A Pilgrimage Walk from Le Puy-en-Velay to Santiago de Compostela, 2003. 4. Second week (2-8 May)
Pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, 2003.
Week 2 (2-8 May)
Friday, 2 May 2003. Espalion. [Day 8]
7:50 p.m. Espalion in Aveyron, the home town of our Parisian neighbor, Michèle Delsol. We’re staying in a real hotel, the Hôtel de France, the local gîte being full.
10:00 p.m. This hotel room seems like a palace. I did yoga, took a shower, and washed two days of clothes. Caroline the same (minus yoga). At 8 p.m. we went out, found a bar with internet services and sent/read messages. Then on to the Brasserie “Le Palais” for dinner. I had brandade de morue (a puree of salt cod, potatoes, and garlic) and green salad, for €6.10. At another table a group of young Turkish men were playing cards. Workmen, I suppose. I was curious to ask them what they were doing in Espalion, but I didn’t feel like intruding.
A beautiful walk for much of today, especially in the later morning with sun and blue skies. A big descent, though, and some ups and downs, too. At the bottom of the descent we walked through St. Côme d’Olt, a town located on the Lot, the main river of the region.
With its well-kept medieval buildings and an odd, out-of-balance twisted spire on top of its cathedral, it looked fascinating and merited more time than we could give it.
Street signs were in Occitan, the Romance language that country people spoke in southwest France until well into the twentieth century – indeed, “Olt” is Occitan for the Lot – and some surely must still use it. I’m not conscious of having heard any Occitan spoken, however.
Yesterday: a long walk across the Aubrac plateau. An austere landscape, but after the initial frost wore off the weather was pretty good and the walk was enjoyable. The first part, through a section with large boulders, we walked with Paul and Colette, a French couple.
From a commemorative plaque set up not far from the gîte we learned about the extraordinary life of native son Louis Dalle (1922-1982): born here in Finieyrols, one of fifteen children; imprisoned in Buchenwald; and priest-missionary among Indians in Peru for thırty-five years.
Late morning we reached Nasbinals, where we stopped for a break in front of the cathedral and the war memorial.
Each town we pass through has its war memorial. Especially striking is the number of men lost in World War I, more than in any other conflict. The effect of this hemorrhage of active young males on the social fabric of these small, remote, rural towns must have been enormous.
[2024 note: I took this photo in 2003, in Nasbinals, but not knowing who Pierrounet was. Thanks to the internet, I have just learned. Pierrounet was the nickname of Pierre Brioude (1832-1907), a local farmer who had an innate gift for setting broken and dislocated bones, both animal and human. He was entirely self-taught, which would irritate the professional medical world. This monument was erected in 1909, shortly after his death, in gratitude for his achievements. Note the crutches carved in the corners.]
Later in the day we walked with Michael and Nikki. Caroline gets along comfortably with them, as indeed with everyone we are encountering, even if she likes to tell me she hates making small talk.
By “small talk” what she means, I think, is not the subject of conversation but the manner. “Small talk” is when it’s artificial, forced, not a natural flow. On this trail, the Chemin de St. Jacques, very little is phony; it’s all pretty relaxed and natural.
In Aubrac, not much more than a crossroads, Michael and Nikki had a slice of a sumptuous-looking berry tart, the specialty of one café there. I was tempted, but thought it too expensive – a saving I regretted as soon as we left.
In the late afternoon, the trail made a long descent from Aubrac to St. Chély, a tiring end to an already long day. In St. Chély, we had reserved at the convent dorm (Soeurs de St Joseph), the municipal gîte being full, but we arrived late, at 6:30 p.m., and no one answered the door, no one came in or out. Silence, absolute silence. I couldn’t believe this. What was happening? Where was everyone? We had telephoned in advance! Panic! Eventually, after 7 p.m., we were let in, but it took me a while to calm down. We stayed in a very big room (once a school dorm), with high ceilings, creaky wooden floors, old beds – fifteen of them – and a modern bathroom in a specially built cabin inserted at one end. The following morning, two elderly nuns cheerfully served us a well-prepared breakfast of café au lait, bread, butter, and home-made jams. At table were Michael and Nikki, and three men my age (French, Argentine, and Swiss), also en route to Santiago.
We ate dinner last night at a hotel restaurant in St. Chély. Re-encountered: Piotr, who greeted us heartily but who had little to say about what he had been doing since our dinner together in Chanaleilles. He indicated his urgent desire to press on. He has certainly outdistanced us today.
Saturday, 3 May 2003. Golinhac. [Day 9]
A 27 km/17 mi. walk from Espalion. Sunny weather – beautiful. In contrast, yesterday evening in Espalion, we had some drizzle. The hotel last night was a benediction – almost all our laundry dried, among other advantages.
At 7:45 a.m., we ate breakfast, coffee and croissant, at a bar/café across from the hotel (€7 for two, as opposed to €12 in the hotel). Leaving the hotel at 8:30, we reached Golinhac at 5:45 p.m. Mid-day stop in Estaing, a picturesque old town with a huge chateau that soars up from the middle of the town, dominating the skyline.
The Lot flows by it (we had a long walk along the Lot, in fact, on today’s route). Picnic lunch on a park bench in Estaing: rillettes d’oie (a shredded goose meat spread), bread, apples, a bit of tomato. The town had gone to sleep for midday siesta, but nonetheless I was able to find a gourmet shop that sold regional specialties, such as the rillettes. The proprietress, a Parisian, had moved here a few years earlier, having become fed up with Paris, and she was very happy. No, the town wasn’t too quiet for her, she said. There was lots going on.
Caroline has had sore feet since hiking day #3, and we can’t figure out why or what to do about it. Bonnie’s gel pads didn’t help, nor did her suggestion (which I found far-fetched) of using the thin inner sock as the outer. Caroline spent the lunch hour cutting a foam liner (bought at a pharmacy) to fit into her shoes, then tried different things throughout the afternoon. Nothing has worked. Tomorrow we walk to Conques and there we will stay an extra day. I hope it will help her feet. We’ll keep consulting pharmacies along the way. Maybe someone will have a tip that truly solves the problem.
Today we lost track of Michael and Nikki, but the three men from the convent two nights ago are here, the Argentinian, Swiss, and Frenchman – the “Santiagos,” as Nikki called them – and so is the man who lost his Carte Bleue credit card, whom we have been seeing for several days off and on. Also here is a friendly German couple from Ulm, first met at the hostel at Les Gentianes, 40-ish, long-legged and very fit, who stride along the trail with ease. They speak neither English nor French but accept my fractured German with good grace. Catholics, they are walking the pilgrimage route – der Jakobsweg, for them – in stages, two weeks each year, to fit into the vacation time they have.
Sunday, 4 May 2003. Conques. [Day 10]
No journal entry; see 5 May.
Monday, 5 May 2003. Conques. [Day 11. Rest day]
2:30 p.m. We’re taking a rest day, especially because of Caroline’s foot pains, but I am happy to have the day free, too, having carried part of Caroline’s load as well as my own. We’re staying at the large hostel run by the Abbey of the Norbertine order (= Premonstratensian or, in French, Prémontré) in an old monastery building – extremely well organized, with numerous lay volunteers, all veterans of the pilgrimage, helping with welcome, check-in, meal service, clean up, and advice/support.
There aren’t many religious around, in fact. Rémy (40-ish), the volunteer who checked us in, immediately set to restoring Caroline’s feet by preparing a salt-and-vinegar foot bath. This morning, since there is no pharmacy in Conques, he drove us to nearby St. Cyprien for anti-itch/rash cream, mercurochrome, and bandages. After the concern over Caroline’s feet and my own fatigue, I felt, upon arriving yesterday, something providential, that God had provided for our needs. I thought, too, of my late colleague Norbert Karg, Near Eastern archaeologist and Assyriologist, because he shared his name with St. Norbert, the founder of this order. Not that our Norbert would have cared much, having set aside his Bavarian Catholicism, although you never know, for he was on his own wave length. We miss him very much.
We’re in a large well-aired dormitory that sleeps 24, with excellent shower and WC facilities. My laundry is now done. Shortly we’ll send off another box of things to Paris, lightening our load a bit more. We have splurged on lunch, fancy salads at a local hotel, which together with the good and cheerful meal at the hostel last night, complete with a sing-along (notably “Ultreia,” a joyful pilgrims’ song) should restore our vigor.
This town is a marvel. The Romanesque Abbey church of Sainte Foy (built 1050-1120) is grand, its sculpted tympanum with surviving paint glorious.
The modern stained glass windows of Pierre Soulages (installed in 1987-1994) don’t thrill me. In shades of white and gray in black bands of varying widths, they are rather cerebral and give an austere, Calvinist accent to the interior. St. Bernard of Clairvaux would have approved, but I miss the contribution of polychrome windows.
Note the windows, designed by Soulages.
We visited the Treasury, too, with “La Majesté de Sainte Foy,” the strange medieval statue of a seated woman that contains the relics of St. Foy (St. Faith), the local saint venerated here, a work of art at once crude, barbarous, sumptuous, childlike, and dignified.
(Photo from the internet: www.francetvinfo.fr)
Yesterday we walked 21 km from Golinhac. Beautiful weather, warm even, with some lovely churches on the way. At the end of the day, the descent down into Conques was like going down a tunnel, so covered was the trail with trees and dense bushes. We saw nothing of Conques until we arrived, which heightened the sense of expectation. Suddenly there it was, the huge church and the little town around it, nestled into the slope of the hillside.
(Photo from the internet: www.tourisme-aveyron.com)
Midday Nikki and Michael reappeared. Today, though, they have gone off and it was goodbye for good. In a few days they return to Vienna. We also said goodbye to others, the “Santiagos” – Georges (from Poitiers), Rodolfo (Argentine-Belgian), and Siegmar (Swiss, but from Frankfurt) – and the German couple from Ulm. But Robert (the older man who shared a room with us the first night, at Montbonnet) has just arrived, as have the two older Frenchmen with the little dog whom we have been noticing off and on.
This morning I attended Mass at 8 a.m. This evening, there will be complines at 8:30 p.m, followed by Blessing of Pilgrims and organ music. We shall certainly attend.
Caroline and I felt a bit depressed today, with friends gone, walking off, and we staying. We had stepped outside the rhythm of the walk, of the pilgrimage. But with dinner tonight we’ll be back in the groove, thinking about departure tomorrow. Serious rain is predicted. In Cahors, I will need to get a better rain poncho.
Tuesday, 6 May 2003. Livinhac-le-Haut. [Day 12]
A cloudy day, some drizzle at first. A tougher day than I expected, with much up and down, starting with a serious “up” (with drizzle) out of Conques. A lonely day, too, as if all of a sudden the trail and indeed the landscapes – farms, rolling hills – had been emptied of people. We had not reserved for the night, not being sure how Caroline’s feet would hold out. But Decazeville, the good-sized town we reached in the mid afternoon, depressed us. A mining center prosperous in the 19th century thanks to coal and steel, it has steadily lost population since 1930 and has the feeling of a ghost town in the making. On the outskirts is a stretch of land rendered sterile by strip mining. In the city center is a vast, gloomy 19th-century cathedral with a series of paintings by Gustave Moreau, viewable with coin-operated illumination. We agreed: staying here was out of the question. Caroline phoned the municipal gîte in Livinhac. There were places, so we decided to push on – another substantial ascent and descent, but altogether only 4 km more.
Livinhac is a small, simple town. The gîte is basic, but clean, perfectly fine. No meals are served, so we’ll find a restaurant for dinner. Here in the gîte with us are Simon, the German student whom we met at Monistrol where he was suffering from diarrhea, as laconic now in good health as he was then in ill health; the two older, portly Frenchmen with the little dog who trots cheerfully along the trail; two Swedish women met in Conques, one suffering with foot problems; and two Dutchmen.
Conques was absolutely worth the extra time. Yesterday evening, after dinner, Caroline and I went to the Abbatiale (Abbey church) for complines and Blessing of Pilgrims. We were each given a roll (“bread for the journey”) and a translation of one of the Gospels in French – a lightweight pamphlet each (John for me, Luke for Caroline). Then one of the brothers played the organ – and that was wonderful.
Wednesday, 7 May 2003. Figeac. [Day 13]
9:30 p.m. Figeac is a nice surprise, a small city with a stunning medieval center. The architecture in the larger region is beautiful, too, thanks to the attractive yellowish stone used for building. We walked 26 km/16 mi. today, pleasant and not arduous. Weather: partly cloudy. As we entered the city we passed a shop selling fishing and camping gear. They didn’t have rain ponchos, but directed me to another shop that did. For €50 (more than I wanted to pay) I am now well equipped with a serious rain cape with hood.
We’re staying in a new gîte, which is an apartment with several rooms. We’re alone in it, at least for now, which is an unusual sensation. We have paid our fee, have a key to come and go as we please, and tomorrow morning we’ll simply close the door behind us and leave.
Louvre Museum (image from Wikimedia Commons)
Jean-François Champollion, the decipherer of Egyptian hieroglyphic writing, was born in Figeac, it turns out. His family home has been turned into a museum celebrating his life and ancient Egyptian civilization – a place of pilgrimage for an archaeologist such as myself. The museum is modern and well done. We also visited the medieval cathedral, St. Sauveur, and we found an internet center. In these towns in provincial France, internet is just arriving, and it’s not so easy to find a shop with computers.
Dinner at “Le Sphinx,” a brasserie.
Thursday, 8 May 2003. Cajarc. [Day 14]
Cajarc is strikingly placed at the foot of a long curve of limestone cliffs, but the cliffs are looming and menacing. They remind me of the bleak landscape in Courbet’s painting, “Burial at Ornans.” This is the birthplace of Françoise Sagan, author of “Bonjour Tristesse” (“Hello, Sadness”). Tonight’s gîte is a modest private house drafted into service as a hostel, set in its small garden in a residential neighborhood. €9 each. Breakfast will be included here: do-it-yourself in the kitchen, with materials to be provided by the owner. We had a fine dinner in town, at “La Promenade” – assiette de crudités, pintade (guinea-fowl), and a fabulous strawberry-shortcake-like cake (much better than our standard American strawberry shortcake).
Today, 31 km/19 mi., was our longest walk yet. The Achilles tendon of my left leg bothered me. Caroline has a cold, but her feet are OK. A rainstorm midday gave me the chance to test my new rain cape. What an improvement! Otherwise, partly cloudy and somewhat muggy. Even on these overcast days we have to hang our washing from our backpacks to give them a boost in drying – not the underwear, for that would be indiscreet, but the thick items, towels and the heavy wool socks we wear as outer socks.
At a mid-morning stop in Faycelles, I chatted with a young Englishman who had just moved there for the year with his wife and small children. I envied him, for Faycelles is an attractive village on a hilltop, with houses of the lovely yellow stone of the Figeac region. Soon after, the landscape changed. The yellow stone disappeared, the trail became rougher and more remote, the vegetation wilder. We haven’t had problems with wild dogs yet, but it’s always a possibility, they say. A walking stick would help in case of attack, but neither of us is using one.
Comments
Post a Comment