Archive for December, 2004
December 28th, 2004
Merry Christmas, Feliz Navidad, Bonne Noel. And all the rest. Hope it has been the usual gross overindulgence in all things gourmet and alcoholic; if you are a member of my immediate family, one assumes this goes without saying.
We have had a most amazing few weeks.
After Pamplona, we headed into the rugged country of Navarra. 
It is an almost surreal landscape, something like an obscure Dali painting; there are sharp lines of dramatic peaks which cut away suddenly to barren valleys of red dirt and grape vines, and above it all an enormous sky which changes constantly. In the distance tiny white villages with ancient churches cling precariously to the hilltops, so you find yourself walking from one to another whilst the last three remain still in view. It was an incredibly abrupt change from France, far more rough and wild, but quite exhilarating to walk through.
As it was when we crossed the Pyrenees, we have found ourselves in a kind of loose group.
There are David and Elsbeth,
who I mentioned before – highly professional walkers both, who are walking the Camino for the third time.
Andreus, a top German bloke who has walked from Geneva;
and Josef,
a lovely young French guy who started in Paris. Although we rarely walk together, we usually wind up in the same refuges every night, and often eat together. Due to the fact that loads of the refuges are closed now, and there are few pilgrims travelling, we have got to know each other pretty well. Occasionally other pilgrims turned up; in the last few days we have been joined by Joe, a Canadian, and Atto, a Japanese.
But as we were coming into Christmas, it was just the original group. In Santo Domingo we decided to do a group shop and then hike the last six km to Granon, which reputedly had a fantastic refuge, with our horde of Christmas goodies. Early the next morning we set off with Andreus carrying a kilo and a half of beef and two chickens, amongst other things, and the rest of us hauling various bottles of booze, vegetables, cheese and all manner of yummy things. Lucky it was only 6 km.
The refuge was as good as reported – a converted part of a 16th century church, complete with open fire and well equipped kitchen. We settled in and started preparing a feast.
Then the Nutter showed up.
Now, it is important to realise that Nutters on the Camino are a far from rare species. Like anything with a spiritual foundation, there are a certain quota of souls who are either hard core Christians, out to convert and preach; bizarre wanderers who really have no idea what they are doing or why they are there; and the usual array of spiritual tossers who believe they and they alone are on a higher plane than the rest of us mere mortals. But every now and then one comes along who really does blow the average wacko clear out of the water, and Donkey Man was just such a one.
We were just settling into our cooking, 
(Andreus, Gary and Elsbeth)
along with the new addition of a (mad) Italian guy also called David, when into the room came a stinking vision of loveliness, clad in well worn travelling clothes and carrying an ancient pack and wooden staff. He had wild black curling hair and slightly mad looking eyes,
(Major nutter)
but he seemed normal enough when he told us that although he wasn’t a pilgrim, he was walking Spain with his donkey, and wondered if he could shelter in the refuge since it was Christmas?
Sure enough, eating the best part of the village square below was a black donkey, surrounded by an array of odd shaped bulging plastic bags. The priest said it was ok, and so entered Donkey Man.
He was Spanish. As only David and Elsbeth are fluent in Spanish, it took the rest of us a while to realise how truly nuts he was. At first it was just little things, like the fact that despite repeated requests and the fact that all the other smokers were going outside, he flatly refused to comply, rolling cigarette after cigarette of highly dodgy substances and smoking them all through the refuge – including in the kitchen. As we were all also slowly imbibing our hefty stash of Rioja, we were not really in the mood to be dictatorial, and still made an effort to be sociable. By the time we sat down to dinner Elsbeth was fairly sure he was a mental case, but the rest of us hadn’t really talked to him.
Dinner was really lovely – very multicultural, with Andreus making a German marinated beef dish, Elsbeth a Dutch dessert, and Gary the in-between bits (I supervised and opened the wine) – and of course, it being Christmas, we invited Donkey Man to eat with us. 
Well, he sat down, and proceeded to stuff his face, whilst spouting endlessly to poor Elsbeth in Spanish. She later said it was complete gibberish – he was stoned off his head – but she did manage to glean that he had suffered a major nervous breakdown and was currently existing by virtue of a state pension. The rest of us got steadily inebriated and did our best to ignore him, although it was kind of hard as he had the kind of voice which is as subtle as a jackhammer. We did manage to decline his offer of a particularly potent moonshine which appeared from one of the plastic bags.
During the night, as we all tried to sleep, Donkey Man charged up and down the refuge with a manic energy, throwing ever bigger tree trunks onto the fire and muttering to himself. We were all afraid to lapse into blissful drunken slumber in case he managed to burn the place down. At around 4.30 and after about 30 spliffs he eventually laid down on his donkey infused bedroll and passed out, only to jolt us all awake again at about 8.00 as he returned to fire duty.
We were far more circumspect the second day, and gave him a wide berth; after a few hours, his behaviour became increasingly bizarre. Methodically he went through every single cupboard and drawer, examining anything which was not locked down, and arranging his accumulated treasures into little piles, ready for a quick getaway. We watched in amazement as he blatantly appropriated anything which could be of any possible use to a wandering Donkey Man. On the desk was a chest for pilgrims’ donations, which bore the inscription: “Give what you can and take as you need.” Obviously, none of us were about to put any money into the box whilst he was roaming speculatively about, particularly as he eyed the box covetously every time he passed it by.
In the meantime, we were all getting on with a very merry Christmas, including an international tournament of the highly intellectual game “Pass the Pigs”, which involves tossing two tiny pig statues in the manner of dice and earning points depending on the way they land. For some odd reason, Italy excels at this sport. True to form, England came in a pathetic last, and Australia held her own. As the smokers were banished to the heights of the belltower every time they needed a hit, the tiny hamlet of Granon was blessed with some very interesting bell ringing over the Christmas period. In addition to the festivities, on Christmas day the snow started to fall; and fall, and fall, and fall. It was sort of amusing at first but as the day wore on we began to get a little worried about what it would be like for the next few days, as we had to leave on Boxing Day. Although, with two roast chooks and all the trimmings plus copious amounts of Rioja, we weren’t too fussed.
The next morning we woke and packed up and cleaned the refuge. Donkey Man had bounced out of bed at dawn in order to spirit away all of his carefully stashed treasures. Obviously he felt no need to assist in the cleaning process, content to smoke his spliffs and eye the donations box hopefully. We were all in a quandary; we desperately wanted to leave a generous donation, but had no intention of leaving it for Donkey Man to appropriate. A kind of extended waiting game ensued. We kept hoping he would leave, but despite being packed up, he obviously had no intention of moving until he had our donations in his pocket, and so sat patiently waiting for us to leave. Eventually we decided to put the donation into an envelope and leave it with the owners of the bakery for the Priest. We left when he was (we thought) with his donkey downstairs, and went to the Bakery. Guess who was there? We had to out wait him there as well, but once he realised we were leaving, he dashed back to the refuge in an almighty rush, no doubt anxious to grab the cash. My sole moment of joy in his acquaintance was in imagining the depths of his fury at discovering he had no money to take.
So that was Donkey Man. May he live to enjoy the fruits of many refuges.
In the meantime we set out for Belorado, a short walk of just under 20km. There are three refuges there; unfortunately, none were open. Fortunately David tracked down the local priest, who came and opened one of them for us. After a day of walking through snow, however, 2 tiny gas heaters were a little inadequate to heat the huge old hall, and we all shivered around them before diving into bed early.
That night, the snow really came down, and yesterday we awoke to chocolate box views of blue skies and a white world. 
It was stunningly beautiful, if a touch on the chilly side, and even though we had to walk over 30km on the road it was a beautiful day to do it. We could have taken the trail – if you don’t mind wading through nearly a metre of fresh snow! We took the road.
We arrived in Atapuerca at about 4.30 yesterday and went straight to the refuge – which wasn’t open. Nor, according to the owner of the bar, were any of the refuges in neighbouring towns, which meant the nearest accommodation was another 20km away in Burgos. We had no intention of walking that far. David and Elsbeth 
had got there slightly before us and
(Elsbeth)
been directed to the home of a little old lady down the road; for €6 each they had a freezing cold room and two mattresses – David’s thermometer read 2 degrees. Heartbreakingly (not) she had no beds left, so Gary and I reluctantly coughed up the extortionate price of €40 for a tiny room in the hotel, which had a shower with no hot water. We were absolutely furious; but our anger was nothing to that we had an hour later. On our way to the bar, we saw there were lights on in the refuge, which was adjacent to the hotel we were staying in. When we knocked on the door, we found Andreus, Josef, Joe and Atto all crowded around a tiny pot bellied stove. To our intense frustration we discovered they had persuaded the hotel owner to open the refuge for them. The same hotelier who had stung us for €40.
Back to the hotel we marched, and demanded our money back (or rather, David did, since our Spanish is non-existent). He kept telling us that there was no hot water in the refuge, or heating, and we would be very uncomfortable; since there was little of either in the hotel, I didn’t see this as a major problem. Eventually we won our argument and adjourned next door, where we joined the boys in burning little bits of paper in a vain attempt to beat the chill. At least it was free.
We woke this morning to yet more snow. Today we walked the final 20km to Burgos through driving wind and snow, along roads with black ice and slush. Never let it be said we did the pilgrimage trail easily. But as I write this we are in the cosiest refuge imaginable, complete with hot shower and internet, planning a dinner out tonight with everyone – so life is good.
To be honest, our time on the Camino has just been fantastic. The company is great, and the moral support is really nice also. We have walked every day since Dax with the exception of Christmas day, and have nearly done another 1000km. Our packs are so light now it is a whole different experience – I think back to that first 1000km and honestly wonder how in hell we did it. Our feet are fine now. They might get tired after 30km, but it is nothing like the mind numbing agony of those first few months, and we just don’t need to rest like we used to. The walking has been quite challenging the last few weeks, particularly through the hills and mud of Navarra, but we have truly enjoyed every day, and laughed endlessly. It is a lovely break in routine for us to have this time on the Camino and we plan to savour every bit of it.
It is difficult at the moment to access the net as we are walking so much and are rarely in places which have cyber cafes, but we will try to update more regularly. In the meantime thankyou for all the lovely emails and messages – I don’t have time to answer them all this stop but will definitely get to them next time.
And to David and Elsbeth, who are leaving us in Burgos (slackers) thanks so much for all of your help and please stay in touch.
Buen Camino!
By the way – just had to add this one in, as it is a photo of the Irache Fountain, which has one tap for wine and one for water. And yes, wine really does come out of it. And it is free. It took a long time for us to walk past it.
December 17th, 2004
And so, for one day only, folks, we come to you live from the city best known for the odd hobby of sending a mob of raging bulls loose in the streets to chase drunken tourists: Pamplona.
That means we are in Spain.
Hola! Beunos Dias! And bloody sore muscles!
To get to Spain from France, one has to cross the Pyrenees. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. They consist of a hill or two, of the kind of size which make the Great Dividing Range look like minor sand dunes.
For months now we have been inundated with increasingly morbid stories about those poor souls idiotic enough to contemplate a winter crossing of the pass; our favourite involved the spring discovery, this year, of three pilgrims’ corpses. But cross we had to, and so we walked from the haven of booze and Fois Gras at Michel and Monique’s to the small village of St Jean Pied-de-Port, otherwise known as St Jean at the foot of the pass.
It is odd how quickly the landscape changes. One minute we were walking away from Dax, and the last remnants of the Landes, and the next we rounded a corner, came over a rise, and face to face with our first glimpse of the mountains, blue and immense on the horizon. 
After weeks of flat pine forest they were incredibly beautiful. Their rather daunting size was also slightly terrifying.
Fortunately by the time we reached the village, there had been 4 straight days of brilliant sunshine, with two more predicted. The slightly mad woman in the pilgrim’s refuge – lovely, but definitely batty – confirmed that the way across the mountains was safe, much to the vast relief of ourselves and the other few pilgrims there.
There are two routes from St Jean Pied-de-Port: the road way, which is by all accounts boring, not very scenic, and rather long but – undeniably appealing – very safe; and the Route Napoleon, which (predictably, given that it is named after a bloke with a notorious case of small man’s syndrome) is tough, high, hard, but very beautiful.
Obviously we would have appeared complete Big Girl’s Blouses to all the other (3) pilgrims had we settled on the road route, so in a fit of hubris and utter stupidity we agreed to walk the latter.
And thus it was that we found ourselves, in the dark predawn, 
clattering down the cobbled street of St Jean Pied-de-Port, eyeing the somewhat daunting heights looming above us with more than a touch of trepidation. Five of us set off from the refuge, spaced a short way apart – another couple, Elsbeth and David, and a lone French pilgrim complete with oak staff, Joseph. Elsbeth and David are what you might call professional adventurers, and are extremely experienced walkers, so we felt comfortable in the knowledge that if we were going to cark it we would be doing so in well qualified company.
A few small facts about the Route Napoleon: it is 27 kilometres long; it climbs over 1300 vertical metres; it is estimated to take a fit walker, carrying a 12 kilo pack, at least eight hours; and for over six of those, one is walking solely uphill. In short, this is one big, steep, ugly mother of a climb, and even after the cull, our packs are at least double 12 kilos.
Fortunately all of this is compensated for by truly awesome views. Well, in part, anyway. The road starts climbing pretty much straight out of the village, and for the first three or so hours one just plods directly upwards, glancing back occasionally at the ever decreasing valley below, and still feeling reasonably confident that it won’t be that bad really and – oh look! – the views are wonderful, and aren’t we so glad we came this way instead of the other?
Then the road turns into a track, which also goes upwards, only at a more brutal angle; the track turns into a smaller track, which gets steeper, and … I guess you get the picture. 
About three hours later we found ourselves, knees trembling and thighs jelly like, staring out in brilliant midday sunshine across the endless panorama of the snow capped Pyrenees. 
It was a truly awesome view, all the more incredible as it is mid December and by all rights we should have been 
inundated with snow and dying of hypothermia. Instead we munched loads of fabulous Bayonne Ham and Basque Pecorino and felt sorry for all the poor sods who were working while we sat up here, on the top of the world, rubber legged but happier than Timothy Leary in a pharmacy supply store. You wouldn’t be dead for quids on a day like that.
Another hour or so of going up, and just as we started to get a little concerned that the upward thing was going to continue into the dark, we reached the bit where the path turned downhill.
Now, after climbing over 1300 metres in 6 or so hours, we suddenly found ourselves descending 700 of them in the space of one hour. That is a steep descent. Apart from being pathetically grateful to have no more climbing to do, that kind of descent is pretty taxing on legs which already resemble plasticine, and it was a less than elegant pair who stumbled into the Spanish hamlet of Roncesvalles at about four that afternoon.
The others all made it too, and on the way had collected a sixth pilgrim, Andreus, a German dude who has walked all the way from Geneva. He had actually pitched his tent on the mountainside the night before after walking half of the route, and finished the other half the day we walked over; we gather the night had been less than comfortable, with wind whistling by him and rather nippy temperatures. Makes Gary and my camping efforts look positively pathetic by comparison.
The refuge at Roncesvalles should be one of the most developed. St Jean Pied-de-Port is the most popular starting point for pilgrims (mad bastards) and hence Roncesvalles is the first refuge they encounter. But a more Monty Pythonesque experience would be hard to imagine.
After waiting outside in the cold for about an hour for the office to open, we were finally received by a priest who looked rather ready to cark it himself. One by one we had to sit down, fill in forms which resembled a census, watch whilst he positioned the stamp just so before pushing it down in slow motion, and fill in dual sided receipts for our payment of five euros. All of which took about 15 minutes per person. After this little ritual a relatively spritely chap of a mere 80 or so years led us out to the dorm itself. When we got to the door, he asked for our receipts as proof of our pilgrims status, despite the fact that he had actually BEEN IN THE OFFICE when we filled in the census. After we produced them, he got very confused because one of the numbers seemed to be out of order, so he left us standing outside whilst he went back to the office to double check their veracity. By this stage the whole lot of us were entirely unable to keep a straight face, and when he came back beaming because he had solved the dilemma to his little heart’s content, all we could do was laugh. Bless him. I can’t even imagine what that place must be like in summer when they have hundreds of pilgrims arriving every day.
The refuge was being renovated, so all of us were in a tiny room with one shower and toilet and bunk beds, but after that walk all we really needed was a feed and to be horizontal, so it didn’t really matter. The restaurant up the road had a three course pilgrim’s menu and wine for €7 each, so after attending the Mass we hooked in. They do a special Mass for pilgrims; we were called up to the front of the chapel and a blessing said over us which, even for a less than devout soul as myself, was a touching and meaningful gesture.
So here we are, a couple of days later, legs still resembling Play Doh, well on our way on the Camino de Santiago. Life is wonderful; refuges great, people fantastic, and our light packs more marvellous than ever. It is worth noting that the day after we crossed, bad weather descended on the mountains, and they have been drifting in and out of heavy cloud and snow since. I still look behind us in amazement that we actually climbed the things. If someone had shown me a picture and told me I would be able to walk over such enormous territory, I would have thought they were mad. But we did it. And now we are in Spain. It is all very bizarre. (And by the way, if ever you are tempted to cross the Route Napoleon, there is no truth in the story about there being a passport control at the top of the mountain. Just so as you know. And, yes, I did fall for it.)
If you have been trying to contact my phone, sorry but it looks like it no longer works in Spain. I will have to get a new SIM card. Updates are likely to be a little less frequent due to lack of internet cafes and long walking days, but we shall try to keep them coming.
Adios, amigos!
December 17th, 2004
The last couple of days have been so extraordinary that I thought I would write about them and enter this as a separate entry from the latest update, which I won’t be writing until we arrive in St Jean Pied de Port, probably in two days time. As I write this we are sitting in blissful sunshine at the refuge in Sorde de L’Abbaye, about 30km from Dax. It is a great refuge, with kitchen, shower, heaters and beds – and the village itself is a real typical ancient Basque place, with all the character and charm in the world. We have wandered around the market and eaten roasted duck hearts with red wine in paper cups, and are feeling particularly content with the world at large; it is a good time to try to describe the last few days.
We had intended to leave Dax, and Michel and Monique, the day after I wrote the last entry; but, AS USUAL, things didn’t go quite to plan. That same day we had arranged to meet Monique after work in the local bar, “L’Or en Bar”, so we headed off there in the early evening. We thought we would have a quick wine or two, get home, eat, fall into bed and disappear early the next morning. But – not for the first time – French hospitality put a quick end to that idea.
The Bar owners remembered us from our brief visit the day before with Michel, so no sooner had we entered than they began introducing us to all the other locals, who instantly began buying us drinks. To no avail did we protest that we seriously shouldn’t be drinking, as we had to walk the next day; the drinks just kept on coming, in every variety, from aperitif to beer to wine. With the drinks came endless questions fired in rapid, Basque accented French, which I did my best to answer whilst Gary nodded enthusiastically. (I am going to make that boy learn French if it is the last bloody thing I do.) People poured into the tiny bar until it was crowded. It was Friday, so they were all having the usual end of week celebration. As apparently happens every night, the Boucher from up the road turned up at about 6.00pm with an enormous tray of gorgeous nibblies, from fois gras to quiches, and everyone dove in. By 9.00 people were singing and we were reasonably plastered. Monique and Michel had been there for about an hour, and thankfully said it was time to go, so we headed back to their place for dinner.
Somewhere in the middle of the next bottle of wine, between the entrée and filet de bouef, it was decreed that we couldn’t possibly leave the next day, as we hadn’t been taken sightseeing properly; by the time we were at the digestif stage, I vaguely remember making plans with Monique to visit Biarritz the next day, whilst attempting to have an in depth discussion about the Iraq war with Michel. Sometime after sampling a vast array of French digestifs, Gary and I slid into bed and remained unconscious for the following ten hours.
When we surfaced the next day we were determined both to remain teetotal for the day, and absolutely, definitely, leave the following morning. The first resolution lasted right up until lunchtime, when Michel pulled out yet another extraordinary bottle from his endless collection, and Monique cooked melt in the mouth veal. Utterly powerless in the face of such guerrilla tactics, we submitted peacefully and ate ourselves silly.
That afternoon Monique drove us down the coast to Biarritz, where we wandered through the very expensive streets and admired the 
exquisite windows of the chocolatiers for which it is famous. Although it is obviously a huge tourist destination, and very fancy, it is a bit difficult to impress Australians by taking them to coastal resorts, no matter how sophisticated. Unfortunately all I can ever think is that the water should be warmer and the beaches bigger! Obviously, however, the chocolatiers are a completely different issue. I was absolutely thrilled with their gorgeous handmade treats. I could have spent the entire trip’s budget then and there on sampling every single one of the over 500 varieties; but contented myself with a few mugs of truly awesome hot chocolate.
By the time we were due to head back, I was absolutely exhausted. It is a strange, taxing experience to spend a number of days in the company of people whom you don’t know at all and who speak not a word of English. No matter how well you get along, it is extraordinarily frustrating to be unable to express yourself fluently, and to frequently misunderstand what is being said. Even though we were enjoying ourselves, my head was reeling with the effort of making conversation in French; and after six days through the Landes forest, we were also very tired physically, and the hard living was taking it’s toll.
Not that it let up.
We went back to the bar that night for dinner. Without a doubt, it was one of the best we have had in France, and the perfect end to our journey here.
Every second Saturday, the bar owners close the bar to the public, set up a long trestle table, and invite about twenty of their friends for dinner. Although they charge a minimal amount, the evening has much more of the atmosphere of a private dinner party, and the food is very much homecooked. We knew most of the people there from the previous couple of nights, but were pleasantly surprised to meet the son of one of the regulars, Thomas, who was there with his girlfriend Priscilla. They had come down from Paris to visit, and – oh joy! – Thomas spoke fluent English.
It was a real god send for me. He was able to answer all of the questions which had come up for me regarding language over the last while, and particularly in the last few days. Every time we are in the company of French speakers for an extended period, my French moves up another notch, but I need to be able to ask an English speaking French person how to join certain phrases or use certain words. Thomas’ help was absolutely invaluable. It was also a huge relief for Gary, who finally could speak to someone other than me!
The night itself was just wonderful, the kind of night which typifies what France has been for us, with an endless parade of awesome food and wine, and absolutely wonderful, happy, welcoming company. It was the kind of relaxed, convivial atmosphere which seems to come so naturally to people here, but which is such a revelation after three years in England. We had an absolute ball.
But for me the night also made an enormous difference in my understanding of, and ability to speak, French. I got up the following morning and suddenly I could really hear all the individual words Monique said. Since then I have found it almost twice as easy as before to express myself and converse; it is as if someone tuned the radio into a clear station after four months of buzzing static. 
So we finally left Monique and Michel, and walked here, to Sorde de L’Abbaye. The few days we spent with them were really just incredible. It still seems utterly amazing to me that we could be just collected from the side of the road and whisked into someone’s life for a period of time; sometimes it all happens so fast it is bewildering. But we wouldn’t change it for the world, and both feel unbelievably fortunate to have these brilliant encounters. The chance to experience life through other people’s eyes and customs is a truly precious one, not to be wasted or unappreciated. Even if it does sometimes leave us feeling as though we are characters from some cheesy 1980’s tv series, like The Littlest Hobo or something, wandering from place to place and in and out of peoples lives. Well, I guess that is exactly what we are doing!
We did laugh though – when we arrived here we had to go to the home of the man who looks after the refuge. When we knocked on the door he and his mother were sitting down to lunch; they welcomed us effusively, and for one terrifying moment we thought we would be invited in for a meal. It is one of the only times on this trip I think we would actually have had to decline. Sometimes you really do just need an afternoon to chill out.
This entire trip seems full of amazing encounters, brilliant people, and sojourns in strange places. So far it has been an experience unlike anything we could have imagined; it is certainly utterly different from any travelling either of us have done before. I have no idea what is in store for us over the border, or in the months and years to come, but we can both truly say that there is not a day that goes by when we do not consider ourselves extraordinarily lucky indeed to be doing this walk. It really is the chance of a lifetime, and we are loving every second of it.
December 10th, 2004
Walking through the
Landes forest is a little like the Bill Murray movie “Groundhog
Day” – the same thing, over and over again: Pine trees! Oh
look! More pine trees! And, just for something different
today….pine trees! 
Every now and then, for a touch of variety,
there is a road. Sometimes even with tarmac. 
But mainly – it is
just pine trees. Two hundred years ago this part of France was a
desolate wasteland, mainly swamp and marsh. Then some bright spark
had the idea of planting a million or so hectares of pine trees, and
- voila! - now there is a seemingly endless trek through perfectly
planted logging forest. I wouldn’t call it thrilling territory.
So we set off from
Bordeaux through the Landes and our first stop was the classily named
village of Le Barp. It had been a long haul – over 25km – so we
were pleasantly surprised to discover that the local Mairie had a
little room especially reserved for pilgrims, equipped with shower,
stove, toilet and bed. Truly brilliant discovery, particularly given
that the accommodation is provided by the Mairie free of charge. It
was the first indication we had of the change in perception regarding
the pilgrimage south of Bordeaux. Now, it seems everyone knows about
St Jacques; there are statues of pilgrims, designated resting places,
and most of the churches are adorned with either statues or pictures
of St Jacques the pelerin (pilgrim). 
The trail is becoming
increasingly popular in Southern France, which is great for us, as
there seems to be a lot more accommodation designed for travellers.
From Le Barp we had
a couple of long and pretty tedious days tramping through – you
guessed it – pine forest, before arriving in the sleepy village of
Labouheyre. We had little expectation of any accommodation, but went
into the Mairie to ask anyway; to our amazement, the woman told us
there was an actual pilgrim’s refuge around the corner. Sure
enough, we discovered an entire house decorated with the Scallop
shell insignia and inviting pilgrims to ring the bell.
The refuge is
actually the home of Jacques and Jaqueline, a French couple who,
after returning from Santiago themselves, decided to give something
back to the trail by converting a large section of their home into a
refuge for pilgrims. Like those in Spain, it is run on a donation
basis, and provides pilgrims with a bed, bathroom, and kitchen. But
given that it is out of season, Jacques and Jacqueline welcomed us
into their own part of the house, and treated us to a fabulous home
cooked meal, and a glass of their specially brewed “pilgrims’
drink” – brandy, fruit, spices and wine – a bit like a sangria.
Very yummy and highly potent. They also talked us through the route
to the border and beyond – which brings me to the next major
development.
Like everyone else
we meet, Jacques and Jacqueline were horrified by our enormous packs.
They told us we would have no need of camping gear from now on, as
there are regular refuges for pilgrims all along the route to
Santiago, and if they are closed, there are hotels. We had come to
this conclusion ourselves, as for most of the preceding nights we had
found accommodation cheap and accessible, but we had been reluctant
to shed the tent “just in case.” But that night we made the
rather momentous decision to leave the tent and much of our heavy
gear at Labourheyre. We are still carrying sleeping bags, as we will
need those regardless of where we are, but we figure for the time
being we have no need of tent, cookwear, etc. It will be more than
six weeks until we are through the mountainous part of Spain to
Santiago, at which point we can buy a tarp to sleep under again; but
for now, we seriously need to lighten the packs in order to walk more
comfortably. We are completely fed up with carrying upwards of 30kg
each. It is just too much, and means we are constantly in pain and
exhausted. It is time to travel light, so to speak!
So, with vast relief
we dumped our enormous excess load, and set off for Onesse with
mini-packs. It is the fastest we have ever gone – it took us less
than four hours to walk 22km, and we had much less foot pain at the
end of it. For the whole day all we could talk about was how much
easier it was to walk. Even though we thought we had off loaded
heaps in Chateaudun, this time the difference is really huge, and for
the first time since we left our packs don’t look like outsized
monsters, but more like normal backpacks. It is impossible to
describe the sheer relief of being able to walk upright and without
massive pain – it makes the whole exercise less of a feat of
endurance and more of an adventure.
Ah – but it is not
all good news.
In we waltzed to the
small town of Onesse, full of joy and self congratulation at our
brilliance in discarding our belongings – to find that the sole
hotel, which we were relying on, had just that week closed it’s
rooms upstairs. In vain we pleaded with the humungous fat old bag
behind the bar to please, please let us sleep on one of her stinking
mattresses – or even on the floor of her revoltingly filthy bar –
but, “oh non”, as she directed her stream of cigarette smoke in a
steady flow from her whiskery nostrils, “c’est fermee! C’est
impossible!” I suspect that anything which would have involved her
actually having to remove her vast derriere from the comfort of her
bar stool and engage in physical effort of any kind, would be
considered by her sophisticated self to be entirely unreasonable.
She was the kind of devastatingly attractive female who would be
completely at home arm wrestling miners in an outback bar whilst
skulling rum and coke. Feral does not begin to describe it.
After a few minutes
of useless exchange, we departed her classy establishment, after I
had engaged in my first ever attempt at swearing in French. I think
I did quite well, actually; I guess it is one Australian social skill
that exports successfully.
It was getting
dark, and the next town was 12 km away. At least our packs were
lighter. We hoisted them on and started hot footing it through the
ubiquitous pines.
Not long before we
reached Lesperon, a car pulled up beside us to offer a lift. Now,
this is always tough for us, as it is very kind of people to make the
offer and we don’t wish to seem ungrateful; it is also bloody tough
to knock a ride back when it is dark and cold and you are surrounded
by pine forest. But we explained as best we could that it was
necessary for us to walk, and the gentleman in the car- Michel – was
very understanding. He insisted, however, on phoning the hotel in
Lesperon and ensuring that we had a room for the night, and
repeatedly offered to put us up for the night at his home in Dax,
another 35km down the road and our destination for the following day.
He was really lovely, and we were sorely tempted to take him up on
his very kind offer, but eventually we carried on and he drove away.
But it was not the
last we were to see of Michel.
Yesterday we walked
from Lesperon to Dax. It is a very long way, and even with our
lighter packs we were struggling by the time we reached the city.
There is a refuge in Dax, but we were unsure exactly where, and had
almost decided to forget about it for the night and fork out for a
hotel – we had been walking for ten hours straight – when who
should pull up beside us, but our lovely gentleman from the night
before!
As it turned out, it
was not entirely coincidence. Michel had in fact driven down the
road knowing that was the way we would enter Dax, and hoping to find
us. This time he would brook no refusal, and we found ourselves on
the way to his home. As I am forever saying – these French, they
are amazing!
After stopping at
the Boucherie to buy some local produce – Foie Gras is a regional
speciality, as is duck – and another quick pause for aperitifs at
the local very friendly, bar, we arrived at the home of Michel and
his partner, Monique. As you have probably guessed, they are
wonderful people, and made us feel totally at ease and welcome.
Before we knew it we were happily quaffing bucket loads of glorious
local wine with the most amazing Foie Gras we have ever tasted,
whilst Michel cooked up Magret de Carnard so good it deserved a
moment’s silence. The cheese was a local Basque variety, and the
Armagnac made Hennessy’s finest appear cheap plonk. It was an
altogether incredibly good meal, and the conversation was brilliant –
it is nice to be able to converse enough in French now to be at least
understood, if not always expressive. Michel and Monique speak only
French, which is great practice for us. They are very patient with
our basic grasp of the language.
So – today we are
resting in Dax at their lovely home, wallowing in coffee and
pastries. Tomorrow we are on our way again – four days until
Spain, so our next entry may come to you from the land of Rioja! (I
realise it is very sad to classify entire countries by the type of
wine they produce, but such are the workings of a dissolute mind.)
In the meantime, Dax is a thermal spa town, so we intend to hit the
hot springs for every treatment under the sun. Or rain, as the case
actually is. Gone are the days of sun, I fear, until well after the
Pyrenees.
As this is our last
entry – probably – from France, we would like to take this chance
to post some messages of thanks to all of those who have helped us
during our time in this wonderful country:
-
Monique and
Alain, the farmers in Flixecourt
-
To the man in
Amiens who bought us a cold drink on a hot day – we will never
forget your kindness
-
THE
INCOMPARABLE CECILE, FOR EVERYTHING!
-
Frank and
Rebecca in Chartres – we are indebted to you for your ongoing help
and support
-
Madame Henry
for your wonderful hospitality
-
Le Colonel and
Madame Verrier, also for your kindness and hospitality
-
The manager of
the Gite in Chateaudun – a top bloke
-
The Mairie and
people of Civrac de Blaye
-
The family who
put us up in their backyard near Tours
-
Fanny and
Ghislain and family for your incredible kindness, generosity and
hospitality
-
The Mairie in
Le Barp
-
Jacques and
Jacqueline for all of your support, hospitality, and assistance
-
Michel and
Monique for everything.
-
Bernard in
Cognac
If we have forgotten you here, we are sorry – and thank you.
Too all of the people, too numerous to name, who have helped us in so
many ways – by giving directions, allowing us to camp, attempting
to understand our French, stopping when we looked lost, honking and
waving to us on the road, stopping to talk to us and wishing us
“bonne chance”.
So, for now, goodbye to this beautiful, wonderful, friendly country.
To Boulangeries full of delicious treats and amazing bread;
Boucheries and Epiceries with mouthwatering dishes; church bells
ringing the Angelus in the morning; smoky cafes and great, great
coffee and hot chocolate; awesome wine and cheese; people who always
have time to smile and talk; unending courtesy and old world charm;
beautifully kept tiny villages; country tabacs and restaurants
serving extraordinarily fabulous food.
We have loved every second of France, and hope very much to return.
And finally, thankyou also to all of those people who have emailed
their support from France and all over the world. It is wonderful to
receive your messages and good wishes.
See you in Spain!