November 9th, 2004

We have just arrived in Poitiers.  It has been a not inconsiderable march – we have come from Chateau Renault, through Tours, where we stopped for one day, and then five days straight to get here.  When we set out on this walk, I didn’t think that five days was a lot to walk in one hit.  But it is.  Particularly when it is winter, and we are in a tent, and all the camping grounds are closed.  On the up side, it is great to be covering the ground more quickly, and we are doing over 25 km every day again.  I shall not dwell on the joys of camping in November – I have provided an in depth analysis of the faults of my sleeping bag in a separate post, which I am sure you will find both edifying and informative (NOT) – suffice to say that we are actually looking forward to the heat of the Sahara.  In fact I have an obsession with the thought.  The only other point to make is that if you happen to be a manufacturer of talcum powder, reading this page, you may wish to consider sponsoring us.  The powder shower is becoming a way of life.  Delightful.

Luckily, we have found some lovely camps.  Not all of them get a photo – most of the time we are in too much of a hurry to actually get into bed, such as bed is, to stuff about with the camera.  But this one, by a lake somewhere about 30km from Tours, was beautiful, particularly on a fine autumn day.  It was quiet enough to risk lighting a fire, so we had a hot dinner as well.  Oh, the luxury.

On day three, the weather was a bit manky, so we decided to ask at a farm to see if we could camp inside their barn, or under some trees.  The farm we chose to ask turned out to be a country b&b, and due to the fact that we were tired; communication wasn’t overly easy; and it had a shower, we wound up booking a room for the night.  Lovely as it was, forty euros is way out of our budget, so we resolved to camp for the rest of the march.

  We had planned to take six days to get to Poitiers.  Although the distance on roads is not huge, we have been taking the GR walking routes, which, though scenic, do tend to wind all over the place.  But if there is one major advantage in camping in this weather, it is that it is a great incentive to move fast.  Yesterday we looked critically at the map and decided that 35 km really wasn’t that far if there was a bed and shower at the end of it.

Amazing how one can fool oneself.

We actually managed the distance to Poitiers ok. By the time we had reached the outskirts of town it was 6.00pm, and we had been walking for 10 hours, with less than an hour off.  Given that we usually cover 4km per hour, we figured, and the map confirmed, we had already covered over 30km – our feet certainly felt as thought they had done a marathon.  Luckily the last half of the day had been along a blissfully straight Roman Road, without tarmac, which had really helped cover the distance.But Poitiers is one of those truly joyful towns which takes, oh, GPS technology and a year or so, to negotiate.  After following the instructions we had diligently to where we thought the hotels would be, we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, with not a hotel in sight. 

At this stage we managed to attract the attention of a couple walking past.  Now, don’t ask me how we do it, but Gary and I are weirdo magnets.  If there is an eccentric person anywhere within yelling distance, by the power of osmosis they will find us and be drawn.  The man immediately approached us, and once he had established that we were indeed travelling along the St Jacques de Compostelle – a well known and respected route in these parts – he became extremely excited, waving hands wildly and telling us in extremely fast and generally incomprehensible French how he had cycled the route years before.  He began to drag us off to the pilgrim’s accommodation, which in hindsight would have been a great idea, but at that stage of the day we were tired and sore and had promised ourselves a private room and hot shower, and the thought of dormitory accommodation was not appealing. It is also a little unsettling to be unceremoniously whisked away somewhere without understanding exactly where is you are going;  we were not entirely sure that he didn’t mean he would put us up for the night, and we were both too tired to spend a sociable evening with anyone, no matter how well meaning they were.

So we finally made it clear that we would rather spend the night in a hotel.  He immediately said he knew where the cheap ones were, by the station, information backed up by my little guidebook, so we gratefully followed him for another 2km down to the station.  By this stage we were seriously exhausted.  To be honest, I don’t remember being that tired since the first couple of days walking.  We were both still smiling but I was actually starting to wonder how much longer we could remain upright.  At least, we thought, a warm bed and hot shower.

Budget hotel, bollocks.

They were all over 30 euros, at least 10 more than we are used to paying for our days off, and they looked suspiciously manky.  Meanwhile, our man was running up and down questioning every passer by as to which was the cheapest hotel, and going in and out of the hotels asking them to do a deal for us as we were pilgrims.  Lovely as he was, and trying to help, we were really at the stage where we just wanted to be left alone.  Finally we all settled on a hotel, we thanked the man and bid him goodbye, and were on our own. 

Ah well, we thought, sod it, for one night we will be ripped off.  Tomorrow we can find somewhere else and besides, for 35 euros it is bound to be alright.

Or not.

From the wheezing asthmatic hotel keeper and his greasy, cigar smoking cronies at the old formica bar, to the stairs with mysterious sticky substances oozing down them, this really is the hotel from hell.  I am writing in it this morning hastily before we leave so I can post this today – before we get the hell out of Dodge – and just like in the Blues Brothers movie, the trains go by so often you don’t even notice them.  Last night as we collapsed into the room, the sole thought on our mind was that of a toasty hot shower.  Let’s face it – we both needed one, badly.  But, oh yes, you guessed it – no hot water to be had!

Downstairs I went, back to the deeply attractive and welcoming bar of the hotel.  “Il n’y a pas l’eau chaud,” I said in my bad French – there is no hot water.  Oh, but “oui, il y a! Voila!” he said, turning on the hot tap in the bar and gesturing to the stream of supposedly hot water coming out.  “Il n’ y a PAS”, I said emphatically through gritted teeth.  “Mais oui!” he replied.  Things went on in this vein for a while, until I could tell by the smarmy look on his face that I had not a hope in hell of gaining satisfaction.  Back up I went, where Gary was raging mindlessly against the evil criminals who would do such a thing as let a room with no hot water.  Funnily enough, Gary has been putting off learning French, but if there is one thing certain to galvanise him, it is his absolute hatred of being ripped off.  I suspect he is about to take a major crash course – everything has its flip side, huh!

So we flopped dejectedly into bed, determined that tomorrow would be another day.

And it has.  There was hot water this morning; we slept like the dead; and now here we are, showered, happy, and about to set out to find a new bed for tonight before we take off tomorrow. 

All in all, we are rapt that we are moving so fast, and very much enjoying the walking.  Cold nights and sleeping bag issues aside, we are doing pretty well with the camping and weather, and still having a good laugh.  Gary is – I have to admit this – a true saint, shouldering the majority of the luggage without complaint and making camping a far easier experience than it could have been. 

THE FOLLOWING DAY

Ah.  The adventures of yesterday deserved their own little note, I thought, and since I didn’t get to an internet café and we are having another day to rest, I shall update accordingly.

As good official pilgrims, we have been issued with the standard “credencial”.  This is a little book which is used as proof of one’s pilgrim status along the way to obtain cheap or free accommodation; it is also produced at the end of one’s journey in Santiagoin order to gain a certificate of pilgrimage.  It is customary to get the book stamped at churches or refuges along the way, the idea being that at the end of the trip the stamps prove where you have been and the time it took.  In Spain, all refugios and churches are apparently well equipped with stamps.  In this part of France they are gradually catching up with the custom, but finding the appropriate person to issue a stamp has proven to be quite a hassle at times. 

Yesterday we first walked to the tourist office to enquire about alternative accommodation.  When it became apparent that the cheapest available was more expensive than our salubrious surrounds of the day before, we decided that exiting Poitiers was our best option.  First, though, we had to get our laundry done –MAJOR priority – and, we figured, since we had actually walked here and the place is supposed to be an important stop on the pilgrims’ route, get our books stamped. While Gary did the washing (there is only room for one domestic expert in our little partnership, and it ain’t me) I wandered off to the most major looking of the town’s 6 Cathedrals in search of the stamp.  There was not a soul to be seen in Notre Dame, but a sign on the notice board gave an address for “Pererin services” – pilgrim service.  I jotted down the address and trotted back to the Laundromat.  After consulting the map, we worked out the address was over the other side of town, but decided it was worth the walk – and besides, they might have pilgrim accommodation.  We hoisted the packs up and set off into the steady drizzle.

An hour later we found the address, which was also the Diocesian house.  After a rather confusing discussion with a disembodied voice crackling through an intercom, I was permitted entry.  Behind the desk was one of those women, aged somewhere between 50 and 90, who seem to be endemic in non-profit organisations and particularly the Church.  She had a slightly quavering voice, a rather uncertain manner, and seemed overly preoccupied with whether the outer door had been closed properly, pointing anxiously with one long bony finger at the security camera, which showed the menacing, shaven headed figure of Gary lurking suspiciously by the packs.  I suppose one never can tell when the militant masses of Al Qua’eda will storm the Diocesian House of Poitiers.  In vain I attempted to explain that he was my husband.  She appeared unconvinced and continued to treat me with great wariness.  I explained that we were pilgrims. 

Understand, that ever since we left Chartres, the very mention of the words “St Jacques” has been enough to make people invite us for dinner, to stay the night, or at least shake our hands and wish us “bonne chance”.  Yet here we were in Poitiers, in the actual heart of the Catholic Church administration, and this old biddy couldn’t have cared less.  In fact, before I had even finished explaining that we just wanted a stamp, she was already shaking her head. Not here, she explained, you have to go three streets away to another office.  But the Pererin Services are supposed to be located here, I argued; to no avail. She wanted me, my muddy boots, unshaven husband and little book to be far, far away from her neatly kept desk and beady eyed security camera.  I could tell from the way she nearly knocked me to the floor when one of the Cure’s walked in that I was a severe blot on her landscape.  All she had to say as I left was to be sure I closed the door properly.  I did.  I closed it so properly it nearly came off the hinges.

So, we hoisted the packs and walked up the hill to the next place.  In the rain.  Where, of course, there was no answer to the doorbell.  Given the fact that we were still exhausted from the day before, with sore feet and fairly filthy attitudes, I was prepared at that stage to sod the stamp and find a bar or something.  But Gary had got that kind of fixed, determined look about him which with a sinking heart I realised meant he would happily stage a year long protest in the middle of the town square before he would leave without that stamp. 

So we set off and began trying each church.  Whether it was the state of mind we were in, the weather, or just reality, they seemed a particularly gloomy and depressing lot of buildings.   In contrast to the beautiful Cathedrals of Chartres and Amiens, most of them appeared marred by rather garish modern paintwork, and all were uniformly deserted and cold.  Each one had the same notice directing Pilgrims to the Diocesian House, but there was no way in hell I was prepared to front Miss Prozac on the desk again.

As we were leaving the third one, I spied a young man in a priest’s collar striding busily across the courtyard, and immediately accosted him and explained the situation.  He was lovely, and led us through another labyrinth of backstreets, to a tiny alley way with a completely anonymous green door – no bell of any kind – which, when opened, led to the elaborate courtyard of the Presbytery.  Now, how anyone could possibly have found that courtyard without extremely explicit instructions, I have no idea; unless we missed some very important secret signal, there must be a few exceedingly pissed off pilgrims coming through Poitiers.

A lovely old chap in the Presbytery shook our hand with great enthusiasm and stamped our cursed little books.  There was no mention made of accommodation, routes, maps, or indeed any of the necessities of a pilgrim’s existence; they just wanted us stamped and on our way, thankyou very much.  In a matter of minutes we were back out on the road in the rain.

The lack of assistance didn’t bother us in the slightest – we were looking forward to a proper hotel anyway – but it was certainly in stark contrast to the endless hospitality shown us by other organisations, notably the inestimable Frank in Chartres.

We still had food and maps to buy, so we trudged back up the hill and got on with it.  I rang the Formule 1 hotel – what else do you do? – out at Poitiers South, about 3km away, and booked in.  At least we knew we had a room.

It was about 5.00pmby the time we got here yesterday, and I think we were asleep before we actually got into the room.  Either way we are both feeling rather like new people after over twelve hours sleep.  The final thing I have to add, which I can laugh about now but which neither of us found remotely amusing yesterday, is in regard to the shonky hotel we stayed in the first night.  As we left our room and clattered downstairs yesterday morning, we passed a door on the landing which neither of us had noticed the night before.  The cleaning woman opened it – it wasn’t locked or anything – and there, in proud splendour, was a huge, deep, brand new, BATH.  For general use. 

We stood there for about five minutes, just mouthing incoherently, staring in horrified disbelief at that beautiful invention, which had been four feet away that whole cold, unwashed night, and I tell you, we very nearly cried.  In actual fact, neither of us could say a word.  We just picked up our bags and walked downstairs.  I guess some days are just like that, huh.

So today I am catching the bus into town to post this up and do all the other things we were either to tired or too pissed off to do.  Our next major destination is a town with the highly promising name of Cognac.  I hold out great hopes of it being a destination somewhat more suited to my temperament than the mighty

Poitiers. 

And a very happy birthday to my gorgeous Mum.  I love you loads and miss you very much. 

Entry Filed under: trekking