Puy over 1000Kms ago, but he never makes a fuss. He also has to make do with the fact that he is now in Spain which he doesn't like one bit, the main reason he can't speak the language! Parlez vous francais? Do you speak English? he asks a women in a pueblo in the middle of nowhere serving caffe con leche! Only this afternoon he went into a bar, which is reputed to serve breakfast early before going in. What's breakfast in Spanish? DES--AY-UNO I say on my way to get some money from the cash machine. I hear him booming from across the Plaza. DES-AY-UNO! 5 minutes later he joins me at the cash machine totally perplexed. Domani is tomorrow isn't it? No Charles its manana. Oh, so that's why they wanted to give me some breakfast just after I had had my lunch! Please don't think I am being rude about him he is a great companion.
On a more sombre note, the Camino is still continuing to take its toll. Most of us have survived blisters and swollen knees, but we were surprised today to find a young American girl who should have been miles ahead of us had been held back several days with tendonitis. It suddenly hit with 6kms from the nearest village and it seems that she had to virtually crawl there to find a clinic. A Brazilian fell down he steps of the church we were looking at and ruined his ankle. "He didn't put enough in the offertory box " said Charles.
2,200 pta for a single room at the monastery in CARRION DE LOS CONDES may sound an insignificant amount £8.80, but everything is comparative. The cell was minute and its bathroom attached was so small that there was a serious risk of getting stuck in the bath tub whilst sitting on the loo. I was bitten by bugs of some sort and a small squadron of mosquitoes were bombing all night - the only generous thing was the bar of soap. Not a Nun in sight, nor a Brother, let alone a priest.
The Camino is getting more touristy now with souvenir shops springing into view selling the usual terrible tat. Another important feature is the overwhelming evidence of EU support. Huge blue signs with stars are al over the place and the EU has built a large number of mainly empty new roads with a pelegrino's dirt track running alongside. These walking tracks are peppered at about 300 metre intervals with three foot high concrete bollards reminiscent of the ghastly wooden posts cluttering up Richmond Park with politically correct icon displayed messages. Here the hundreds if not thousands of bollards each carries or tries to carry a 12" square blue glazed tile showing a futuristic scallop shell symbol of the Camino. The problem is that 90% of them have been vandalised and the tiles either removed or smashed up. Watch out for them in the Madrid flea markets probably selling for 3000 pta each.
Supper in a pilgrim friendly bar/restaurant turned out to be a scrum. The sole waitress threw a wobbly, so no one got served, then a German "pelo" girl lost her cool and stomped out. Hunger got the better of her five minutes later. Suddenly, as 9.45 struck on one of the church clocks a panic set in as "pelos" realised that 10 'oclock was lock out time from refugios and monasteries alike. Shots, curses and threats from the herd of Brazzos had no affect on Conchita, who plodded her way through the serving process. Glen and I thankfully got let in without a problem.
I'm not the first to complain about the Paulo Coelho affect as for the moment the Camino is being crowded out by "The Pigrimage" readers. They travel in groups and can be sure to have bagged all the best refugio beds in the same way the Germans grab the poolside loungers. This is a daily and worsening problem of where will we find a bed.
Today's walk is a fine example. Either 23 Km to a primitive refugio with 12 beds or 3Km further to what might be something better. The guide books are often through no fault of their own, hopelessly out of date.
An early very cold start at 0700 with the intention of getting a breakfast at a cafe advertising such a luxury at an opening time of 0630 hrs. What a joke, the shutters were firmly down at 0705 hrs. In another bar, which was open, the patron said it would be at last 15 minutes for the machine heated up, so we headed West on a dead straight road and path for 17.5Km. As there were other pelos marching, Glen and I found ourselves forcing the pace too much at a speed of 5.4 Km per hour. The scenery was devastating with a near limitless horizon of flat almost useless prairie land. A few undernourished sunflowers were the only visible crop, plus millions of acres of set aside. A Canadian walking with us commented that the vast expanse of nothingness was certainly equal to the Canadian prairie.
A Hostel/ bar at CALZADILLA DE LA CUEVA provided a welcome hot milk with a dash of coffee plus a ham and cheese bocadillo, before the Brazzos descended like a swarm of noisy locusts.
So here at the basic 12 bed refugio in LEDIGOS after 23 Km forced pace route march from CARRION we got the last room for 1000 pta. OK, the bathroom is good and the water hot, but on a cold day the prospect of spending 18 hrs here, with no bar and no food is hardly the style for two old men from the Hampshire fleshpots. There is indeed a shop manned by the statutory old crone, but its contents displayed in a small cupboard are just sufficient to create some sort of spaghetti a la pelegrino. There is no Scotch for Glen tonight - hardly surprising when we are stuck in a village built literally of mud and straw, so we will be raiding my emergency mini hip flask. The kitchen is primitive and dirty, putting me into a depression about the prospect of surviving another 20 days of this deprivation.
Two days ago I bought a pair of velcro fixing Jesus sandals - a form of footwear not really acceptable in St James's Sreet in London, and Lobbs don't sell them. However, on the St. James's Camino it's another matter and any sensible pilgrim slips into a pair at the end of the day's march. Yesterday, sitting in the sun at the refuge at LEDIGOS it was a pleasure to wear them and let the aching feet relax.
I cooked a "Macarones" for Glen and me made up of fried onion and garlic mixed with tuna, peas, pimento and olives. It was made edible by the accompanying bottle each of red infuriator, which stank like a farmyard, but tasted pleasantly fruity.
We are experiencing a spell of high pressure bringing with it startlingly cold temperatures in beautiful weather, followed of course by starry nights. The sun doesn't appear over the horizon much before 9 o'clock making the early morning walk a shivery affair, particularly as it is almost inevitably an empty stomach march.
The EU as been throwing money along the Camino Frances as it passes through miles of apparent extreme poverty. Now there are motorways next to high speed expressways , next to the old road next to the new specially built pilgrim's footpath. A lonely tractor can sometimes be seen on the expressway and the occasional truck on the motorway - otherwise nothing. As it's our taxes paying for it we should be pleased to know that the Brussell's bounty is so well distributed. Maybe one day the great bureaucracy will consult the pelegrinos as to their choice of walking surface. The 26 Km trek from LEDIGOS to here is largely through the land of the mud and straw builders. Brick seems only to be arriving now and even so it quickly becomes coated in mud. In one small village church was made of mud and straw. Troglodytes are here as well, but instead of living in caves they are suburban village dwellers, who have dug out the inside of a hillock and constructed chimneys and erected television masts. This village is a large farmyard with a smart new hotel designed with the Camino image in mind and we re-met with James the Canadian professor who apart from doing this pilgrimage has wandered for four months in the Negev desert - Israel looking for Jacob's path. Today, I came across the poor fellow walking in the wrong direction going back to near LEDIGOS, where he had accidentally left his Canadian passport. No slouch at getting around I learned from him later that he had successfully hitched a lift on a tractor both ways and recovered the passport.
Not long after passing through SAHAGUN I saw some highly topical modern day spray graffiti on a concrete bench. It said "MUERTE AL ISLAM" Probably written last week, but the meaning was equally as valid 1000 years ago.
As I sit here tapping at the tiny keyboard Glen has just learned that the refugio just two minutes away is immaculate even though it has no beds, but mattresses on the floor. What's more there's no charge for dinner and breakfast - just a donation. He has scooted off to check it out, but there is no quitting this comfy place - only envy. The Confraternity of St James Guide Book 2001 warns against the place as only to be visited in emergency. We must put this right.
Hostal Las Delicias would be far better named as Hostal La Revoltingos if it were to fit the trades description act, but that is where we have finished today after a long and boring 27 Km flog across what is the last of the mesetas and consequently not a soul in sight from horizon to horizon.
At BERCIANOS DEL REAL CAMINO last night Glen and I ended up as two of only four guests in the hotel. The others were two brothers, Jean-Marc and Allan aged 60 and 62 respectively. Both retired young and Allan the elder has already walked to Santiago three times having started from Paris, Vezelay and Le Puy. This time he has persuaded his brother Jean-Marc to walk for the first time from Le Puy. We should have stayed at the refuge and I waited eagerly for a report from James the Canadian professor the next day Sure enough he raves about it saying that it was the most perfect refugio experience he had ever known as it was run by a French couple from Aix en Provence, who had been there for just two weeks. They served a high quality four course supper with a short interlude to say goodnight to the setting sun followed by simple prayers. James didn't say how much donation he had left - it would be rude to ask.
On the straight and arid path with sun on my back and a heat haze to my front, apart from the pain of each single step as stones worked their way beneath the soles, there were only two distractions. The first was nearly spiritual as a sparrow sized bird with a finer shape and colouring, decided to accompany and lead me for at least 1.5 Km. There are young deciduous trees planted at 2 metre intervals to the South side of the pilgrim path and this little linnet like bird flew from one to the next ahead of me with occasional darting diversions to one side or the other to grab a tempty morsel. Either my little companion was hoping for a fallen crumb from me or he was leading me on to Santiago. Whichever it was the memory of it will be a happy one. Had I been alone the experience might have been visionary.
The next amusement was the appearance of a microlight heading straight towards us with not a lot of height. Thoughts of Cary Grant cowering in 2 metre high cornfields in "North by NorthWest" as a killer bi-plane tried to smoke him out with crop spray. That fantasy over I thought it might be the Royal AeroClub Trust search and rescue party, but no it was just a pupil bashing the circuit with a heavy bomber size pattern. Twenty minutes later I walked passed the threshold of a prairie airfield.
After more than four hours walking the mud village of RELIEGOS appeared and the promise of a bar. Here happened an Alec Guiness and Alastair Sim episode from an Ealing Comedy. I speak no Spanish and Glen, who does is deaf. We two old boys enter the bar and Glen asks if they have either ham or bacon sandwiches (bocadillos) The barmaid replies, but Glen, not having heard, asks me what she said. Not having a clue I shrug my shoulders and make my own arrangements in higher volume pidgin English. Result? I get my coffee flavoured milk, and a potato tortilla sandwich. Poor Glen gets his beer and nothing to eat. A brittle atmosphere prevails for a while, but really we both know that it's all just too silly to take seriously.
Sitting here in the "Area de no fumadores" of the dirty Delicias bar, the flour is littered with fag ends, some dead and some still burning as the customers sensibly pay not the slightest notice of the EU dictat.
Disappointing news from home as it seems now that the sole member of a Santiago welcoming party may be Carolyn. At least seven more originally said they'd be there for 15th October or thereabouts, but time intervenes with more pressing engagements.
A much awaited day or half day's rest has arrived as we reach LEON after a 19 Km walk, which seemed more like 30Km.
The problem with MANSILLA DE LAS MULOS was that apart from it being rather an overgrown mud village, the Hostal (small hotel) posed a health risk. Practically as a rule we had to share a room with a non opening venetian blind, which was broken well beyond repair. The real hazard was my bed, which turned out to be some sort of camp arrangement, which if sat on any inch beyond the halfway mark, tipped into the air and turned over with me underneath it. This happened three times including once in the night and the third time resulted in very minor cuts and bruises. That was nothing in comparison with the poor German Pello, who two nights ago fell from his top bunk in the refugio. He broke his shoulder and has now flown home. A German fraulien the same day made an early start before daylight and suffered the horror of attempted rape. She too has quit the Camino and gone home.
Hotel Revoltingos gave us quite a good dinner, but when we came to pay with a Visa card they demanded an extra 7%. These robbers have been fleecing the pelos for a thousand years and each year they find a new way of extracting a few pesetas more.
Glen, not unreasonably suggested yesterday that it was about time we spoiled ourselves. After five successive nights in refugios followed by two shitty hotels time was ripe for something better He suggested the Parador here at LEON, but I had to blanch at the 20,000 pta ticket and that was for sharing a room. He was a bit shocked to learn that the pennies chez nous don't roll so freely since the Slime Street mob lined their nests at our expense.
Back to another shitty Hostal in a town that has no laundromat despite its population of 138,000. Happily we found a 24 hour laundry service, so tomorrow should see a fragrant pilgrim. It's raining again, which brings with it fears of the coming day's walks with virtually bare toes popping through my amazingly hardy trainers. The rain has cleared away the pleasant guitar playing street musician and what my thoughts turn to the saddest news today that Peter Montagu-Evans has died.
Readers wondering why the daily kilometerage has dropped in the last two days is simple to explain. Yesterday was only a 19Km walk into LEON where it was intended to spend a rest day. Somehow rest days don't seem to work out. It's no fun doing touristy things when traipsing around in dirty clothes with the unpleasant overhanging threat of going back for a second night in a sleazy back street hotel with its window looking on to a midget covered well. All the ingredients for a claustrophobic attack were there, but some deep breathing and happy thoughts managed get me through the long dark night. Sharing a tiny room with Glen is no pleasure for him as I cough and sneeze my way through day three of a cold. So we quit LEON this morning having recovered our clean laundry and walked the suburban sprawl of 6Km to here and hopefully will be refreshed after enjoying single rooms for the first time in weeks, for a 25 Km hike tomorrow.
As we left West LEON we passed the glorious San Marco ***** Hotel, which as a paradore is possibly one of the finest three hotels in Spain. Even if the 20,000 pta nightly tariff was not a barrier I just don't think I could be comfy there in all that splendour, when shuffling around as a dirty pelegrino.
Earlier on the short walk I came across the first ever Internet Cafe. Having time to spare we popped in and were amazed at the charming reception and modern equipment. Within seconds I was logged into hotmail where I found a welter of mail. Many messages from friendly supporters, who have inadvertently chosen to use Hotmail instead of Pipex as I am using now. I didn't want to waste time printing out the text, but I was thrilled to find such an instant and almost free method of world wide communication. The bill for 2 minutes fun? 120 pta (48P)
This, apart from being the land of tooth pick touting Caballeros, it is also the land of cranes - those amazing birds whose nests atop every inaccessible spire. tower or chimney. I haven't seen a bird, but their craftsmanship is astonishing. How they are clever enough to attach the bulky basketwork to the masonry is quite beyond me and it poses the first ornithological question for any bird minded reader to answer me. The second question relates to the day before yesterday's comment of mine about the dear little Linnet bird that flew along beside me for 1.5 Km. I told a Frenchman about it and he believed that St Francis of Assisi had a similar experience with friendly birds when walking in Italy. Can anyone advise me, but no lengthy replies please. They block this poor little machine.
At last my first cocksheye at a SANTIAGO E.T.A. Today is 29th September 2001 and we have 292 Km left to go. Assuming that we can continue to average 20 Km per day, that means arrival on Friday 14th October. Between now and then we have to climb to over 1500 metres and the daily going is probably much slower. I am told that cheap flights from London to Santiago are only available if they include a Saturday night. This seems to fit rather well.
Last night at the suburban sprawl West of LEON was compensated for by the comfort of the single rooms at the modern Hotel Soto where we stayed. I coughed my way through the night and seemingly the walls were so thin that Glen could hear it. Sorry mon pellegrino. We lashed out on some better food as well.
There was a choice today between following the old Camino, which means paralleling the main road to here with its juggernauts and dangerous drivers - quite apart from the danger, the noise is unbelievable. Alternatively, there is a new if 6 Km longer route that by-passes everything. Being Sunday the two little villages on the way were bereft of pit stops as far as I was concerned. However, Glen turned a problem into an opportunity by forgetting his walking stick at a village fountain. Somehow he ended up in a bar where the kind lady cooked him a real tortilla instead of one of those last week's potato filled jobs.
Seven hours after leaving VIRGEN I clocked in here to a degree of comfort not enjoyed so far. It is a nice hotel with a comfy corner room overlooking the famous 20 span bridge of the Paso Honroso. The 31Km flog was across flat and arid land and the sole animal wildlife I saw was a water rat swimming in an irrigation channel. In the middle distance the MONTES DE LEON loom. Nothing like as threatening or indeed terrifying as the Pyrenees when viewed from as far back as AIRE-SUR-L'ADOUR, but ominous all the same if the weather turns foul.
Now a little competition to test your wits:
The following are the surnames of five famous living and active Spanish Matadors;
PONCE
RINCON
PUERTO
VAZQUEZ
ABELLAN
Next are their five Christian names;
ENRIQUE
CEZAR
MIGUEL
CURRO
VICTOR
A bottle of Rioja Reserva (probably from Tesco) to the first e.mailed correct answer received. Try asking Mrs Keppel !
ASTORGA tomorrow and then the RABANALS refuge the next day. Do hope my coughing won't prevent me sharing a room.
The fellow In the room next to mine at the excellent Hostal Suero de Quinones at HOSPITAL DE ORBIGO must either have been a very deep sleeper or stone deaf because my coughing and sneezing rocked the building throughout the night. He never complained to me this morning when I half expected to be served with a writ from him (he is American), claiming vast damages for audio related stress.
At this time of year nearly all harvesting is finished except for grapes. Unlike the Rioja, where the vines and their luscious fruit were abundant, here there only a few scrappy vines with meagre yield However, at one village we saw the farmers waiting patiently outside the local Spanish equivalent of a co-op, where they deliver their crop for processing.
On the 17 Km four hour walk this morning we stopped at a bar near to ASTORGA to take a break. There, we came across what may be a future hazard between here and SANTIAGO. A table for ten was occupied by "Play Pellegrinos". These are the people we choose to despise. They are day walkers with a guide, carrying no luggage except maybe a token bottle of mineral water. Fine, absolutely fine, but these pseudo pilgrims book up all the hotels in advance and leave nothing for us veterans. Already we have found tomorrow's potential night stop at RABANALS fully booked.
Arrival here at the Hotel Gallego was hardly welcoming as the surly Senor said he had no record at all of our booking. Fortunately, we got rooms and I have tanked up with cough linctus and pastilles. Whilst glancing at the lunch time menu by the dining room entrance I was suddenly and smartly prodded in the back. I whipped round expecting to see a smiling greeting from a friend, but no. It was our surly senor from reception telling me to get out of the way. As ASTORGA marks the official end to the meseta, let's hope it does the same for charmless waiters.
Rucksack living brings with it unusual happenings. At hairwash time today Glen tipped the usual hotel pilfered sachet of shampoo over his head, having hucked around deep in the depths of his trusty back pack to find it. No lather for Glen today, but instead an invigorating crunch - it was the breakfast sugar packet.
Today is our wedding anniversary and to greet it or celebrate it I lost one big toenail. What a horrid thought for readers, but I have to mention it with joy because it is the first day since 31st August that I have walked without pain.. Tired, sore feet yes, but not the daily fear of sock removal time to see the latest damage.
To be here at RABANAL being cared for by the lovely welcoming English ladies of the Confraternity of St James might never have happened, but for a near miracle the previous evening. At the moment of starting dinner at an Astorga restaurant Glen suffered what he bravely and euphemistically calls "a dizzy spell". I don't accept that description and it was astonishingly lucky that four qualified Spanish people were at hand to advise appropriate action. This is not the time or medium in which to elaborate, but suffice to say I am happy that today his recovery is remarkable and he was determined to walk the 20 Km to RABANALS. This he completed in fine form.
Leaving ASTORGA is a treat as it says goodbye to the mile upon mile of Meseta and hello to the foothills of the Montes de Leon. The one sombre note was a roadside memorial cross to a "pellegrino identes" A black painted arrow highlights its position, but whether it refers to a pilgrim who died or one who was hit by a lorry is not disclosed.
There has been a weather change today as a 15 knot Southerly wind blows warmly over my left shoulder. This should mean low pressure to the West and the likelihood of poorer weather in Galicia.
Halfway here an esoteric bar appeared called "The Cowboy" Despite its out of context name the Senora who ran it provided just what the pellos need. A refectory table, decent coffee, beer, bocadillos well filled with jamon, Chrorizo or Cheese, but best of all a smiley welcome.
Spanish pharmacies are tops. They sold me yesterday some cough sweeties and a bottle of magic linctus. Today my cough and cold are becoming memories.
The English refugio was getting close I knew as an elderly red Peugeot diesel R889 HCG chugged its way up the hill past me driven by a lady. Then the RABANALS church spire kept appearing, disappearing and re-appearing until up the village and around the corner came the Confraternity refugio. At least 25 pilgrims lay exhausted round about. Lying on the ground, propped against a wall, leaning against a tree or sitting on the chapel steps, all were waiting for the magic 1330 hrs chime to strike when the fabled haven would open. Feet were being examined, sweat shirts being sniffed. A scene that describes any bunch of displaced persons at the end of an unwelcome journey.
At the precise moment of 1330 hrs the doors were thrown open and an orderly queue formed to register and donate. Ginnie Lighton (72) and Alison Pinkerton had a word of welcome for everybody. Gliding quietly from room to room ensuring that all 42 pellos were satisfactorily lodged. My dormitory has 26 beds in double bunk form i.e. ghastly. Ginnie bless her, fixed me up with a mattress in the library instead.
The hospitality at the Confraternity's refuge ar RABANALS doesn't run to meals beyond free afternoon tea (Earl Grey) and breakfast of tea or coffee with bread and jam. That's free too. Dear Ginnie and Alison spin dry the washing for you and light a wood burning stove to finish off the drying process. All done for love.
On the other side of the street from the refugio is a well run inn belonging to Antonio and his family. Father and son do barman and waiter whilst mother cooks. A great little earner providing pilgrims with what they need, when they need it i.e. meals from 1 p.m. till 9.30 p.m. At supper we chatted with a late arrival called Simon. A dashing looking figure of a man aged 62, who said he'd just walked 38Km today and 50Km the day before. He was walking from Lourdes to Santiago via Pamplona (I think) before returning home. Simon is no ordinary pilgrim, but a displaced Croatian Franciscan Brother, who has lost his bombed out Croatian parish and now lives and works in Austria.
With coughing and claustrophobia used as a genuine excuse I avoided the cramped and airless 26 bed dormitory and was given a mattress in the library downstairs. There, I read myself to sleep with a book called "Foot by Foot" by Judy Foot A simple account of an English woman alone walking from St Jean Pied de Port to Santiago in aid of breast cancer. She raised £10,000. I wonder if I can match that figure? The floor was hard, but the non-confinement was bliss.
Leaving RABANALS this morning at 0745 hrs was an awesome experience and an inspiring one in the company of Simon the Croatian Priest, who rapidly disappeared into the direction of the mountain darkness. It was cold, very cold despite long trousers, woollie, scarf and fleece. In front and above was a full moon slipping silently either side of the cloud capped mountains. Behind was the slowly brightening loom of the coming dawn. The climb was smooth, steady and silent only interrupted occasionally by the tap tapping of a quicker pello with a metal tipped stick catching up behind me, before reaching the highest point on the whole Camino at 1507 metres i.e. all but 5,000 ft. It is marked by a 1952 Holy Year Iron Cross fixed atop a 30 ft wooden pole. Over the years pilgrims have built a cairn of stones around it, theoretically using stones carried from their homes. One of the six or so heavily belaboured stories within Paulo Coelho's book "The Pilgrimage" makes a big play of placing a cross in an impossible position. I am carrying a sea shell from Cornwall as a gesture of affection to a special friend and I plan to leave it somewhere at the Cathedral at Santiago.
On the frighteningly steep decent from 1505 metres to 595 metres in just 7 km the greatest care needs to be taken to avoid slipping on shale, vertical strata rock, and boulders. The views are magnificent making it clear that there is at least another range of mountains to traverse before Santiago can even be considered.
A latter day Knight Templar has built a hippy refugio, which were I younger and less averse to compacted human beings I would have considered staying there. The company might be fun and the smell within the cavern had a distinct pot flavoured aroma. Thomas, the knight, whose avowed intent is to look after pilgrims, pays loud gregorian music on his sound system interrupted enthusiastically by ringing a bell at the approach of any likely pelos.
At one particularly advantageous viewing point a coach was parked from which spilled eight nattily attired American ladies intent on getting "The Camino Experience" by bussing from BURGOS to Santiago in just 8 days This would include an optional 10 miles walking daily. Surprise, surprise who should be the tour leader, but Judy Foot the author of my bed time reading. In return for being allowed to photograph me in my toeless trainers I was rewarded with a generous feed of delicious fresh figs both green and purple.
This is a pretty place and our hotel tonight is comfy.
Happily to say, Glen appears to have made a complete recovery and is going like a mountain goat.
After a really comfortable night at MOLINASECA it would have been nice to do the 29 KM to VILLAFRANCA DEL BIERZO, but after 21Km to here I was conscious for the first time of a twinge of tendonitis and thought it wise to call it a day.
The Spanish attitude to serving perrigrinos their so called "special price menus" is not very pretty. Last night I ordered a 1500 pta menu, whilst Glen ordered a single dish. His choice turned out to be unavailable, so he went without. I was then punished by Fernando by bringing my first and second course at the same time. It didn't really matter as both were cold and second rate.
With good weather promised we walked a long downhill stroll into the maligned PONFERRADA. OK., It's got smog and slag heaps, but the old town is as nice as the outer sprawl is nasty. Plenty of hole in the wall banks all anxious to spew out Pesetas having accepted their instructions in a choice of four languages.
An unusual perro hazard turned up on the walk when we found an articulated lorry with a shifted load blocking our path completely. What on earth a lorry of that size was doing on such a minor un-made up road was unexplained, but we had to clamber round through squashy soil, testing out the adaptability of my toeless Nike trainers. They will probably get a proper trial tomorrow if the rainy weather forecast is accurate.
Not speaking Spanish I have to use the French word for picking the grapes i.e. vendange, which is fully under way. 35 year old tractors come and go, pulling quite small trailers brimming with fruit. The labour appears to be a mixture of Spanish and North African and regardless of sunshine or no, they are stretched out horizontally for a lunch time siesta. Their picnic hamper contents look much better than perro menu.
Talking of wine a most praiseworthy gesture happened at lunch today when by chance we happened upon a rather classy sort of restaurante. Glen ordered a steak and house tinto. The friendly waiter brought the wine, uncorked it in front of us and sniffed the cork with a wrinkled nose. He then poured a tasting sample into each of our glasses and asked us to decide for ourselves if it was "corked" I reckon I can pick out a corked wine at a hundred yards and the answer to this one was "No, it's fine" I may get to taste it this evening.
Pilgrim friends made along the Camino are now few and far between and the farthest back we can go now in terms of days is three. Sad really, but it shows quite clearly how spread out we get as the number of days from the start extend.
Each day from now on I'll try to revise our ETA for SANTIAGO. At the moment it remains steadfastly stuck at 14th October 1300 hrs on the Cathedral steps. Ten days is a long time and anyone considering buying a non-refundable ticket should think again.
It doesn't need a calculator to convert 168 Km into miles, so at last with only 105 miles to go and the last range of mountains passed the magnetic affect of SANTIAGO can almost be felt.
Last night at CACABELOS the hostal we stayed at was some distance from the refuge, so we had no news of fellow perregrinos, but nevertheless a small treat was in store. There, at the third rate eatery we found ourselves at for supper was the first cousin of a London friend. He manifested himself with barrel chest held proud and silvery hair swept back. His greasy shirt gave off a generous whiff of pomade as in lisping English he explained that his cafe was named "El Molino" after the well known island site at Swiss Cottage, where he had worked as a waiter many years ago. Pedro was no fisherman, but an expert at advising diners on the intricacies of his boring menu.
The weather forecast for today was bad and for the first time we set out in rain. What's more the pair of gortex boots I'd bought over 400 kilometres ago were going to be put to work for the first time. The toeless Nike trainers have done sterling work, but they can't be expected to cope with mud and wet. Full of apprehension I put them on and sure enough in seconds the top of my left toe got crushed. Was it to be pain killers or walk in wet feet ? Fortunately it was neither as after a few hours wear the pressure eased, leaving the nailless wonder free to wiggle.
Eight Km to VILLAFRANCA DEL BIERZO through vineyards and chestnut forests. Low cloud was swirling through this foothill village even though its altitude is only 511 metres, reminiscent to me of schoolboy days in NainiTal or Mussouri both in India. Here we had three options in terms of route and the guide books give serious warnings about each. The high level and the very high level route should both be avoided in bad weather for risk of getting lost and the lower route on the road is described as the nastiest and most dangerous part of the entire Camino. At a conference over coffee in the last and only bar in town we decided to go our separate ways. Glen, the mountain man opted for the high route and I chose the shorter way along the road. In the event both turned out fine, but the guides are wise to caution the unwary.
As I neared TRABADELO I met a Belgian couple of a certain age. In answer to their polite enquiry as to my original starting point I gently demured that it had been Le Puy. They generously expressed their admiration then let slip that on 15th July they'd left their home town BRUGES in Belgium. That's more than 2000 Km they have walked against my meagre 1327.
Here, in a roadside transport cafe with rooms I am pleasantly lodged in room 103, but the numbers 1 and 0 have fallen off the door making it hard to find. First they put me in 108 and gave me the key. I was a little alarmed to find it very occupied when I let myself in.
Probably the longest day I've done so far in terms of distance and climbing, namely 25.5 Km and an ascent of 750 metres or nearly 2,500 ft. Eight hrs was my estimate, but the new bootees went well despite squelching sodden in the persistent rain.
The start entailed walking 4Km along the main road, when fortunately some relief came by turning off at HERRERIAS. This was marked by three things. Firstly, the sight of the incredible motorway construction by the EU with viaduct supports as high as 250 ft by my judgement. Whole mountain sides are being cut away to receive the giant concrete sections, whilst primitive life goes on beneath them. I even saw for the first time a pair of oxen tilling some soft soil with a wooden plough sheer. At one of several bars a charming lady telephoned on my behalf to book a room here at ALTO DO POIO.
The climb to EL CEBREIRO was long and tiring as it wound up through chestnut forests and the occasional pumpkin allotment.
EL CEBREIRO is a tiny village made a National Monument. Its two features apart from the mountain views are the mediaeval thatched rondavaal museum and a new Romanesque style church of exceptional simplicity and beauty. A wedding was being prepared for this afternoon with flowers decorating all the pews. An electronic organ was being used to play Mendelsohn's Wedding March. Stirring stuff in such a lovely setting. Pouring rain prevented taking any pictures and I stopped at a bar for a bowl of ultra thin watery soup, for which was I quietly ripped off 350 pta. The fun was meeting three or four perregrinos, who I hadn't seen for nearly a week. It's nice to know that all goes well with slightly faster walkers.
The sun has attempted to shine a few times, which brings a welcome rise in temperature, but the cold and rain prevented me from photographing an impressive modern statue of St James surveying the Galician mountains. The old kilometre stones have started now, set at the pathside at 500 metre intervals counting down the distance to go to SANTIAGO. They are a major stimulant for getting along the Camino faster.
The hostale here was real Hound of the Baskerviles stuff. Situated on the top of a mountain pass, the front door creaked open and swung shut behind me with a clang. The place was dirty, scruffy and rather cold, but out of the icy wind, which blew incessantly. The place was run by one man on his own, who as a matter of policy would only accept the guests he wanted. By a stroke of luck and my Spanish made reservation earlier in the day, I was granted a semi smiley welcome. The next couple of perrogrinos who followed me in were turned away and had to walk on to the refugio in the next village. Then four French were initially rejected, but used some Gallic charm to sway the little tyrant. The bedroom was fine, but loopaperless and plugless.
Cooked personally for his eleven guests the dinner served at 8 'o'clock was really rather good and I was starving. A decent soup followed by a greasy fry up with a piece of tough meat, a big pimento, an egg and soggy chips. It went down a treat, before the inevitable, but excellent ice cream. Including wine a gogo, the 1450 pta (£5.80) cost was not a rip off. This morning, having slept fitfully as the gale howled through draughty windows, I was about to settle the 5200 pta bill with a Visa card, when with sleight of hand worthy of a "Spot the lady" card sharp in a 3rd class railway carriage, the total was suddenly escalated by 25% I paid cash and was rewarded by a handshake, a smile and a little cake.
One French pello described the weather as a tempete, but even if that was an exaggeration the wind was blowing force six, gusting force eight. Sufficient to unpop the poppers on my poncho and to turn the wretched thing into a flyaway spinnaker. Briefly, a watery rainbow gave a moment's cheer to the dismal scene and it was great to get down below the tree line and into veritable forests of chestnut ad walnut trees. Both were shedding their fruit, but branches too were littering the footpath.
In the Romanesque church at TRIACASTELA instead of the more normal altar piece being a Madonna or Crucifix, it was a splendid painted wood carving of St James himself.
On leaving TRIACASTELA there are two options. To the right is shorter by 7Km to SARRIA, but there is no hotel en route. To the left takes in SAMOS with its enormous Benedictine monastery. Nearly the size of Buckingham Palace it dominates the little village. 500 monks used to live in it, but now there is just a handful left and the fabric of the mighty building is rapidly falling into decay. Christianity is no longer the power it was and along the 500 mile Spanish part of the Camino I have seen no evidence of any religious building maintenance or restoration. Here at Hotel Veiga, I am warmly installed, whilst the weather deteriorates still further and am hoping to get a dinner this evening, because Sunday lunch absorbs the full capabilities of kitchen staff. It may well be a plate of cold meats. On the evening 5th October at TRABADELO some 50Km back, Glen and I mutually agreed to walk on independently. I haven't seen him since lunch time yesterday at EL CEBREIRO.
My ETA for SANTIAGO is unchanged at Sunday 14th October, but in eight days anything is possible.
P.S. Nick Neve has won the Matador contest out of five entrants. Well done St. Nick. A Rioja Reserva will be yours at the next Royal AeroClub Trust meeting.
After a day of childish record breaking I can scarcely believe that the end is in sight and like an electromagnet at the limit of its field SANTIAGO DE COMPOSTELLA is pulling me on.
The hotel at SAMOS was excellent and very good value. For once the pilgrim's menu was more than edible and for the first time I slept virtually right through the night without waking.
Yesterday's storm has blown itself out leaving the roads and footpaths littered with fallen branches sometimes even necessitating a scramble to get by. The sky is broken with a promise of lighter winds and showers - cold enough to keep waterproof gear on if only to keep out the cold wind.
Much later I re-met with Hector the Mexican raconteur of dreadful tales. A pilgrim he says was sitting quietly at the roadside in SAMOS earlier today and was hit by a motor car. He now rests in a coma at a hospital somewhere. Sex, age. nationality etc., unknown. Then he tells me that a Spanish airliner has collided with a light aircraft in Italian airspace. True or not true, I have no idea.
SAMOS to SARRIA was mainly a 2Km cruise downhill, where I recharged my plastic carrier bag with a lovely croissant (mainly eaten by a suspicious looking Alsatian type of dog, who looked hungry enough to take a chunk out of my now well developed calfs), some fruit and a KitKat. The route is tranqui passing through hamlet after hamlet along stone walled lanes. Vines, chestnuts, walnuts, pumpkins, pimentos, marrows and maize all grow peaceably with one another.
The magical 100Km kilometre post comes and goes as the Km to go reduces from four figures, to three figures and now to two figures in the final few days run up to Compostella.
Carelessness and tiredness made me mis-interpret a 0.5 Km turning into PORTOMARIN. This negligence resulted in an extra 2.5 Km flog, making the day's trek nearly 37 Km.
PORTOMARIN is the result of a 1960 deliberate damming of the river Mino, which flooded the old town completely and caused the place to be re-built completely some 500ft up the hill including the Romanesque church, which was dismantled and re-assembled higher up. The brick numbering is still very visible.
In search of an early supper I fell in with bad company including Hector the Mexican, Jean-Francois the French Canadian and a new woman called May Edwards. She is a 49 year old social worker from BOAT OF GARTEN with political views diametrically opposed to everything I stand for yet it doesn't matter one little bit when absorbing the Camino bond. which transcends any social divisiveness..
This little town has no merit except directly opposite my flop house of a hotel is a notice outside some dubious premises saying "MASAJE Y LESIONES Y DOLORES" Well, I ask myself am I in the land of the fun parlour ? Watch this space tomorrow for a full report.
Last night's room in PORTOMARIN was overpriced and the food in the restaurant pretty nasty. It was nice though to meet up with fellow perrogrinos and enjoy a few laughs.
Today's 24 Km hike was boring across undulating country. Amidst sunshine and showers I got quite expert at quick change "waterproofing up" and "de-waterproofing" The technique for getting a poncho to cover rucksack and all single handed needs a special instruction manual. I must have done it eight times in six hours.
It is maze harvest time, and in this region they cut and mince the entire plant down to ground level. The green crumble is then tipped into pits and covered with a black plastic sheet or two and left to ferment. Later on when winter comes it will have matured into a tasty cattle feed Very prettily coloured long horned cows there are round here. As I walked through a series of semi medieval farmyards I was often held up as herds of cows were moved around being chivvied by a dog and prodded by a cowman wearing clogs. Considering the filth in the lanes, her choice of footwear is ideal. Cows, chickens, turkeys, guinea fowl, the odd pony, cats and dogs all share the same accommodation - as far I could see with humans too. This is no land of "The Archers" I'm getting tired now a little earlier each day and my scribbling has a staleness to it which I can't avoid. As of today I have put one foot in front of the other Three Million, One Hundred and Twenty Five Thousand times on the pilgrimage and at least half of those steps were painful. No pain now, just a weariness, which only the pull of SANTIAGO can overcome. Only One Hundred and Forty Four Thousand steps to the great escalantes of CATEDRAL DE SANTIAGO. I'm going to begin counting them down.
In the middle distance yesterday as I approached PALAS DE REI there was a clear sighting of a row of abut twenty wind turbines on ridge of hills. Memories of the climb outside PAMPLONA came flooding back and I had visions of another painful experience. All was well and today I went passed them via a valley.
Yesterday's reference to my lodging at a "flop house" was rather unkind for the management turned out to be quite delightful. I left them with a valuable souvenir - after more than 500 Km of worthy toeless service, those faithful trainers had been free-loading alongside my rucksack and it was time for them to go. The food was generous to extreme. So much so that I encouraged eight other "pellos" from the refugio to come and have supper there. They were mainly a younger lot with English as a common language. Two things stuck out a mile, which are worth recording. Firstly, their ignorance in the main about the history of the Camino, which proves that a sizeable majority aren't here for any historical or religious reason. One charming French Canadian thought that the scallop shell was just a marketing gimmick introduce possibly by the EU. Virtually nobody had heard of St Roche, who by the way is called San Rocky in this part of the world. Secondly, as the conversation turned to bombing Afghanistan I was surprised feel a real element of distaste for America. Germans and Swiss felt that their own culture was being eroded by the continual infiltration of the American way of life such as films, TV and Disneyland. Some even pointed out that within days of coming to office, Bush was bombing Iraq.
At the end of a short walk today (15 Km) I got a bum steer for the Hostale I am staying at, which ended up with another twenty minutes walking, but there was a treat in store. MELIDE is the home Pulpo eating. Huge quantities of best quality squid arrive here to be eaten in several restaurante. The pulpo is seasoned in spicy red wine and then boiled (I think) chopped up into bite size pieces and served on wooden platters generously coated in poor quality oil - then eaten with toothpicks and a specially baked crusty bread. White Ribeiro wine comes with it in a pottery jug and a bowlo. It's cloudy, fizzy and tastes a little bit of apples. The hundred seater restaurante was full with everyone jumbled up at 10 seat refectory tables with benches. Pilgrims, businessmen in suits, locals in berets plus a priest were all tucking in to this unique experience. I, fortunately found myself next to a Spanish couple from L A CORUNA, who had come specially for the inexpensive treat (1000 pta). They adopted me rather like a pet and kept topping up my pottery bowlo with the fizzy potion.
In the U.K. we are used to road signs warning of Deer, Children, Cattle and even old folk, but twice today I saw a sign warning motorists of "Crossing Pilgrims."
TUMBLING JACK
At a well run roadside hotel I have found sunshine and good facilities to do the laundry. LAVACOLLA is meant to be the place where pilgrims clean themselves up before entering SANTIAGO. I'm doing it two days early, so as to avoid the pre-warning of paraffin fumes from SANTIAGO airport.
This must be the first time I have eaten alone and it was a deliberate choice having enjoyed and finished with the company of a mixed motoring pilgrim group comprising, Swiss/Italian, Argentinean, French and Italian. They were to prove kind and helpful to me the next day as events rather painfully turned out.
At 0815 I ventured out of my room on the second floor and having turned on the landing lights I descended to the ground floor to find not only the dining room and bar firmly closed and in the dark, but the front door was locked as well. No hope of getting out of here till 9 'oclock earliest, so back upstairs for a bit of revised packing. Having finally breakfasted and paid an amazingly good price for dinner B & B (4200 pta) I popped back upstairs to load up and boot up.
Minutes later I was flying through the air head first upside down, down the last flight of 10 marble stairs. How it happened I shall never know, but the good news was that I didn't bump my head, break a bone or twist a joint. In fact apart from the shock, the only damage is grazing and bruises. A bit dazed, I
set off at 0915 for here in glorious autumn sunshine. An hour later I stopped to unpack from the very bottom of the rucksack a medical pack. With a few swipes, dressings, savlon and plaster all is patched up and fine.
This is eucalyptus country and most of the trail is through forests of the giant gum trees. 100 Km pilgrims (the last hundred Km walkers) are worried that the Camino isn't totally flat, but undulates gently up and down. Their feet problems need to be seen to be believed as they stagger or tiptoe into their next resting place. ARZUA has nothing to recommend it with a Red Cross clinic that never seems to open and a hotel that has all the appeal of a Toc H lamp with Holy images affixed to every wall. If a pilgrim seeking the light were to visit here, and I am sure there are some who do, it would kill their zeal and fervour stone dead.
The Argentinean amongst the motoring/walking pilgrims I met again yesterday, was helpful in trying to get the pharmacy to change my dressings, but to no avail. His bouncy nature extended to thumping me on the back and thumping me too on one of the sore spots.
Despite being just 37.5Km from SANTIAGO, there's not a sign of a scallop to eat. Maybe they are exclusive to Compostella.
A feeling of light headedness thanks to having enjoyed the last days walking as though it were a Sunday promenade. In fact it was at least 27 Km plus skirting round the threshold of what looked like Runway 24 at SANTIAGO airport.
Last night at ARZUA redeemed itself when, having escaped from the Holy Hotel of Gloom accompanied by dire threats of being locked out if I returned a second after 1030 PM. What's more I was to be locked in until 0845 the next morning until I promised to pray for the decrepit ninety year old manager when I got to the Compostela.
I found a flock of eight Finnish women pilgrims at one of the other hotels and joined them somewhat nervously for supper. In fact with a few drinks they proved very jolly and impressed me greatly when they said that not only had they never seen the inside of a refuge, but were staying at the famous Parador Hostale Reyes Catolicos when they reach the City. Lucky things.
I got out at 0800 this morning into the warm damp darkness, but to my surprise there was a cafe open doing a roaring breakfast trade for "perros". There I met a friendly Aussie lady who'd put her two twin sisters on the bus as they'd been unable to cope with the walking. Apparently they're both overweight and had got a bit of a surprise to find the Camino wasn't totally flat. The lonely younger sister and I set off together in a muggy dawn to find the going remarkably easy through pretty country.
It's getting crowded now with, in my judgement, at least 75% of the walkers being either the 100 Km certifcado seekers, or part of motorised support groups. In 42 days from ARZACQ I have only met two or possibly three pilgrims who started at Le Puy. The roadside bars are now quite frequent and it is tempting to snack along the way. We did stop at one and met a Danish woman pilgrim who joined us. The weather, going and company was so agreeable that the two women quickly decided to walk on to here instead of heading for an earlier refuge.
With light sprinklings of rain to dampen the Eucalyptus forests it was like strolling through Tarzan country less the apes, parrots and crocodiles. The only sounds were the crunch of steps on sandy trails and sometimes heavy breathing on the steeper parts to climb.
The Finnish women are turning up here too. Some by taxi and some on foot, so it looks as though company wise I shall be outnumbered by the dames and maybe even surrounded by them on getting to tomorrow's 1300 hrs appointment on the Cathedral Steps.
WHERE HAVE ALL THE HUSBANDS GONE ?
Friday night at LAVACOLLA where pilgrims used to de-louse themselves and generally try to clean up their stinking bodies in the river before entering the 3rd most important Holy City in Christendom after Jerusalem and Rome. Today, the lice may not be so prevalent, but there is little doubt that a true "perro's" clothing, if not the body, after 10 weeks on the road is pretty smelly.
It's curious that it was only in the last two day's walking that I met somebody "sympa" to chat to. Recently, all the men seem to have drifted away or could it be that they have walked faster and left the women folk behind ? In point of fact there have been at least three car supported lady pilgrim groups walking in my time frame, whilst their bored husbands drove on each day to recce the night stop and carry the luggage.
So, in the company of delightful little Jane the Aussie nurse plus a statuesque blonde Danish schoolteacher I sat down to eat in the evening what might be called "The Last Menu." For there at 9 PM in a pleasant dining room we were served the fixed price 1300 pta menu consisting of Soup, Stewed Veal and Tarte de Santiago. Despite the quality of the restaurante and the rooms, the bed was possibly the most uncomfortable of the whole Camino, which has included several times sleeping on the floor. No matter, there were only 10 Km to go next morning.
On sandy paths and metalled road the 9 am departure was more than soon enough to reach SANTIAGO for a one 'o'clock rendezvous with darling wife and dear sister. How lucky I was to have family there to meet me when others would only have the joy of greeting fellow pilgrims who had marched together for sometimes weeks gone by. 1030 struck on a clock tower as the three of us passed the City entry sign, but it was another hour before the Plaza de Obradoiro and the Portico de laG loria appeared dream like in front of me. With time to spare I found the pilgrim's office nearby and climbed the wooden stairs to the first floor office where with genuine anxiety presented my now filled up pilgrim's passport to the unsmiling, but courteous girls behind the desk. She scanned my well travelled passport and handed me a form to complete inviting full details as to nationality, sex, age, starting place, mode of travel, but most important of all, the purpose of the pilgrimage. In truth I wrote spiritual, historical and cultural. I needn't have worried, for with the faintest of smiles the girl behind the desk presented me with the cherished COMPOSTELA CERTIFICADO with my name Charles hand written in the Latin "Carolum."
Perhaps the most dramatic part of the Santiago arrival is the pilgrim mass, which if luck plays any part is a high theatre scene of heart stopping intensity, including the swinging of the incredible "Botafumeiro".
I asked the girl behind the desk when the next time the 58 kilo incense burner would be swung. She wrote down on a scrap of paper what I thought said 3 PM on Monday 15th October, - just the moment our flight home to London would be departing. The pall of utter gloom that fell across my bearded face must have jarred a fellow "Perro." to interrupt and say that if I shifted myself I might just get in to a special pilgrim mass about to start in five minutes at noon. The Portico de la Gloria was already locked, so a dash to the South Transept with rucksack bumping, just got me in as a Cathedral official closed the side door behind me.
It was warm and stuffy amid a throng of people so dense that I had to elbow my way gently to the Central Nave and having got there I glanced to my right. There, in brilliant light were twenty elderly priests berobed in white with scarlet dagger like crosses on the their chests. Seated in the choir stalls either side and before the mighty high altar gleaming with gilt and silver, these Don Carlos characters epitomised a Zeforelli production of a Verdi opera as they guarded the Holy Tabernacle. Above was the painted over life size statue of a seated St. James, St. Jacques, St. Jacob, or Sant Iago and yet some 20 feet higher there he was again astride his full size white charger armed with a massive sword about to slay another Moor. St. James "The Matamoros" ride supreme in this Cathedral.
An organ of immense power blasts forth chords of such volume and intensity that I could only gasp when trying to express my verbal appreciation of that to which I had been orally exposed. The mass which followed paid tribute to the pilgrims' arrival from far and wide. As I stood there in shorts, rucksack , tee shirt and staff, I felt a shameless superiority to the other 95% of the tourist congregation, who sat, stood or knelt with their videos, flash cameras and digital camcorders. Each day the pilgrims' mass is held, a lesson is read by a randomly chosen recently arrived pilgrim. No one could have been more pleased than me to see and hear Hector read that lesson. - my Mexican fellow pilgrim, who had paralleled me for about half of the Camino in Spain.
There is no choir in evidence and no easily understood explanation why or when the extraordinary Botafumeiro will be swung. Anyone even vaguely familiar with the Catholic church will know that Holy Communion is usually accompanied by the ringing of bells and the burning of incense in a hand held sensor. Not so the Santiago Communion. It proceeds in semi silence and then the priests return to their seats. On feast days, and some sceptics would say on days when a well financially breached tour group is in town the sum of 50,000 pta passes hands. Then this Cathedral brings out a silver plated sensor weighing 58 kilos made in 1851. It takes eight men to carry it and to swing it. Suspended by a 50 metre hemp rope from the Cathedral roof, the enormous incense filled vessel is hoisted off the ground then swung from North to South across the transepts until with nail biting anticipation it reaches the roof all but six inches. Pilgrims and all the congregation are well and truly fumigated as intended, but the incense is pleasantly herbal smelling rather than the usually sickly sweet aroma. The organ swells, blares and crashes its accompaniment until with a final blast the Botafumeiro is slowed and lowered. In concert halls and opera houses audiences clap -in cathedrals the congregation do not, except of course at Santiago.
At the end of Mass, the West doors are opened and I walked out into the watery sunshine to find my darling Carolyn and dear sister Shirleyanne waiting as promised at the top of the Cathedral steps, but looking outwards across the square. An emotional re-union completes the story of Le Puy to Santiago. A Thousand miles completed in 2001.
Charles Ranald
West House
Itchen Stoke
Nr. Alresford
Hampshire
SO24 0QZ
Direct tel: +44 1962 791162
gesto@onetel.net.uk
gasjl@hotmail.com (when travelling)