A Pilgrimage Walk from Le Puy-en-Velay to Santiago de Compostela, 2003. 5. Third week (9-15 May)
Pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, 2003.
Week 3 (9-15 May)
Friday, 9 May 2003. Vaylats. [Day 15]
Monastère des Filles de Jésus. A real find – a gift from heaven after our longest day yet: 33 km/20.5 mi from Cajarc.
This convent is a large complex, fortified almost, in a small village.
We’re in single rooms, each equipped with a washbasin! We must use our sleeping bags, but we’re accustomed to that. The convent has a spacious church with much natural light. Mass takes place in the morning, a prayer service at the end of the afternoon. Since we arrived late as well as tired, we gave the prayer service a miss. At dinner, one of the sisters delivered a brief history of their order: founded in the 1820s by a local priest to instruct and evangelize in this rural region after the disruptions of the French Revolution. Today, they also have a small presence in Ivory Coast, where they face difficulties during the current unrest. We were nine at dinner, enjoying an excellent, ample meal prepared and served by the sisters – soup, a large Russian salad, chicken with a sauce of mushrooms and green olives, cauliflower, cheese plate, ice cream, and red wine. “Délicieux et copieux,” as French pilgrims like to say, “delicious and hearty.” The sisters are clearly delighted with the upsurge of interest in the pilgrimage. They showed us a scrapbook filled with cards sent by pilgrims who had stayed with them.
I was happy to leave Cajarc. No hot water was left when I wanted to shower last night, so I limited myself to a wash of feet and privates in cold water (the last in a bidet, a piece of bathroom furniture that is becoming archaic in France). But we had a nice breakfast this morning. François, whom we met in Monistrol, worn out from his long first day’s walk, his feet blistered, bought croissants and good bread for everyone. We were six, including two Dutchmen, one of whom left today for Holland to attend his mother-in-law’s funeral.
Gray skies at the start, indeed all morning. I was expecting torrential rain. But it never rained; indeed, at midday the sun came out and all was beautiful. We have been walking through causse, a sort of scrubby, rocky landscape, but mixed with farmable land and different types of trees. Rather isolated.
At 1:30 p.m. we reached Limogne, an attractive small town, and there found again François and Michel (late 50s, from Brest) at an outdoor café sheltered by big leafy trees, plane or chestnut, I’m not sure which.
We had coffee, visited a pharmacy, and telephoned to reserve beds in the Vaylats convent, relying as always for the recommendation of a place to stay on the excellent, funky little guidebook, Miam Miam Dodo. Then off we went for the remaining 14 km.
On the way into Limogne, we passed the traditional area for washing laundry, the lavoir, equipped with large stone basins, here alongside a large pond. This region specializes in such installations. We haven’t seen them elsewhere.
Many slugs on the trail today. Caroline is always very solicitous of the slugs and insists that I watch my step. The large, translucent orange ones (unusual) are the most striking.
Toward the end of the day we walked through a village with the surprising name of Bach, after a German family who settled there in the 18th century. While Caroline and I were resting, we had a nice conversation with a local (a farmer?). I asked him about the place, for here, as in other small towns we have been passing through, many houses seem abandoned. Yes, he said, young people leave, for the farming life is no longer attractive and there is no other work. His son now works in Toulouse for the Airbus group. Bach, though, is within commuting distance of Cahors. Such villages can be developed as weekend getaways, and survive that way.
Saturday, 10 May 2003. Cahors. [Day 16]
We’re staying in the Auberge de Jeunesse, Foyer des Jeunes Travailleurs (“Youth Hostel, Residence for Young Workers”), a former convent, now a big, run-down, multi-story dormitory. Our double room has a curious plan consisting of two individual high-ceilinged rooms separated by a partition, each furnished with a washbasin and a bidet. Showers are down the hall. The price is very reasonable: €12.10 each (bed + breakfast).
In the late afternoon we went out for a walk in this picturesque city with a rich history dating from Roman times. It’s the largest town on the French leg of our trip even if fairly small (population: 21,000). To get a city plan we headed for the Tourist Office, located just off the central “Place François Mitterand”
with its flower market,
carousel,
and dramatic statue of Léon Gambetta. Gambetta (1838-1882), a native son, was an important political figure at the beginning of the Third Republic but died young from a shooting accident.
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In a quieter section of the town, we admired a monument to another native son, Clément Marot, a Renaissance poet (16th century). Caroline has read his work but he is new to me.
As for the medieval cathedral of St. Etienne, which should have been the high point of our tour, we left it too late: it was being locked just as we arrived. An older woman interceded for us with the caretaker so we worthy pilgrims could have a quick look inside, but nothing doing. The caretaker would not budge.
Today’s walk: beautiful weather. This morning, as every day, as soon as we have hit our stride I move into my prayers: an Our Father, a Hail Mary, thanks to God for his blessings, and then I open up to whatever comes to me.
More hiking through the causse, which I find dull and claustrophobic. No vistas, no farms or villages. At the end, though, Cahors suddenly and thrillingly appeared down below, on a peninsula surrounded on three sides by an oxbow in the Lot River.
François and Michel were met on the trail. They tell us that tomorrow they will go further than we will, so we may not see them again.
Caroline still has a cold, but refuses to give up her cigarettes. We both have blisters that need attention. What to do? Lance them, or let them develop (and burst) naturally? My strategy so far has been to cut a doughnut-shaped piece of moleskin to fit around the blister, which eventually subsides.
We had dinner at a wine bar in the old part of town, at Le Dousil – a bit of a splurge at €36.70 for two, but including a half liter of Cahors wine, more expensive than our usual. I chose îles flottantes (“floating islands”) for dessert and thought of Marie-Henriette and the îles flottantes she served to my parents, her in-laws, on their first visit to us after our marriage, when the caramel topping, a touch too hard and chewy, offered a real challenge to the jaws, to her enormous embarrassment (of course long forgiven by everyone else).
Sunday, 11 May 2003. Lascabanes. [Day 17]
9:30 p.m. It took us an hour to get out of Cahors. The usual route crosses the Pont Valentré, the imposing 14th century bridge with three towers, the city’s most famous monument,
but the bridge is closed for restoration and we had to backtrack to another bridge. We arrived in Lascabanes, 23 km/14.3 mi from Cahors, at 4:30 p.m., after an initial steep climb up a cliff, followed by a pleasant walk through causse and farmland. I had time before dinner at the gite to do yoga and take a shower, as usual, but also to attend Mass in the church just next door (the gîte was the former presbytère, the priest’s residence). The service started with a surprise: the priest washed the feet of certain Mass goers, the ritual normally reserved for Holy Thursday. The priest, about 50 years old, has made the surprising choice to settle as a sort of hermit in this tiny but attractive village, peaceful and quiet, and he celebrates this daily Mass at 6 p.m., especially for pilgrims. The foot washing, he explained, is his way of greeting pilgrims, of expressing his admiration for their effort. An unusual reaction, I thought, but I took part in the ritual, accepting the gift in the spirit in which it was given.
Dinner was very good, including quinoa, a first on this trip, which everyone exclaimed over, but without vegetables – for me a big lack. The gîte is attractive and well organized by the young woman who owns it. Simon, the young German pilgrim first met in Monistrol, has just appeared, greeting my “Hi!” with silence, as usual. He has been offered the extra folding bed in our room, for there is no place else for him to sleep, which will make six in our small room.
After dinner, Caroline and I took a stroll. Older men and women were playing pétanque, or boules (“bowls”). “This is all we have here,” they said. “The cinema is too far away.” They were enjoying themselves greatly.
Monday, 12 May 2003. Charton. [Day 18]
Charton, just 3 km after Lauzerte. This newly opened gîte is wonderful. It’s in a restored out building – originally a barn? – next to an old house with comfortable gardens
and a fabulous view west toward Lauzerte, a town perched on a hilltop.
Across the street is a traditional pigeon house.
The owner, a young woman, has told us the house has been in her family for some time.
The gîte has a washing machine and a dryer! Everyone is lining up to use them. After two weeks of washing our clothes by hand, we’ll leave tomorrow extra clean.
Overcast this morning, then sunny for the most part. We’re now in the département (= larger than an American county, smaller than a state; often translated simply as “department”) of Tarn-et-Garonne, the southern part of the region traditionally known as Quercy. The colors of the landscape are more attractive now. The land seems more fertile, more animated. Fruit trees and vines have appeared. We walked all day with François B., a 28-year-old who was among those in our room last night – friendly, easy to talk to, full of information on all sorts of things, including wine. A businessman in Paris, he has taken a course in wine appreciation, paid for by his company as a necessity for relating socially with their clients.
We had no time to walk up to Lauzerte, on its hilltop, because we had to stop to buy groceries to make dinner this evening. The gîte offers no meals, but does have kitchen facilities.
We had a nice dinner at a picnic table outdoors together with the others staying here, three fellow pilgrims met earlier found again – Bertrand and Liliane, a couple from Brittany, and Roger, a man my age from Lille – as well as François.
Tuesday, 13 May 2003. Moissac. [Day 19]
I’m writing in the Centre d’Accueil for pilgrims, a large, airy hostel, once a Carmelite monastery, on the hillside above Moissac.
We have a double room to ourselves! The monastery has been redone; the facilities are modern and clean. We arrived at 3 p.m., but had to wait one hour to register, which delayed our town visit.
We made it, nonetheless, to the top sight, the abbey church of St. Pierre,
with its impressive Romanesque sculpted portal
(photo from internet: www.pinterest.fr)
and cloister with 76 sculpted capitals.
These sculptures make an appearance, if brief, in my introductory course on European art and architecture, medieval to modern, so I was keen to see them.
(photo from internet: www.pinterest.jp)
Then we shopped for tomorrow’s picnic. It has become our habit to have a simple picnic lunch on the trail, usually cheese, tomatoes, bread, and some fruit, perhaps some cookies, with water to drink. After that we found internet service at a video rental store, to send messages home.
The city center has old houses, but the district seems (at first glance) very laid back, loosely organized, not so manicured as Figeac or Conques. Have we entered a different cultural zone? We would need more time to take the measure of the place.
Encountered: François and Michel, at a café, who have checked into a hotel and will take a rest day here tomorrow. Also Patrick (who uses two German walking sticks that look like ski poles) and his wife (who doesn’t walk on the trail but goes from place to place by car), whom we met at the convent at Vaylats. A Dutch acquaintance has decided to change routes. Tomorrow he will head for the route from Arles to Spain, the southernmost of the four major pilgrimage trails. His surname is Cox and there is a village named Cox on that route.
Roger, Bertrand and Liliane (the couple from Brittany) – all three with us at Charton -- and Jeremy are also in this hostel tonight, as are various others met along the trail. François B., though, has gone to the Presbytère, a religious hostel. We walked with him off and on today, but he sped ahead to meet his parents in mid afternoon. We eventually found him about 5 p.m, and met his parents. We should see him again tomorrow evening at the gîte in St. Antoine.
The dinner at the hostel was simple but tasty: a lettuce and tuna salad, lasagne, and rice pudding, with herbal tea made from rosemary and mint from the hostel’s garden. Wine (of Quercy) cost extra: €4. Jeremy, who is British, struggles to advance in French and charms everyone with his determination. To Caroline and me, he likes to remark (in English) on greasy or fatty aspects of French meals.
Wednesday, 14 May 2003. St. Antoine. [Day 20]
6:30 p.m. Today we have left the department of Tarn-et-Garonne and entered Gers, described by Piotr, the Ukraino-Belgian pilgrim met earlier, as “La France profonde.” I am eager to see what that might be. We set off at 8:15 this morning. Weather: sunny. The pilgrimage route follows a canal – along its towpath – and so is straight, the surface even. Caroline was mildly tempted by the strenuous alternative that climbed up and down the adjacent hills, for some variety. But the towpath was an attractive road and we were able to make good time.
I wondered who used the canal. All morning we passed only one barge, at dock. We walked by a few sets of locks, but here, too, there was no sign of life except for an elderly woman with three cute little dogs at the first lock with whom we exchanged some small talk. Clouds soon came up, and it became a bit chilly. We crossed the Garonne at 1 p.m. and climbed to Auvillar, an attractive hilltop (or bluff-top) old town, and had lunch in a park with a great view onto the river valley to the north – and to the two nuclear reactors to the west, spewing white smoke (or vapor). France relies heavily on nuclear power, and that’s OK, but nonetheless it’s unsettling to see these massive modern intrusions on this walk originating in the Middle Ages.
We came across Liliane and Bertrand, the couple from Brittany. Liliane was having foot problems so Bertrand was carrying her pack as well as his. Liliane is a native speaker of Breton, the Celtic language of Brittany. She didn’t begin to learn French until age five when she started school. The pressure against speaking Breton was great, so French became her main language. Bertrand is also from Brittany, but he doesn’t speak Breton, and Liliane didn’t make an effort to teach their children.
Near the end of the day’s walk we came across two couples standing by a field being watered with a giant sprinkler. One man held a bottle of champagne. Another said, “Pray for me in Santiago!” He wanted us know that his habit was to repent of sins just before he committed them.
This gîte we are staying in is a converted farm house located at the edge of a small village. Overall it’s attractive, but the sleeping conditions don’t look promising. The dormitory is a low-ceilinged room with many beds, sardine-like, and only a few small windows. It may well be stuffy tonight, for the French (the great majority of the pilgrims so far) are loath to open windows at night. Any courant d’air, or breeze, is considered unhealthy.
We’ll see what dinner holds. There is still some sun and the air is not too humid so I hope our laundry will dry.
Thursday, 15 May, 2003. Lectoure. [Day 21]
6:50 p.m. We’re staying in the “Hôtel des Trois Boules,” the presbytère of the local cathedral, once the bishop’s residence, a large, high-ceilinged old building with elegant stone construction on the outside. It’s very distinguished. Two elderly priests live here. We have been greeted by two hospitaliers, a husband and wife who come from Lyon. Dinner will be served at 7.
Nice walk today, sunny for the most part, pleasant temperature. Early in the day we saw the Pyrenees for the first time! Far in the distance, snow-capped. The countryside is rolling hills – farmlands – comfortable earth colors plus trees. This region specializes in duck products and, soon ahead of us, Armagnac, a famous brandy.
Lectoure is on a hilltop. In the 13th century, Edward I, king of England and of this region, Aquitaine, came here to receive oaths of fealty. We visited the Cathedral of St. Gervais – handsome, but much rebuilt because of wars, as seems typical in this region.
Last night we took part in a joyous and abundant dinner at the gîte in St. Antoine. The meal consisted of soup, radishes, three types of duck paté, chicken fillets and peas, green salad, much wine (rosé and red), and a cheese plate. It was certainly copieux (abundant), exactly what people who have been walking all day look forward to. The owner, a 73-year-old woman, Mme Dupont, prepared it all. Her husband ate with us, she after. The hospitalier, Annette, from Paris, ate with her. Annette reminded us of our Parisian Aunt Suzanne in her voluble comments on everything. Afterward, Caroline spontaneously stepped forward to help wash the mountain of dishes. This kind gesture received high praise.
The dormitory was indeed stuffy. A woman with incredibly bushy hair who lives near St. Alban (Aubrac), snored so loudly that Roger went downstairs in the middle of the night to sleep on a couch in the entrance hall. This morning he told her what he had done, saying, “Madame, vous êtes une ronfleuse professionelle” [“Madame, you are a professional snorer.”]. The poor woman was embarrassed and apologized, but if you snore, what can you do? It is certainly a hazard when you have to share sleeping quarters with others.
As we were getting ready to set off, Annette analyzed us according to our backpacks: Caroline knows what she wants and is at ease (= light backpack), whereas I am anxious (= pack slightly too heavy).
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