constanttrek

Chartres

1 comment October 15th, 2004

We were about a mile out of Paris when the rain started to fall. It wasn’t too bad to begin with, just a light grey drizzle which came and went, and it was so good to be walking again we barely noticed it. The walking was pleasant and took us through a succession of beautiful villages. After the austerity and hauteur of Paris, the villages appeared all the more picturesque, with their crumbling stone walls covered in grape vine leaves in flaming autumn colours, and tumbling down farmhouses by pretty little canals. The air was full of the rich scents of the season; freshly turned soil, damp earth, and wood smoke. Even in the wet weather, the kilometres seemed to pass us by quickly and easily.
We were heading for a small village called Rochefort, a reasonable walk of about 28 kilometres. We planned to camp there, or stay in a hotel if there was no camping. Unfortunately, when we arrived, about 5 o’clock, there was neither camping nor hotel to be had, which meant we had to push on another 5km to St Arnoult. It was at that stage that Gary started to run out of steam. Given that he had been very ill a few days before, he had hung on really well for our first day back walking, but all of a sudden he found himself with no energy at all. We needed to stop.
The rain had eased off, and not far up the road the fields became a thick forest, which we figured was as good a place as any to camp. We headed up into the trees and pitched the tent. By 9 o’clock we were fed and tucked up in bed. Except – I didn’t sleep a wink for about 3 hours.
I have spent a lot of time camped in the Australian bush, both with other people and on my own. It is a remarkably noisy place at night, filled with all manner of nocturnal beasties roaming around; but I have never felt scared in it, perhaps because it’s smells and sounds are so familiar. So it came as a bit of a shock to find myself in the middle of the woods lying awake, my heart pounding at every single sound. The thing is, you see, that the two are nothing – absolutely nothing – at all alike. The forest over here seems unnaturally quiet. The forest floor is soft and muffled, and apart from owls, the only sound I could hear was the weird thud of small branches falling off trees. I know there must be loads of creatures scurrying about out there, but I couldn’t hear them. Even the trees move in a hushed kind of way. Quite frankly, it was eerie. I’d have given anything to smell a gum tree and hear a possum screaming or a wombat crashing through the bush.
And let me just say one last thing: I wish with all my heart that I had never, ever watched the Blair Witch Project.
Anyway. I was way too exhausted to stay awake all night, even if I suspected that every tree hid a weird supernatural presence just biding it’s time before rattling our tent and leaving dead hands wrapped in sticks outside the door. Much as I was determined to remain on guard to battle the dreaded demons, sore muscles and envy of Gary’s peaceful snoring knocked me out eventually. Of course by daylight the entire scene appeared calm and serene. But it didn’t alter my fervent wish to get packed and out of there as soon as humanly possible.
The weather didn’t even attempt to put on a brave face the next day, and started chucking the rain down as soon as we stepped out on to the road. We hiked up to St Arnoult and stopped for some hot chocolate and to get food for the day, and sat in the Brasserie looking at the gloomy sky, egging each other on with promises of a night in a Gite or hotel, in the substantial looking town of Gallardon, about 25 km away. We rugged up and set off.
We were walking through the Beauce, a region known for it’s vast cereal production – it is sometimes called the “bread basket of France”, as over 60% of the grain used in breadmaking is produced here. What that means in terms of walking is lengthy stretches of straight, flat road with wide fields on either side, and very little in the way of trees, shelter, or people. The roads were lovely and peaceful, with little other than the odd tractor to break the silence, and the smell of rich soil, newly turned, reminded me of the farms at home. With our raincoats on and thermals keeping us warm, we plodded on fairly happily for 15km or so.
About that time the wind started to pick up, and the rain began driving across the empty fields in angry bursts. The day started to close in quickly under the heavy layer of cloud, and we still had about 10km to go before we reached Gallardon. We decided that we would stop at the next farm we got to and see if we could camp, or book into a hotel – whichever turned up first.
Or rather – didn’t turn up.
10km later we had passed neither, and were in a sodden heap in Gallardon. Now, bear in mind that this is a town which in Australia would be called a city, complete with polytechnic, large factories, major cathedral and a shopping precinct; equipped, in fact, with just about everything the consumerist little heart could desire.
Except a sodding hotel. Or camping ground. There are hotels advertised there, but, as seems to be common in French towns, they exist only in the imagination of the public servant writing the tourist brief. Who I will happily murder if ever we meet. There is a French word for “sorry” which I have always thought charmingly courteous – “desolee” – as in: “I am desolate”. But I got thoroughly sick of it in Gallardon, as we approached various people with queries regarding accommodation.
“Un hotel? Pas ici, je suis desolee…”
“Le camping? Non, non, madame, pas ici, desolee…”
Well, what about a bloody field to camp in?
“Je ne sais pas…desolee…”
It seemed there was nothing there, no-one knew anything, and everyone was desolate. Including us, by that stage. After weeks of people being unbelievably solicitous, it seemed we had suddenly hit Shitsville, France. It was 6 o’clock, cold, wet, and getting dark, and from all accounts the nearest hotel was 5km up the road – although no-one seemed certain that it actually existed. The map showed nothing in the way of trees to camp in anywhere nearby. We did the only sensible thing and retired to the Tabac for a quiet drink, all the better to contemplate our fabulous array of options. At the time they consisted of
1/ walk, or
2/ get drunk and walk.
Obviously, I favoured the second.
On our second drink we got chatting to the kindly barman, who told us that three minutes walk away there was a sports field. When we asked if he thought we could camp there, he gave one of those wonderfully expressive Gallic shrugs, which seem to say “who knows?”, “why not?”, and “who gives a shit anyway?” all in one fabulously nonchalant gesture.
We drained our hot chocolates – don’t laugh, I was being responsible – and plodded back out into the now torrential downpour. A few minutes later we spied the sports field, which had a promising clump of trees at the far end. We squelched our way through the mud, stood in the bucketing rain and looked at each other, both with the same thought – how the hell do we do this?
There wasn’t a dry – even semi dry – metre of soil anywhere. Nowhere to put a tarp down to rest the packs on, no shelter to put the tent under, just open space with the wind and rain howling through. It was pitch black by this time.
In the absence of vast quantities of alcohol, we gave mildly hysterical snorts of laughter, attempted to fool each other that we found the situation vastly amusing, and tried not to stuff up too badly. We dumped the packs on to a sodden tarp; threw the tent up; and then tossed everything, including ourselves, into it. We had a grand old time playing jump the puddles on the tent floor while we set up our bedding, then took our dripping outer layer off, kept the thermals on, and crawled into the sleeping bags in a hurry to warm up. Which brings me to the battle of the sleeping bags.
Now, after years (I like to flatter myself) of blokes trying to get me in the sack, so to speak, I now find myself turfed out of it. Gary is convinced that when it is really cold we are better off in our own solitary bags, as they are built to retain body heat. I am firmly of the opinion that zipping them together is a far better option. Not only do I then get the benefit of Gary’s body heat, I also get about three feet more room. This, of course, may have something to do with why he doesn’t go for the idea.
On that particular evening the debate was particularly pertinent – but as I was carrying the last of the food in my pack, the decision was always going to go my way. I hold the belief that all is fair in love and sleeping bag war.
So we spent the night praying to all the Gods that the tent would withstand yet another drenching (it did), that no-one would come and kick us out (they didn’t), and that the weather would clear up before morning (yeah right).
Day three was destination Chartres. We packed up our soaking kit at 5am, driven onwards by the thought of a hot shower – believe me we needed one – and a big, steaming meal. As we set out, in the rain yet again, we did something we try not to: the food competition. You know the kind of thing.
“Oh man, I’d give anything for a big, juicy steak…”
“Yeah, but I’d have mine with truffle butter, new potatoes, asparagus and hollandaise sauce.”
“No way. I’d go for a red wine sauce, thick cut chips, and fresh green beans. And I’d have a chocolate crepe to finish.”
“I’d add a huge cheese platter afterwards, with yummy red and crusty bread…”
There is a very good reason we don’t do this very often. Firstly, because it is never a good idea to try to outdo a chef in regard to food fantasies, and secondly, because we rarely have either the money or the venue to see them fulfilled. But it was a miserable day, we had eaten nothing but Kendal Mint cake and bread for our last two meals, and we were wet, cold, and hungry. It was inevitable.
I won, eventually, with a description of Beef Bourgignon and garlic mash which had Gary slathering like a rabid dog and me eyeing up every passing cow in a covetous fashion.
There was a tiny village called Coltainville marked on the map about 10km from Shitsville. We held faint hopes that there may be a boulangerie where we could buy some breakfast, or maybe even – look out – a brasserie where we could have a hot chocolate. As we walked through, though, our spirits sank. It was a dead end town, and the only hope on the horizon seemed to be a tiny, poky looking little Tabac. Hoping we could at least get a hot drink we went in.
It was a typical looking village cafe, with the customary handful of ornery old chaps in berets at the small bar smoking and drinking pastis. They eyed our dripping, lumbering forms with caution. We exchanged polite greetings and they turned back to their drinks.
Madame et Monsieur our hosts were very sorry, but lunch didn’t start until 1 o’clock. However – not looking very hopeful – they would see what they could do. In the meantime, we could have a hot chocolate.
Far from being disappointed, we were beside ourselves in excitement at the prospect of a hot drink, in the way only those who have been wet, cold, and hungry for 24 hours can appreciate. When Madame brought out two steaming, frothy jugs of chocolate, sweet and creamy, we would have kissed her except the unholy stench of our combined bodies could possibly have ushered the poor soul into an untimely grave. As it was, we fell upon them with unseemly gusto.
Whilst we waited for whatever food they could rustle up, we were intrigued to see Monsieur setting every table in the place with baskets of bread, open litres of wine, and crockery – about 60 places in all – for all the world as if he actually expected the place to fill up. Given that the population of the town would be hard pressed to exceed 30, we thought him a touch on the optimistic side, but each to their own.
Eventually he brought us some plates with fresh luscious tomatoes, beautifully and simply dressed; thick cut ham; and crusty bread. Beside ourselves in delight, we polished off the lot in minutes and felt grateful for their efforts. Little did we know that it had only been the first course.
Seconds later, out came two large dishes. One held thick, creamy, garlicky mash; and the other – I’m sure you’ve already guessed – held a mountain of rich, tender, Beef Bourgignon, so full of flavour it brought tears to our eyes. We couldn’t believe it – our ultimate food fantasy come true, and in perfect form. And there was no end to it. The cheese platter alone would have fed a small army, and it was served with wonderful fresh, crisp apples.
We ate, and ate, and ate some more. For whole minutes there was no sound from our table except deep, heartfelt groans of pleasure, and the odd yelp of muted ecstasy. I have never, ever eaten Beef Bourgignon like that. If you can imagine every thick, red winey, mushroomy sauce you have ever loved, and mix it with beef so tender it falls apart to the touch with a rich, deep, mature flavour, multiply your fantasy by about 50 and you have some idea of what I mean. Christ it was good.
By the time we finished eating, a steady stream of people were trampling in the door. Within ten minutes every single table was filled. And all of the customers were local labourers, who stopped at the bar for un aperitif and a chat before sitting down to eat. Probably every labourer for 30km knew about that café, and happily drove the distance for lunch; it was obvious that they came here every day. And no wonder. I wish I could.
As somebody who lives in perpetual envy of the AA Gills and Michael Winners of this world, who are paid to review restaurants, I am going to seize my opportunity to say something I have always wanted to, in the sure knowledge it will be read by only a handful of people who most probably can never take my advice: do yourself a favour, and go to the Coltainville. Go there now.
Did it sound good? It always does when Giles Coran writes it.
So, as I write this, we are happy little souls. Our wonderfully full stomachs gave wings to our backpacks, and we were in Chartres by early afternoon, where we are happily ensconced in a hostel, showered, fed, and drying out at last. We’ve covered nearly 80 km in the last 3 days which, whilst not a huge distance, we are happy with given our long break. Apart from the usual aching muscles we appear to be in good shape.
We are finally at the starting point of the Compostela route, which we are both very excited about. If there are any other people walking the route reading this page, I will be posting updates re: route etc on the “on walking” page.
In the meantime, I am going to eat more chocolate and revel in the novelty of being warm and dry whilst I still can. Gary is still not 100%, so we will stay here until Sunday morning to give him a chance to get better. At least that’s my excuse.
By the way, Gary insists that the real reason he doesn’t want to zip the bags together is because I am a fidget arse and I let all the cold air in. As this page is intended to show both sides of the story I thought he was entitled to a line in his defence. Even if he is wrong.

THE NEXT DAY IN CHARTRES

I had to add this in at the last minute in the internet café.
We had completely run out of clothes by the time we got here last night. All the available space in the room was taken up with hanging the tent and sleeping bags up to dry, so there was nowhere for us to hang up clothes – and besides which, they were seriously stinking. So today the good people of Chartres have been treated to the fabulous sight of Gary and I, clad in our thermal underwear, socks, and sandals (oh how attractive) traipsing through town to the laundromat. I am sitting in this little internet café surrounded by curious souls trying to sneak surreptitious peeks at my ultra desirable ensemble. I am sorely tempted to cultivate a few odd twitches and weirdo type mutterings to fulfil what must be the very epitome of the nutter stereotype, but out of consideration for Gary (who, it has to be said, looks even more fetching than my good self) I shall desist. The scary thing about Gary is that he actually didn’t see anything odd about his get up. Which explains a lot about men and clothes, if you ask me.