Archive for November, 2004
November 30th, 2004
We had every intention of making Bordeaux a brief stopover before the final stretch to the border. But, with our usual boundless energy and unstoppable willpower, it has stretched into rather a long break. It is not entirely our fault; we have been aided and abetted in our laziness by Fanny and Ghislain, two wonderful friends of Cecile.
We phoned them shortly after arriving and arranged to meet at their home for lunch. They live in the centre of Bordeaux with their children. Despite the fact that they had been to a rather glamorous sounding Film Festival at “a local chateau” the night before, and had very little sleep, they welcomed us with an absolutely wonderful lunch and the kind of hospitality which put us at ease immediately. We had been intending to leave Bordeaux the following day, but it transpired that Ghislain has a flat in central Bordeaux which is unused for much of the time, and with extraordinary generosity and trust, they suggested we stay in it for a few days.
We were utterly dumbfounded. The kindness and hospitality of French people is an unending source of amazement to us, particularly on such short acquaintance; and the option to spend a few days in blissfully peaceful and private surroundings, not to mention in a BED, was not one we were likely to refuse! So here we are, in central Bordeaux, in Ghislain’s beautiful flat equipped with every necessity for a thoroughly decadent existence: coffee maker, stereo, bed, bath, and stove. Despite well founded intentions to explore every corner of Bordeaux, our sightseeing has consisted mainly of an intensive inspection of the food market and wine cellars, and much languishing in bath tubs and eating of produce. Not to mention exhaustive reading of the full range of English Sunday papers, which the Presse on the corner thoughtfully sells.
To my great interest, as I sat stuffing my face with almond croissants and coffee, I discovered an article in one of them by a French woman, on the methods employed by her countrywomen to avoid gaining weight. Now, the eating habits of French women have held a particular fascination for me for some time. There are no overweight women here; they simply don’t exist. And yet, to look at them in restaurants, is to always see happy women tucking merrily into three course meals with the most wickedly creamy sauces and glorious cakes imaginable.
During my sojourn in Paris, I spent an inordinate amount of time pursuing my favourite habit of gastronomic study in a variety of restaurants. One of the things I noticed, as I sat dripping food down my front and reading trashy novels, was the amount of women who came in for lunch on their own, and happily ate the three course menu of the day. I loved it. There is something really fabulous about a culture which values it’s two hour lunch break, and sees nothing remotely odd in a woman sitting down by herself to a long lunch and a glass of wine. As a long term devotee of the solitary meal out, I was enchanted.
But then I looked closely at what they actually ate. And it began to dawn on me that although they ordered three courses, they only really ate a little bit of each. A scrape of pate on a sliver of bread for entree. The meat but not the frites at Main. Some tiny pieces of cheese on another sliver of bread at the end. One tiny petit four, a thimbleful of coffee, a couple of sips of wine, and half a cigarette. These women might be tucking into every sin in Western society; but only in small pieces, thanks very much. The only thing they consume with abandon is water.
So it served as confirmation of my own observations when the article in the Daily Telegraph (stupid newspaper by the way, never read anything so politically biased in my life. Atrocious rag) “exposed” the secret of French slim bodies as being the practice of eating what you want, but in small doses. Apparantly if we all eat only at the table with beautiful napkins and cutlery, making eating itself a ritual, and concentrate on just enjoying a very few foods of excellent quality, we can all maintain size eight figures.
I have no doubt this is so. It is definitely the way the French eat; everything is beautiful, meals are a work of art, and the business of food is treated with the kind of holiness Australians reserve for the footy grand final. In some ways I love this approach, and the longer we are here, the more we have adapted to it. But a part of me – the ravenous, gourmandising beast within, you might say – is hanging out for the chilled out, put-it-all-on-the-table-and-help-yourself approach of Australia and the Mediterranean. The wonderful al fresco style of eating and eating different bits and pieces, lolling in chairs on warm terraces and drinking far too much wine. I know it’s bad for the health and does nothing at all to help one squeeze into a bikini, but I reckon it’s worth it. Not all the time. But sometimes.
In the meantime, I know the secret to their skinniness. And do you think I am now going to adopt this very civilised approach to dieting? Well, let me put it this way. After giving the matter serious thought, I have decided to embark on a test run. That is, I will still go for all three courses, and the wine and coffee, and I will aim to at some stage in the future reduce the amount of each that I consume. You know, like around about the year 2050 or something. No point in rushing these things.
We are meeting Fanny and Ghislain tonight for dinner, which we are really looking forward to, and are planning to walk tomorrow. One could see this evening as a perfect opportunity to trial the new eating program. I’ll think about it. But since I have already bought croissants, chocolate, cheese and baguette for this morning, I’ll think about it while I eat. On the couch. Without cutlery or napkins. By then it should be time for lunch.
November 26th, 2004
From Cognac to Bordeaux; ah, how sweet life is.
We arrived late last night after over five days walking. The weather has been truly superb – you would never know it was winter, as the sun shone with enough warmth to walk in a t-shirt and apply sunscreen.
Not that the heat lasted into the nights, unfortunately, but you can’t have everything! We camped rough most of the way, with a couple of interesting exceptions.
On the first night we came across a campsite that was actually open. Since it is the first we have come across in over a month, we were excited bordering on the hysterical, particularly when we discovered it had HOT water in the showers. To make life complete there was one other bloke there in a static van, who invited us in for hot soup and wine, and breakfast the next morning. Despite the fact that the tent was actually frozen stiff upright when we awoke the following day, it was a real treat to have someone to talk to and be clean. Important, too, as for the next few days it was picnic grounds and closed parks all the way with not a drop of hot water in sight.
But the last night in the tent was a real treat.
We walked into a small village at about 4.00pm, our usual stopping time now that the days are dark by 5.30. There seemed to be very little about; it was a typical French rural village of under 1000 people. What this means, if you have never frequented them, is that the village centre usually consists of the following: a lovely old church, a war memorial, grassy area with a bench, a rather grand looking Mairie (town hall) and – most peculiar but inevitably present – a hairdressing salon. Do not ask me why this is so, but thus it is. It would seem the French can exist quite happily without a Boulangerie, but NEVER without a hairdresser. Sometimes there will be up to four in one tiny village. Unfortunately villages of this size often don’t have a Boulangerie or general store, particularly if there is a bigger town a few kilometres away. Walking in to this one in particular we had reasonably high hopes of food. The church seemed quite big and the Mairie was very grand looking indeed. We passed the hairdresser and then a Museum – it was looking good – but then, sadly, not a food shop in sight.
We decided that we would have to camp somewhere nearby anyway. It was starting to get cold and the nearest town was another 6 kilometres away. We figured we could get up early and hike there for breakfast.
Sometimes in small places like this one it is better just to throw the tent up at the back of the Sports Field without asking anyone; at least then you can plead ignorance if someone comes asking questions, whereas if you have actually been told not to, it means walking on and camping in the woods. I am none too fond of the woods scenario after Blair Witch night, and am far happier reasonably close to water and people.
Frank in Chartres told us to always ask at the Mairie if we were stuck, as the Mayor is supposed to help people on the Pilgrim’s trail. But we have had a couple of bad experiences with them, where we have been told to walk for another five kilometres, or simply that there is nowhere to camp and no other option, so we are a little wary. More often than not in small towns they are only open for a few hours one day a week anyway.
However, this one was open and I thought at least they might be able to point us in the direction of a friendly farmer. Little did I know we had stumbled upon the most dynamic Mayoress this side of Hilary Clinton.
Sometimes the small villages of France can be illusory; whilst you walk through absolutely captivated by their tumbledown, rustic beauty, scratch beneath the surface and often all is not as peaceful as it would seem. Over and over we have heard similar tales of woe from local residents. Their way of life is dying, they say. The young people all move to the cities; traditional practices of cheesemaking and Boucherie are fading out in the face of tough government legislation and high taxes, and the low rate of pay in such industries; the local restaurants cannot afford to run in the way they always have. There is a simmering resentment toward the perceived abuse of the system by illegal immigrants, and a common dismay at seeing “old France” – and, in particular, “rural France” – disappear. It is the same complaint which seems to plague many countries in the face of increasing globalisation; the loss of a national identity or character, and in the small villages particularly, people are often very disheartened.
But not, let me assure you, in the proud village of Civrac-De-Blaye.
The efficient secretary got on the telephone to the Mayoress, and after a quick conversation, showed us out the back to where there was a beautiful big garden by a pond. 
She told us we were welcome to camp there, and gave us access to a toilet block and drinking water. We were already absolutely rapt with this, as it was about 100% more than we had hoped for, but there was more to come. About an hour later the Mayor herself turned up. She was an incredibly cheerful, brisk, efficient looking woman, seemingly more at home broking power deals across a Boardroom desk than running the affairs of a 750 strong village.
We were immediately invited into the inner sanctum, a rather grand looking wood panelled room with plush furniture, and given – oh sweet, sweet heaven – HOT coffee and yummy biscuits, which we tried to eat with a semblance of decorum rather than in great schlonking handfuls as we were tempted to. As if any further gesture were required, she then showed us to a little bathroom with a sink to bathe in which had – you guessed it – hot water. After four days in the tent, there are not really the words to describe the height of our excitement.
Waving away our gibbering thanks, she said she would see us in the morning, and left us to it.
We were a little anxious to get moving the following day as we were out of food, there was no Boulangerie, and the biscuits of the previous day had served as dinner. Also Bordeaux was a 25km march away and we didn’t want to wander in late. But at 9.00 am, just as we were ready to leave, out came the Mayor with the offer of coffee. We are not stupid. In we went, trying not to slather at her heels. Inside the inner sanctum she had laid out a total spread: fresh baguette, butter, homemade jam, coffee, and chocolate “for the journey”. Gary and I were nearly reduced to tears. We hoofed in with unseemly relish, barely suppressing moans of contentment. 
Meanwhile, Madame Cadusseau, le Mayor (Maire) de Civrac-De-Blaye, gave us some reading material on the village. Expecting the normal photocopied newsletter, we were rather impressed when we started to read.
As if in direct defiance of the above mentioned fears and depression plaguing rural communities, Madame Cadusseau has implemented a program of arts and renewal in her village. The unemployed have been put to work on a number of projects, such as the design and maintenance of the beautiful garden we camped in, and the renovation and restoration of the ancient Eglise and Cemetary. The Church is extraordinary, and the 15th century intricate wooden roof has been beautifully restored by the local workers under the careful eye of master craftsmen and is a work of art. 
The entire village has been planted out with carefully laid garden beds and has won first prize for it’s flowers in the regional competition for the last two years. But more importantly, the Maire has set herself the goal of celebrating the ancient traditions of the village, and to this end has created a museum of rural history, which is actually interesting to look at. The other traditions, of military valour and patriotism, are also an integral part of village life, and form the basis of various fetes and festivals, along with those of the harvest. There are theatre groups, music groups, artistic meetings of painters and sculptors, and a real push to attract new residents to the area.
It was marvellous to see someone determined to combat the growing despondency in the country, and tackling it with such vigour and enthusiasm. In contrast to other towns twice it’s size, the Mairie at Civrac is open all the time, and seemed to be a hub of the village. The whole place had a real air of being on the move. It was lovely.
It was gone ten o’clock by the time we started walking to Bordeaux, but we were in such a good mood we decided we didn’t care if we rocked in late. We seemed to be covering the distance really quickly – fuelled no doubt by the coffee and chocolate – and so at about 1.30 when we came across a small village with a bustling little restaurant, we decided to treat ourselves to a nice meal in celebration of our first 1000km and the last day before a rest day. Any excuse.
And oh, sweet, sweet Bordeaux! Gorgeous food, seafood cassoulet and Confit Canard, amazing wine, Crème de Café…and all for €20 for both of us. That food was the first hot meal we’d had in 6 days and, my God, it was good. We virtually floated into Bordeaux last night and even though we didn’t get here until late, we really didn’t mind.
We are only having a short stop here as we need to keep moving – only about ten walking days from the border now. I can smell the paella, chorizo and Rioja from here. Also, after the long stop in Cognac, we were in serious pain for the first two days back walking – it would seem our little bodies don’t appreciate being lulled into a false sense of security. Better just to keep thrashing them maybe! We stayed so long there because Bernard, the fantastic bloke who ran the Hostel, gave us three nights for free, not to mention dinner at his home accompanied by Cognac’s finest produce. It had nothing to do with the Hennessy tasting tours, promise. 
I am also putting some new photos into the Cognac folder from the walk between there and here.
Despite it being a short stop, priority number one on the list – straight after a four handed massage by some Thai girls whilst being fed chocolate and champagne by Mel Gibson, of course – is a long tasting session at the Maison de Vin. Well, it would be impolitic no to, don’t you agree?
November 18th, 2004
Just a quick note as we are still in Cognac despite having planned to leave today – let’s just say that the tour was very, very good. All six of them.
After doing a quick bit of tallying up on our old maps, we discovered today that we have actually walked over 900 kilometres. Thats over 500 miles. If anyone wants a comparison, it is further than Melbourne to Sydney. I am so chuffed by this unimportant piece of trivia that I plan to go and do another tour to celebrate.
By the way, did you know that Hennessey House of Cognac sells a specially cut Baccharat crystal decanter of their top drop for a mere snip at 3000 euros? Obviously we ordered several. I could tell you lots of other interesting facts about Cognac now, but I find they go awfully fuzzy in my mind for some reason, particularly after the tasting session, so I think I had better return and do another one just to make sure I really have learned all I can.
A bientot.
November 16th, 2004
At a small village called Aulnay, about 100km from Poitiers, we had a difficult choice to make. The stone markers with scallop shell insignia, designating the Way of St Jacques, pointed to the aptly named town of Saintes; on our map we could see an alternative route, which passed through the far more enticing sounding town of Cognac. I say it was a difficult choice, but in fact we wasted less than 30 seconds discussing it before the latter won a unanimous vote, which quite possibly says a lot regarding our temporal versus spiritual priorities. The only reservations I had were in respect to progression – we are sampling Cognac before we get to Bordeaux. Ah well.
So it is that I write this from a hostel only three doors up from the hallowed tasting hall of the Henessey house of Cognac (guided tour with tasting: 5 euros) surrounded by bars selling every variation on the Cognac theme. Which is a good thing, as our feet are so sore it will take a sample of every one of them to dull the pain!
It was a six day stretch from Poitiers to here, and we camped all the way. Gary recently managed to acquire a wonderfully warm woollen blanket; its arrival has meant an end to the Sleeping Bag War. Once again the bags are zipped together, and my days of battling with the nylon sarcophagus seem to be – temporarily at least – over. Or so I fervently hope.
The camping grounds are well and truly shut now, but sometimes we steal in at dusk and camp in them anyway, as they are usually well lit and have a good water supply. One night we found a particularly good one. It had a lovely river running at the bottom and plenty of tall trees for shelter, so we camped well out of sight by the riverbank. Unfortunately it also had a thriving population of highly gregarious water voles. Well, Gary reckons they were water voles. I think that is just a fancy English name for Big Fat Rat.
Either way, at about 11.00 (bear in mind that we are, sadly, fast asleep by about 7.00), a rustling sound in the leaves by the tent had us both suddenly bolt upright and wide-awake. There are rustles and then there are distinctly disturbing rustles, when your subconscious mind somehow knows there is something alive out there that is just a bit too close. When the rustling changed from leaves to the recognisable sound of one of our plastic bags, right outside the mesh of the tent and under the fly, we were on high alert. Gary was halfway out of the sleeping bag with a walking pole in attack position (God knows what he thought he would do with that – fence a little, perhaps? Anyway) when the culprit showed his pointed, whiskery little face right next to mine. The bold fellow actually hurled his entire fat, ratty body at the mesh door, little legs splayed Spiderman like, in a vain attempt to climb it. I swatted blindly at the mesh and he performed a well-executed back flip and scurried back into the leaves. But the game was far from over. Despite the fact that we had absolutely nothing edible either in the plastic bags or, for that matter, anywhere in the tent, Ratty was obsessed with entering our domain. He spent the rest of the night coming at the tent from every possible direction, totally undaunted by the fact that he received a swift kick to the head every time he got anywhere near. He was obviously convinced that beyond the mesh lay a treasure trove of Ratty food, and was determined to breach the fortress at all costs. We, on the other hand, were mildly concerned that his repeated efforts to climb the mesh would eventually tear it, and so booted him as soon as he showed his face. A long night of Ratty war ensued; a war which in my opinion the little sod won, as when daylight came he got to slink back to his little ratty hole and sleep it off, whereas we had to get up and walk all day.
We had a night on a sports field in a little village, and one in woods somewhere, and then we found a great camp by another stream.
Now, as I’m sure you can appreciate, by this stage we were, you could say, a little high on the nose. Despite having a couple of quick splashes, the less than tropical temperatures had been a bit of a deterrent to indulging in an all over bath. But by the time we found the stream camp, I was resolved to immerse myself, zero temperatures or not.
The following morning I gritted my teeth and headed for the water bank. From the comfort of the tent and the warm confines of the sleeping bag, Gary supervised proceedings with his usual positive contributions, such as “bloody hell you’re mad,” “I reckon there’s rats in there,” and, the one I really wish I had heeded: “it looks a bit muddy on the bank.”
Just a bit.
I had actually got completely undressed and was heading determinedly for the water, soap in hand, when what had seemed a nice firm leaf covered bank suddenly sank beneath my feet. Before I could so much as swear satisfactorily I was up to my knees in stinking, icy mud, and the soap had flown into the water. There was no point in being half hearted at this stage, so to much hilarity from Him in the Tent, I plunged in and floundered after the elusive soap, alternately sinking in mud, shrieking at the cold, and occasionally managing to actually wash a bit. The cows on the other side of the stream watched me with their customary intensity; that should give them something to talk about next time they smoke the peace pipe together, nosy sods.
Finally I emerged, triumphant but numb, and with black mud up to my knees. I stood on the bank with teeth chattering, dried off and got dressed, all the while being cruelly derided by my dearly beloved. I haughtily replied that since I now smelt as fresh as a rose, he had better consider doing something similar or else he would be sleeping outside.
In response, my ever-pragmatic husband fished out a container he had stashed somewhere – that pack of his is like the bloody Tardus, you never know what’s inside it – and strolled nonchalantly to another part of the bank. Obviously a part which was solid because you wouldn’t catch HIM sinking in the mud, oh no. He filled his little basin and proceeded to have a perfectly decorous little bath, managing to keep half of his body warm and clothed at all times. He even bloody whistled while he washed. At the end of it he emptied his little container and wandered happily back to the tent, smiling evilly at my glowering countenance. “Of course, if you PREFER to do it your way, that’s fine,” he said smugly, “but I think that I am actually cleaner than you now. And I didn’t have to get naked and covered in mud to achieve it. But it’s up to you, of course…”
I’m sure you can imagine the fine, articulate and well-reasoned response I gave to this little observation.
And so it is that as I write this I find myself sneezing continually and shaking with a fabulously heavy head cold, whilst my erstwhile spouse has been banished, in rude good health, to do the washing as punishment. After all the camping every single piece of clothing we own needs washing, so Gary is in the Laundromat in his pyjamas and I am writing this wrapped in a blanket due to the clothing shortage.
I hear that Cognac is good for colds – if it isn’t don’t bother telling me because I don’t care – so as soon as the clothes are clean we are heading for the tasting tour and by God I’m not leaving until I’ve tasted every one of them. Twice. After which I am going to make Gary cook me a fabulous three-course meal, and rub my feet; then if he is lucky I may consider actually talking to him again.
We are having a two day rest stop in Cognac before heading to Bordeaux, which is about another 5 day walk. Of 11 French maps in total, we have walked our way through 7, and 4 of them have been covered in the last month. We are well into the South of France now and moving quickly toward the Spanish border, which we hope to cross by mid December. We have recently discovered that a bloke called James Slevin has preceded us by a few months – his website is www.walkingaroundtheworld.com and he is a top man, so have a look and send him a message of encouragement if you have the time. It was great for us to discover someone else doing the walk, and to find that we are not the only ones with feet which feel like they have been through a grade one mincer.
Thankyou to everyone who is still logging on and sending us messages of support and encouragement by email and text, we appreciate every single one very much even if we don’t get time to answer them all. Cheers to you – I am going to drown my sorrows in a vat of Cognac.
PS: there is a new album called Cognac on the left buttons.
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.
November 9th, 2004
For some time now it has been obvious that the Great Sleeping Bag War was due for it’s ultimate battle. Since our departure from Chateaudun, we have been spending a greater portion of our time in the tent in an effort to re-channel our funds toward truly essential purchases, such as wine and food. However, as the weather has been rather less than tropical recently, the whole camping experience has become rather more Shackleton Arctic expedition than Robinson Crusoe. Bedtime has thus become something of an adventure in itself – one which requires diligent planning and a military approach in execution.
On the night that the War was decided, I was clad in my customary glamorous evening attire, a daringly risqué ensemble of thick socks, double layer of thermal underwear, neck warmer, gloves, and woolly hat (complete with pom pom for that additional X factor). I slipped between the slinky nylon coverings and battered my eyelashes becomingly at my beloved, who seemed strangely unwilling to succumb to my considerable charms. Undeterred, I set about my usual evening routine of pillow arranging and pummelling, tucking in of thermal blanket, and general thrashing about in order to find a square inch of ground which was lump free and semi-comfortable. All perfectly understandable by any normal, empathetic person, as I am sure you would agree.
But apparently not.
After what must have been only a short time – an hour or so maximum – of my various contortions, Gary
suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, woolly hat askew and eyes glittering
with an oddly manic light. “I really think,” he said, in a very slow and
controlled tone, “that you would be happier if we slept in our own
bags.”
I slipped my neck warmer down a fold to reveal a sliver of goosepimpled flesh and gave him my best Marilyn Monroe. “But darling, my sweetheart,” I purred, “I would miss you so terribly if I were on my own. Don’t you think it’s so much better that we sleep together?” This last with a heavy emphasis and much eyelash fluttering.
But he was not to be moved. “I just think,” he said, in the same steady tone, “that if you slept in your bag, you could thrash about as much as you like, and-“ here his voice began to quiver in quite an odd manner, as if he were actually a little disturbed-“ and I wouldn’t get cold air down my back every single time you shake the covers.”
“But gorgeous, love of my life,” I persisted, “I’m so cold on my own…and you are so warm…and I promise not to move. Much.” To show the strength of my new resolve I lay down flat on my back and was perfectly still. An eternity later – at least three minutes – I said in a small voice: “Perhaps I could just move the pillow a little bit? It is sort of lumpy at this end and I thought if I just thumped it a little bit, like this, it would really be so much better, and then I wouldn’t need to move anymore. Promise.”
But by the time I had reached the end of my sentence, he was already unzipping the bags. He actually seemed close to tears. I don’t know why.
The next thing I knew, he was happily ensconced in his little nylon sarcophagus, and curled up immobile on his side snoring peacefully. It all happened so fast I barely had time to complain, which is entirely unsportsmanlike in my opinion.
And so the War was decided, and my own private hell begun.
When this walk is over – and I like to use the word “when” – I am going to look up the name and number of the man (I know it was a man) who designed my sleeping bag. I am going to find this man. And when I find him, I am going to kill him. I am going to kill him slowly, in the hellishly evil instrument of torture of his own design.
I will stick him out in the woods of rural
France,in November, without chocolate, and I will drink hot coffee and
laugh my arse off as I ask him whether he still believes his imbecilic
claim that his sleeping bag remains warm down to –5 degrees. I shall
shake and roll with great rollicking hysteria as he tries to stretch out
in what is claimed to be a bag for people up to six feet, but which is,
in reality, a condom for midgets. And just when he is getting frantic,
and begins to beg to be released, in one final act of pure malice, I
shall pull hard on the drawstring in the hood, so that it closes over
his face and suffocates him to death. I will do all of these things
with a glad heart and be quite content to fry in prison for the rest of
my days, for by God it will have been worth it.
As you may have deduced, the sleeping bag and I do not get along.
The routine goes something like this.
I ease my way in from the top, until I am lying in the recommended position, with the hood at the back of my head, and my feet snugly cradled in the tiny end. I draw the string of the hood in tight – this supposedly being the crucial high-tec thingie which stops the cold air from getting in. Approximately three minutes after this not inconsiderable achievement, two things happen. The first is that I become aware of the cold on my body wherever it is actually touching the nylon. The second is that I get cramp.
Now, let me just say this, that if you have spent the day walking over 25km, stopped, thrown the tent up, swallowed some bread and chocolate and dived straight into bed for fear of freezing, your muscles tend to be just slightly on the sore side. Which lends itself to cramp.
So. Firstly I reach for the thermal blanket, and begin trying to stuff it into the bag, over the places which are feeling the cold. Obviously the second I move, the blanket slips, which means that in order to stay warm I have to remain utterly still. Which means that I can’t deal with the muscle cramp. If I want to deal with the cramp, I have to try to actually reach inside the bag to rub it – but since Mr Bastard Sleeping Bag designer made my bag all of 30cm wide, this is virtually impossible – which means I have to remove my entire frame from the bag’s confines, into the frigid below zero temperature of the tent, to address the problem. By the time I have recovered and gone back in, I am freezing again and the whole thing starts over. If I decide – heaven forbid! – that I would like to change position and sleep on my side, I have to be sure to drag the entire thing with me, or else I find myself lying with the hood flat on my face, suffocating me, and cold air blowing down my back. If I try to raise one leg and not the other, my movement is arrested with all the power of an iron vice by the unnaturally small confines of my little prison. And finally, if I choose to actually lie fully extended, my toes hit the bottom and the hood presses down on my head. The result is that I have a night of sheer hell interspersed by merciful bouts of unconsiousness.
Contrast this with my sainted husband.
Garysimply gets into the bag, rolls onto his side, raises both knees,
and starts snoring. That’s it. Do not pass go, do not collect 100
dollars. Not a word to be heard. He does not move until 6.00am
the following morning when he stretches and says in a contented
voice, “ah, that’s better! Now, where are we going today?” He rolls
over and always seems quite surprised to be confronted by a wild
banshee, eyes rolling and teeth gnashing madly, gibbering nonsense
and gesticulating frantically in an effort to convey the torture of the
night before.
So there you have it. Apparantly I will get used to it. For now, I merely content myself with the thought of what I will do when I finally find The Inventor. I am also toying with the thought of phoning up Osama, and letting him know that there is a new WMD on the market, if he’s interested.
November 9th, 2004
After reviewing the last lot of photographs we took, we decided the time has come for a diary entry on animals and scenery.
Now this may sound a boring kind of topic. But given that they happen to be the two things we see the most of – and, one could argue, have the most conversation with or about, sad as it is – we are going to bore you anyway.
I am going to begin with the kind of comment which should never be uttered by a human unless they are a zoo keeper at feeding time or a lonely sheep farmer in North Wales: we are fatally attractive to animals.
Although this (forgive me) animal magnetism exists across the full range of God’s creatures, amongst those most powerfully affected are, by degree, horses, cows, and dogs. Horses seem to sense us from literally miles away. From the first leaden clump of our vastly overladen boots on the path, the horses will come. From the far ends of their fields, they gallop busily down to the fence, where they watch us in a high state of alert, all pricked ears, rigid legs, and raised tails. They shake their heads and snort like fusty old businessmen at a gay parade, and seem to be saying to each other: “Well! I never! Have you seen the likes of THAT before, sonny? I keep telling you, these humans, they’re a strange old lot, and don’t you let anyone tell you different. Get a look at the loads on their backs! And folk wonder why horse unemployment is at an all time high…"
The young ones run back and forth in a state of high excitement, shying away in alarm if we get too close, but too curious to stay away, eyes rolling incredulously as they prance up and down. The most beautiful are the wise old Shire horses, with their great plate feet, and colossal chests. They watch us patiently with calm old-man’s eyes, their great heads hanging over the gates sniffing for a piece of apple. They have seen it all before, and watch the young ones with a kind of world weary tolerance.
Occasionally we see a truly odd combination, like these two:
A goat and a horse, completely joined at the hip.
That goat had no concept that he was a goat.
No no, in his mind it was perfectly obvious that he is a pedigree thoroughbred, just like his mate. They stood side by side, watching us go by with equal solemnity and concentration; then they turned and touched noses, and in perfect harmony they wheeled about, and trotted off together, the goat with head held high and trying to slow his little footsteps to that of the horse. The horse must get very bemused as to why nobody ever rides the goat.
But without a doubt, the animals most likely to get our vote for psychologically disturbed – or disturbing – are the cows.
I do not know whether their strange mental state is a result of years of unnatural abuse by remote farmers (North Wales again?); the fact that they know, somewhere in their deep subconscious, that they exist on borrowed time before being slaughtered and unceremoniously consumed; or whether, like an old Larson cartoon, they actually stand up on hind legs and talk and smoke naturally when no humans are looking. But whatever it is, I am here to tell you that there is SOMETHING STRANGE about them there bovine creatures. They’re up to something, we swear it.
Everytime we pass a field of cows – even if we are a good 50 metres away – they all stand up in unison. Slowly at first, but with a strange and, quite frankly, menacing intent, they begin advancing toward us with the kind of inexorability which makes one extremely glad for the invention of electric fences. When they are as close to us as they can feasibly get without becoming barbeque, they form a solid rugby scrum and watch us. They watch us with the glazed, fixed stare of a heavy pot smoker eyeing the chocolate section in Tescos. Stray wisps of hay hang forgotten from their suddenly slack mouths – and these are creatures who would eat through a WMD attack – as they stand, stock still, and just …watch.
Then comes the spooky part. We start getting past them. And they all move. At once. All of them. They follow us, heads still craned to eyeball us solemnly, all the way up the edge of the fence, until eventually they reach the corner of the field, where they begin to cram into each other so the ones at the front are getting their mates’ heads stuck up their rectums, and still they watch us. They stay like that until we are out of sight. And then, who knows, they probably go back to smoking their bongs, drinking beer, and having wild sex. I can just imagine the conversation: “Ha! Did ya see the look on their faces? I bet it’s a while before they eat beef again…here then Daisy, pass us the bong, wouldja love…oh man there’s nothing like a good old human spook out to give a girl the munchies. Now where’s that bit of hay I had? Oh whaddya know, it’s still right here in my mouth…how ‘bout that?…”
Or something.
Either way, there is no doubt in my mind that there is something going on out there in cow world. Something sinister and organised. Mark my words. Mad Cow disease is just the tip of the iceberg my friends, just the tip. By the end of this trip I’ll have got to the bottom of it. I’ll keep you posted on that one.
Now, where was I?
Ah yes, the last of the overly curious: dogs.
Now, before this little journey, I quite liked dogs. Still do, at heart. But I have to admit that increasingly I am repressing a daily urge to take my walking pole and shove it – well, just shove it – at the next canine possessed of the irrational and wholly unnecessary desire to bark it’s stupid head off at me for the simple reason that I dared WALK PAST IT. Honestly, for the first time in my life, I have true sympathy with postmen. They should get danger money, I reckon. These are fierce, vicious creatures we are talking about here. Forget all that stuff you read about man’s best friend. It depends absolutely on which man you happen to be, in my opinion. And it’s not like the owners pretend otherwise. On every other fence is a bright red plaque with a menacing picture of a rabidly salivating canine, and the brusque advice: “attention du chien!” or the one I like even better – same picture, different slogan: “Je suis en garde!” Yes, I KNOW you’re on guard you stupid mutt, you nearly managed to savage my bloody leg through the fence. Never mind the fact that I am over 10 metres away from your territory with absolutely no desire to come one step closer; obviously, to your poor short circuited, over red meat fed brain, I appear as a dangerous and sinister thief about to feed you baited meat and cudgel you to death.
And I tell you, some of these are cowardly little things, as well. After approaching cautiously to the sound of incessant, near hysterical barking, we often discover that the cacophony is being made by a stupid little creature no bigger than your average sewer rat, behind a fence just high enough to allow it to bounce self importantly around growling itself hoarse, whilst preventing civic minded citizens such as myself from giving it a timely tap with a walking pole. As we go past, these pathetic bundles of fluff hurl themselves at the fence and generally give an impression of being rabid beasts intent on blood. Give me an equal playing field, I say, and a little electric prodder, and we’ll see how brave you are then, you idiotic midgets.
But I like dogs. Really I do.
And so finally, after this little animal based rant, which some may feel indicates that we have been walking quite long enough and perhaps need a job in the real world again in order to regain at least a semblance of sanity, I will address the second part of the post: the scenery.
No need for toilet humour here (oh well.). The scenery really has been absolutely amazing for the last few weeks, and actually warrants a whole post on it’s own, which I am too lazy to give.
We are off the main roads at last, and have been following the Grand Randonees, the major walking paths of France. They have taken us along winding forest paths, carpeted in golden leaves; 
through rich green valleys, where little farmhouses are tucked away amongst orchards; and across bubbling streams, with old water mills built in them. 
The earth is so rich and loamy looking that you can almost watch seeds growing in it, and it smells heavenly. 
We came around one corner to find a man made lake, ringed by fruit trees – one a pear tree with fruit so golden and heavy they seemed to shine – and rock seats to rest on. ( I took the chance to have a quiet rest there whilst Gary took some pictures. I am going to stop doing that as soon there will be more pictures of me sleeping than walking, which is in no way an accurate representation…)
We often pass little sheds in the middle of fields – but this one made us stop, as it was so like a tiny leprechaun dwelling. I have no idea what could be kept in a building of such size, apart from gardening tools for gnomes. It is buildings such as these, which seem to serve no purpose other than to make fields look pretty, which make the countryside so gorgeous. 
It being Autumn, the mushrooms are out everywhere; unfortunately, apart from the stock standard field variety, I am not game to collect any in case they are of the deadly type, and my little Ray Mears book which told me the difference went in the Great Pack Cull, so we are reduced to just photographing them. They are awfully pretty, though.
We are trying to camp more in an effort to hoard our fast dwindling pennies for the important things in life – like booze – but there are times, when it is late and cold, not to mention wet, that the prospect does not appeal. Fortunately on one such night on our way to Tours a lovely spot cropped up at the right time – beside a stream, on a soft bed of leaves. Marvellous. And not Blair Witchy at all.
So that pretty much ends my little spiel on animals and scenery. I realise I should be writing deep and meaningful pilgrim type things, but unfortunately my contemplative powers tend to revolve around either the sinister plots of the bovine population, or the various attributes of the Vouvray appellation – fantastic wine, in case you were wondering. Fast sending us broke, but what a way to go.