The last time in Scotland had been pre pandemic (Jan 2020). I’d watched the boats sweeping in and out of Oban and wondered when I might make the crossing over the water to Mull. Post pandemic turned out to be the answer! It was great to be back in Oban and boarding the Calmac ferry to Craignure. Once ferry had emptied it was strangely quiet and the road quickly narrowed to single track with passing places. Passed Duart castle, ancient home of the Clan Maclean and a few people foraging on the receding tide for oysters. Passed a mussel farm and then waited for the last bus to Fionnphort, watching the play of light on the hills surrounding me.

Bus back to same spot the following day and some hail and rain gradually ceded to sunshine. Great views to left over Loch Sguabian and a path threaded its way between high tors on both sides then once again through forest before joining the southern bank of Loch Scridain. Dramatic views opened up every few hundred yards. The occasional car would pass, but apart from that near silence reigned. The only sounds were the lapping of the loch, distant birdsong (and once) a seal honking. The smells were of timber, petrichor and the kelp in the loch. Stopped at Penyghael for my packed lunch and then continued on in warm sunshine for many miles to Bunessan where the Spar had closed promptly at 5pm some minutes before. Less convenience store, more “inconvenience store”. Shout out to the small charity shop however for a great name – “Island Castaways”. Noted one old postbox with Edward VII on it – modern post boxes in Scotland don’t carry the EIIR insignia but simply a logo, following the so called “pillar box wars” of the 1950s (Scots point out that the current monarch is not Elizabeth II as Elizabeth I was only queen of England, whilst Mary Queen of Scots reigned north of the border).

The last day to Iona was a delight and included deserted lochs, skeletons on bicycles, abbeys, wild swimming from sandy white beaches, ferries and gourmet cuisine… I soon polished off the 6 miles from Bunessan to Fionnphort and caught the ferry to Iona. A small Spar bore witness to the Scottish love of biscuits and next door a craft centre sold many of life’s unnecessities. Still, one doesn’t come to Iona to shop. One comes for the calm that seems to pervade the island – what Archbishop Stephen Cottrell has called “…another still ness, that achieved by the intensity of prayer over many centuries”. The abbey is smaller than I expected, with a tiny hermitage lit only be a few flickering candles. The road north soon peters out and a track led down to deserted white sandy beaches where I swam and sunbathed. Journey’s end!

The next segment started in Crianlarich after a very early morning train from Glasgow - walking from hotel to train station lots of Glaswegian birdsong at half four in the morning.. A great breakfast at the hotel, while the rain bounced off cars outside. Picked up the West Highland Way and after a few miles a welcome cup of tea in the dry at Strathfillan Wigwam. Into Tyndrum – more tea! Weather pretty miserable by now. Leaving the town I followed the A85 for a few hundred metres before struggling up a hillside where to my relief I found the forestry road marked on my OS map; this swept up and down for a few miles before coming to an abrupt end and forcing me down the hillside back onto the A85. The relentless rain had led to torrents of water everywhere and the small streams were swollen providing some challenges in crossing. Weary and wet I arrived in Dalmally at the wonderful Craig Villa guesthouse run by Taryn & Ewan – so hospitable and welcoming. A train to Loch Awe and a great dinner at the Ben Cruachan Inn and a dram with Taryn & Ewan concluded the evening.

The following day it was again raining hard and I took a minor road via Stronmilchan to Loch Awe. Stopping briefly at the atmospheric St Conan’s Kirk, the road led on to the Falls of Cruachan and a huge hydroelectric power station.  Stopping near Bridge of Awe for more tea and flapjack eventually arrived in Taynuilt and the inn there. Great meal, book and rioja!

The final day to Oban was a delight. The rain eased off to allow patches of blue cloud and eventually watery sunshine and a tiny deserted ribbon of tarmac led past sheep and highland cattle with mountain views at every turn. Passing odd houses and farms at Bargillean, Duntanachan, Clachadubh and some remarkable standing stones and cairns near Strontoiller I eventually arrived at Oban, journey’s end for this segment. The Calmac ferries drifted in and out to Mull of Kintyre but that would have to wait for another time…

Still walking in the "wrong" direction, I left Stirling one afternoon in December 2017. Took time to get going - it was a cold afternoon and the incongruity of a genuine churreria with Spanish doughnuts and proper hot chocolate was too good to ignore - but after a couple of hours arrived in Bridge of Allan where a small cafe provided bacon roll and soup - perfect. From there tiny roads led to Doune home to the Deanston whisky distillery and Doune Castle, which has been used as a filming location for Outlander, Game of Thrones and Monty Python and the Holy Grail. In a nice touch, Terry Jones does the recorded voiceover for castle tours. No sign of the killer rabbits though... Walked into the Red Lion - where conversation temporarily ceased - and decided to have dinner at the hotel.

The following day brought some winds but no snow and, using the head torch for the first half hour, swung onto minor roads. The sun was rising behind me, and I kept spotting the small white rumps of deer disappearing into the trees to the side of the road. Ignoring the temptations of the unexpected gin distillery at Drumbane, I arrived in Callender for lunch and enjoyed half an hour thawing out at the Deli Ecosse run by two friendly ladies who in my mind will always be the Callender girls... Following the disused Oban to Callender railway along the shores of Loch Lubnaig, past the Strathyre log cabins, the birthplace of the outlaw / hero Rob Roy McGregor (1671-1734) and on to the Strathyre Inn whose friendly but opinionated approach divides the Trip Adviser community!

The following morning was snowy, -1 degree and no heating in the restaurant - the only time I've eaten breakfast indoors in coat, woolly hat and gloves. The path was fantastic - still following the old railway line, over viaducts and through virgin snow that had fallen overnight. Left the trail at Lochearnhead for a Tunnocks and a cup of tea and then met no-one apart from some beaters trying to raise some grouse for the disappointed "Guns" in the valley below. Rather than go east to Killin I followed my nose and the map and left the path to cut across country westwards. I stopped at a small hut within which were swinging three freshly shot deer - whether by owners or poachers I shall never know.  About half past two I headed down to the road and the small hotel (the Luib Hotel) where I was staying the night. Friendly owner and local shepherds who I enjoyed chatting to, along with the regulation idiot Brextremist propping up bar and blaming EU for decimalisation (1971, two years before we joined EEC) and regulating potato size. Further lamentable diversions from reason continued; his conversation seemed intent on creating as many great oxbow lakes as possible from the river of sanity. A couple of whiskies made for a good night's sleep and the following morning an unremarkable eight miles to arrive at Crianlarich and the train home.

Walking north for a change, I soon exited Edinburgh and found myself on a riverside walk. A cyclist stopped for a chat and found he had walked from Le Puy to Santiago – Spain never far away even in Scotland. Found myself in a leafy part of Edinburgh with landscape gardeners’ vans much in evidence – “Down to Earth” a great name I thought. A stop for a sandwich at Cramond Bridge and then the scenic route to the Forth Bridge which looped through forests and past a luxury hotel. The shore and the small road along the firth was crammed with people wielding binoculars, one of whom gestured towards the opposite shore in Rosyth where the new aircraft carrier Queen Elizabeth could just be seen – “£3bn of taxpayers’ money” he informed me. The last few miles I was on reserve tank and glad to arrive at Boness and the Richmond hotel and a good dinner.

The following day was relentless rain. A mate texted me and asked how wet I was on a score of 1 to 10. About 9 was the answer! To Linlithgow, under a splendid viaduct and then followed river Avon until it joined a canal and a dramatic aqueduct where the towpath seemed just a bit too narrow. The path then unexpectedly led me into the grounds of, and past, Callendar House. I wasn’t anticipating a grade 1 listed building near the centre of Falkirk, still less something that so dramatically fused Scottish baronial with French Renaissance architecture.  Rich in history, I found that the marriage agreement between Mary Queen of Scots and the French Dauphin was signed at Callendar House in 1547 and that its chatelaine Lady Anne Livingston gave hospitality to Bonnie Prince Charlie before the Battle of Falkirk in 1746. Unfortunately for her, after his subsequent defeat at Culloden, her husband, the Earl of Kilmarnock, was beheaded for treason.

The last day of the segment was against the clock (I had a train from Stirling I needed to catch at half one) and took me through minor roads eventually into Stirling and a whisky shop where I chatted to the owner (her other half was currently cycling LEJOG (Lands End to John O Groats – JOGLE is apparently the shorthand for the southbound equivalent) and bought a souvenir before catching train south again.

 Stepping out from Edinburgh station liked the Walter Scott quote etched onto a window there: “The ae half of the warld thinks the tither daft” - never as true as at that time in the UK. My arrival had coincided with a fun run at which Mo Farah was participating but gradually left the lycra hordes behind and found the cycle path I wanted where the wildlife included squirrels, woodpigeons and seagulls. Exiting Edinburgh was not scenic – grey slabs of housing estates and industrial estates – but eventually broke into the country beyond Musselburgh and a quick sandwich lunch at Mercat followed. Another old railway line led me to Pencaitland and a taxi to Ardiston Manor where I stopped the night.

An early start the next day took me through West and then East Saltoun and stopped for a welcome tea and scone at La Lanterne Rouge in Gifford – the only walker amid many cyclists. Then a steady climb onto open moorland, with grouse clattering out of the heather to the summit and then a gradual descent into Cranshaws. Passed a huge house which I later learned belongs to Mrs Dulce Packhard, the Brazilian widow of Fred Packard, heir to the Rank Organisation fortune. One of her daughters was a classmate of Princess Eugenie and had been “romantically linked” with Prince Harry… Arrived in Cranshaws after a long walk where I joined “Messy Church” in the Village Hall where I agreed to meet my hosts for the night – the theme was animals and we all enjoyed meeting a racoon, armadillo, skunk, arctic fox, meerkat and snake!

After a restful night minor roads led me to the small village of Preston and eventually into Chirnside where I stopped for soup and a whisky (why is Scottish beer so horrible?) and got chatting to a retired paratrooper who regaled me with tales of his career. (Apparently exiting the plane and getting caught in the slipstream is known as a “rivet inspection”).

Following day after a great walker’s breakfast carried on to the village of Paxton, home of Eric Liddell’s family. Past the English border – no passport required just yet - crossed the A1 and followed a small footpath down to the Tweed where a bench allowed me to contemplate the river and enjoy the peace. A second-hand bookshop and a quirky art gallery / café provided an enjoyable end to the day.

The stretch between Berwick and Beal was walked in reverse order (ie south to north) and was marked by hundreds of birds in a huge V overhead and easy walking, sandwiched for most of the day between the sea and the east coast main line through the hamlets – once thriving villages – of Cheswick and Goswick to Berwick which sits exactly on the latitude of 2 degrees west.

I had made the evocative walk across the sands from Lindisfarne following the markers of the Pilgrims' Causeway as far as Beal and the junction with the AI back in July 2014 so this formed my start point one cold and rainy Tuesday in April 2016. Procrastinating in the warm and dry shop with a coffee after the bus has dropped me off, I eventually set off down small lanes to arrive in the drizzle at Fenwick. Passing its deserted (closed) primary school I walked on across fields and then onto a small lane (Dolly Gibson's Lonnen), past Kyloe Woods, (owned originally by Captain C J Leyland, who first planted the Leylandii cypresses which blight so much of suburbia and are named after him). Diverging from St Cuthbert's Way, the path followed led past Swinhoe Lakes and emerged at Swinhoe Farm. Crossing a wide field, the path eventually led down into Belford, where 3 pubs vied for limited custom. I chose the Black Swan, a small pub with the young landlady and her dogs sitting in the lounge. She pulled me a pint and invited me to take my boots off and warm them by the fire - perfect. Continuing on, and across the east coast main line (after requesting permission from Tweedmouth signal box!) and the path inclined upwards  taking me past Spindlestone Heughs (some dramatic rocky outcrops) to Spindlestone Ducket (a four storey tower shown on some maps as a disused windmill but more likely an old dovecote; and now a luxury self-catering cottage)! Past the "Witch and Worm" (commemorating the ancient local legend where a new lady of the manor turns her step daughter into a serpent...worry not, she receives her comeuppance). A circuitous route round the headland brought me to Bamburgh and finally to Seahouses. As the sun set, some light rain offshore combined to produce a magnificent rainbow and turned the sea coral pink.

The following day took me along the coast, and through golf courses with views of the Farne Islands to Beadnall and then to Low Newton-on-Sea and the attractive Ship Inn. More golf courses, and a gradual approach to Dunstanburgh Castle, built in the early 14th century by the rebellious Earl of Lancaster (grandson of Henry III). However he was captured and beheaded at Boroughbridge leading a rebellion against Edward II and the castle suffered further damage in the Wars of the Roses - but still hugely impressive. Then a lovely walk across cliff top fields led into Craster, home of the herring / kipper industry in the UK. These I duly sampled at Robsons, where huge quantities are sold, sampled and served in their restaurant with its sweeping views across the bay.

Continuing on one June morning from a sleepy Craster enjoyed the great sea views to my right. Fell into step with two couples, Penny, Sue, David and Lewis and chatted about how walking creates connections with the landscape (and literature – we also talked about how we’d recently passed Embleton, familiar to fans of “The love song of Queenie Hennessey “...) On through Bulmer, home of the distinctive yellow helicopters that provide air and sea rescue across northern England and southern Scotland. Down through footpaths to Alnmouth, described by John Wesley as “a small seaport famous for its wickedness” on account of its smuggling trade. Stopped for a pint overlooking the estuary before wending my way via small footpaths and a stretch along the beach, to Warkworth and its dramatic castle. The hotel bar later was colonised by a large and lively group of ladies of a certain age who kept me captivated with conversation ranging from star signs, the Queen’s habits at Sandringham, risqué birthday presents and the etiquette of comfort breaks.

The following day took me via grassy paths and tracks back under the east coast main line and eventually to the lovely village of Felton where the excellent Running Fox cafe and the beautiful church provided material and spiritual sustenance.   On through resinous forests  to lunch at the Anglers’ Arms at Weldon Bridge, and an afternoon of varied countryside (riverside paths, forests, fields and a disused railway line) to Rothbury, a rather smart Victorian town. The path from Rothbury led via Sharps Folly (a job creation project of the local vicar in the eighteenth century) into remote countryside and then into Harwood Forest. Munching my sandwiches at a deserted farm perched on an ancient sheepfold, I reflected on how few walkers I’d seen and the emptiness of Northumbria. Lovely scenery but little else of interest until eventually arrived at Knoweside and a rather damp and unloved hotel where I met Alan, who had apparently been about half an hour behind me all day. The following morning we walked the first 10 miles together in wet weather before going our separate ways. After a long bridleway I eventually emerged onto the path along Hadrian’s Wall and so to St Oswald’s church at Heavenfield. Perched on a hill the church has no electricity, running water and is very exposed to the elements; it is reputed to be built on the site of the battle of Heavenfield in 634. On via a small gated country road to Acomb and then dropped down into Hexham.    

From Hexham station on a cold but sunny day - an appropriate location as St Wilfrid of Hexham (sometime Bishop of Northumbria) was the first recorded English pilgrim to make the journey to Rome in the late 7th century. Wrapped up against the cold, I climbed out of Hexham, quickly leaving the town behind in a fold of the hills. Underfoot the ice on the grass splintered and cracked underfoot - sometimes as thick as glass after the night's heavy frost. A descent and then another climb through Slaley Forest where the surrounding pines filled the still air with the scent of resin. Abruptly, the forest ended and an ice encrusted path led across bleak and open moorland with the occasional grouse butt the only man-made structures visible. The path eventually carried me down to the beautiful village of Blanchard. In 1165 Blanchland Abbey was founded by Walter de Bolbec, and the current pub and hotel (The Lord Crewe Arms) was built as the Abbot's lodge, guest house, kitchens and the Abbot's dining room; its gardens served as cloisters for the white clad monks. Dissolved in 1539, the monks are commemorated in the village's name, and also the neighbouring church. One of the Sunday Times' best 100 pubs in Britain, it seemed right to stop for a drink in the vaulted and panelled bar. A sign outside promised "canny bait, propa beer, crackin' fires - muddy boots welcome" - my sort of pub! A labrador was also lolling about, its owner reminiscing how the pub used to sell Snuffles dog "beer" (No really, it's true. "Snuffle is made with beef or chicken and malt barley extracts, mineral oils, vitamin B and other doggy goodies") Thankfully it's non-alcoholic. I'm not a dog lover at the best of times but a drunken burping dog sounds great fun....  Munching my sandwiches I walked on across minor moorland roads south east and then east picking up the Waskerley Way along a disused railway and passing the ghost village of Waskerley - now just some picnic benches but in its prime a thriving railway community with a goods station, sidings, a shed for six engines, wagon repair shops, church and school. Past Smiddy Shaw, Waskerley and Hisehope reservoirs, planes taking off from Newcastle airport were clearly identifiable as they climbed, heading south. Then a footpath across fields and a long walk to pick up the A68 for the last couple of miles to Tow Law.

Setting out from Tow Law's town centre (insofar as Tow Law can be said to have one), a short walk took me to Thornley, home to a few houses and a small church - St Bartholomew, built in 1838 to accommodate the growing local population. Hard to believe now with the village population standing at 155.The lectern had a small wooden mouse carved at its base - tell-tale handiwork of Robert Thompson, the "Mouseman of Kilburn". A war memorial commemorates three brothers, all sons of the Rev Humphreys, killed in the Great War. His remaining two sons both served and survived.  Later, emerging onto a busy main road I spotted a catering van in a layby and stopped for a cup of tea. The amicable couple tending it said they didn't see many walkers and asked where I was going; I briefly explained the walk. "You're like Forrest Gump!" the woman exclaimed. Onto a bridleway, disturbing a parliament of rooks as I went (not often one gets to use that collective noun). There were so many that as they rose in the air the trees appeared to smoke.  On across fields to emerge at Witton le Wear and its two pubs, both closed for lunch as is traditional. Along by the side of a railway line (freight from Tow Law to Bishop Auckland) and into Bishop Auckland in the now pouring rain. Quick pub stop for shelter rather than beer and then on past "The Red Alligator" pub and through Shildon, desperately proud of its part in the birth of the railways. Across footpaths and a rare encounter with that mythical construct, a friendly farmer. He kindly escorted me across a field through some cows and calves and told me a long story about a local lord who'd fought in the Crusades, before telling me to aim for a tree in the far distance. Sure enough, this proved to be the junction of another path I wanted which led south and eventually out to the road from where a short walk took me to Heighington railway station.

From Heighington early one morning, heading south, with the familiar sensation of the sun gradually rising on my left. At one point, nettles were so thick that I had to wade through them with arms upstretched, as if dramatically surrendering to someone or something. Past an inquisitive black sheep, and then on through surprisingly open and rolling countryside. I hadn't expected the path three miles from Darlington to be so beautiful. Over the A1 and then a picturesque bridleway led through woods and fields; but once off the footpath onto roads the town (known affectionately as "Darlo" to locals) became more intrusive - first past second hand car lots and then past rows of fast food outlets into the unlovely town centre, the main street being a mixture of charity shops, nail bars, pawnbrokers, ethnic grocers and kebab shops together with a huge number of pubs. The "Glittering Star" and the "Golden Cock" both promised a lustre that was not immediately evident. Underneath the railway and once again due south past a garden full of gnomes and a graveyard for Big Cats (scores of XJ6s in various states of scrappage) led me to Neasham and - for a short distance - the Teasdale Way by the side of the river. Along a minor road that became a farm track and then onto a footpath crossing the Tees (and a large notice warning of the dangers of giant hogweed- who knew!) Through the day, there was the constant accompaniment of combine harvesters as farmers made the most of the sunshine to get crops in. Through Hornby, Appleton Wiske (where I stopped for a picnic earlier acquired) and then Welbury and East Harsley, where a cricket match was in progress. A turn down a minor road east led across the busy A19 and towards Mount Grace Priory, a well preserved 14th century monastery. Up a steep hill, and down a track led me into Osmotherley. Dehydrated and very thirsty, I walked into the Three Tuns and asked for both a pint of beer and a pint of tap water, an action that prompted the senior citizen installed at the bar to pipe up, “Tha doesn't need to dilute it, tha knows. T'brewery have done that already".

Arrived in a deserted Osmotherley early one morning and set out on the Cleveland Way path which rose and fell along narrow paths and forests, past reservoirs and then a 6 mile hike across open moorland to Sneck Yate. One of those mornings that reminds me why I love walking so much. The German film director Werner Herzog – a long distance walker himself - has said that “the world reveals itself to those who travel on foot” and when he is asked for advice by aspirant film makers he replies, “Walk a thousand miles. It’s worth much more than three years in film school”. It was a lovely bonus to find mid-morning "High Paradise Farm" run by Ginny which provided tea and freshly baked scones. Other walkers coming in the opposite direction were also enjoying its unexpected presence after a long walk north. I walked off with Chesterton's poetry bouncing round my mind, "For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen / Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green". Along paths and minor roads past isolated farms to Old Byland and then, skirting Rievaulx, to Helmsley. Fortified by a pint of Hobgoblin, on via an appallingly maintained and signposted path to Sproxton and eventually Oswaldkirk and journey's end at the Malt Shovel (shades of Emmerdale Farm...)

Oswaldkirk to Hovingham was a brilliant walk, along bridleways and fields to come out in the centre of the village past sheep and sawmill (Now there's a name for a pub). Climbing out of Hovingham, I eventually reached the little village of Terrington where the church was decked out for a wedding the following day between Jonathan Hubery and Anna Louise Savage. The order of service included Pam Ayres' "Yes I'll marry you my dear" and the lovely version of "Somewhere over the rainbow" by Eva Cassidy, Against the clock now, a rapid pace swept me southwest and down along bridle paths and footpaths to Sheriff Hutton where I made the bus back to York with 30 seconds to spare.

Sheriff Hutton felt like a civilised place with a strong village identity - not to mention a wine shop, upmarket deli, lovely church and ruined castle, parts of which date back to the mid twelfth century. Past sheep and across meadows and eventually onto a well-defined track, trees on one side, wheat fields on the other. A path across two footbridges led to Strensall and then led along the Foss towards Haxby. The machine gun fire from the Queen Elizabeth II barracks in Strensall was clearly audible as I passed the church with its poster for world peace. South of Haxby the path crossed the York ring road and drifted down through Earswick and home.

In January 2014 set out from my front door en route to Canterbury. A pilgrimage is a walk with a goal. There’s a sense in which its focus therefore lies in the future and it was great to have my sights fixed on the next ultimate destination. Even in England on a cold winter's day in the York suburbs felt that surge of wellbeing and excitement that I always associate with being "on the road".  Initially the route very familiar past Archbishop Holgate's School, Grimston Bar and then through Elvington and Sutton on Derwent where shortly after crossing the Derwent (the boundary between North & East Yorks) I stopped at the ancient village church of St Michael & All Angels. John Betjeman once said "that every church I've passed I've wanted to stop and look in." and small country churches are endlessly fascinating; this one remembering the village's association with the St Vincent family (John Jervis, Admiral of the Fleet, First Earl of St Vincent will be familiar to all fans of C S Forester's "Hornblower" series). I was reminded of a comment by Bill Bryson to the effect that we undervalue our cultural heritage. He observed how remarkable it is that you could stick a pin in a map of the UK and find within a 5 mile radius that someone famous had been born there, or something remarkable invented, or a significant event had taken place there.; "You just can't do that in Iowa" he added. On via Melbourne, Everingham and Shiptonthorpe to arrive wearily in Market Weighton and a pint in the Carpenter's Arms before catching bus back to York.

The walk from Market Weighton to South Cave, done one day on 2011 along with the final leg from South Cave to Hessle, are both on the Wolds Way. The walk is largely on chalk downland and I took the short detour to visit North Newbald with its magnificent church, village green (and welcome pubs - both with an animal theme, the Tiger and even more unusually, the Gnu. The smart money is on the Tiger if it ever comes to a fight.). South Cave is a pleasant enough large village / small town and dormitory suburb to Hull. I've driven through it hundreds of times but great to slow down and notice stuff I'd never seen before (stone bears on a wall, an Italian bakery owned by a genuine Roman, the gothic entrance to a local hotel).

From South Cave the path descends via Brough and Ferriby towards the Humber (never the River Humber...) and past a plaque commemorating the discovery of some Bronze Age boats in the middle of the last century by two local men until finally the Humber Bridge towered over me.

Across the bridge in icy weather and through Barton I hit a minor road that took me steadily south and then became a footpath (part of the Viking Way) for a short while paralleling the A15 and then peeling off along the side of fields south east and then south west through an empty landscape. (A previous bishop of Lincoln, rather unepiscopally and I'm sure unfairly, has referred to Lincolnshire as "two and half thousand square miles of b****r all") I stopped near a stile to munch some sandwiches and noticed the aroma of coffee from a large factory in the distance. The path led back to the A15 after a few miles and crossing the M180 motorway I found myself in the small town of Barnetby. Deciding I'd press on further, the landscape became more interesting, leading first across muddy fields to the village of Bigby and then into the hamlet of Somerby. (the "by" suffix is Old Norse for a village or settlement and often appears in this part of the country with its Viking heritage - the meaning lingers in English in bylaw and by-election). Near Somerby Hall is a monument erected in 1770 celebrating 29 years of marriage for the then inhabitants of Somerby Hall (or as the inscription would have it, "the 29th year of their happy conjugal union in the tenth year of our good and gracious King George III." As someone who until September 2014 was also in the 29th year of my own happy conjugal union, it raised a smile! Down a small track through woodlands and over the single track railway line from Cleethorpes took me to the small village of Howsham.

From Howsham, I stopped for a morning breakfast roll and tea at Clayton's Corner Coffee House where the excessive alliteration was the only thing with which to find fault. Great food, reasonable prices and some innovative handmade cards and gifts. On to North Kelsey and, perhaps predictably, South Kelsey where I visited the church and mourned the fact that the pub was firmly closed (although at least still trading, in contrast to at least two closed village pubs encountered that day). I stopped at the small church at Thornton le Moor and sought out the key from a local villager. He accompanied me and gave me a guided tour of the church showing some of the original Saxon stonework. Outside the door was the grave of a soldier from the First World War; unusual in that soldiers were all buried in France or Belgium with no repatriation - the odd exception like here was generally where a soldier had been invalided back to Blighty and subsequently died of wounds. Across a very muddy field and into Osgoodby (closed pub, open (tiny) post office in someone's front room). Through West Rasen and then a lovely bridleway across fields and through woodland until coming out onto a busy A road for the last couple of miles into Faldingworth. This would have been a pretty boring 40 minutes were it not for the Red Arrows (based locally at Scampton) who were out practising and who enthralled me with my own private acrobatics display at times directly overhead and nearby - fantastic!     

A few weeks later, returned to Faldingworth and set out for Lincoln. On the drive down the temperature had fluctuated a degree or so either side of freezing, so although the chill was diminishing, the first village, Cold Hanworth, seemed appropriately named. Past some old hangars, remnants of a long forgotten second world war aerodrome which once hummed to Lancasters and Halifaxes before closure in 1946.Through Welton, where I stopped for a Lincolnshire sausage sandwich and pint (when in Rome...) and admired the church with its distinctive war memorial, and into Nettleham where a wedding had taken place that morning. Across some fields and then a slog into Lincoln where I met up with Margaret at the cathedral (we'd combined a weekend in Lincoln with some walking for me).

The following day attended Choral Matins at the Cathedral which was attended by the High Sheriff (originally of course the Shire Reeve and the King's representative in the county) and various other local luminaries in distinctive dress! The back of the order of service listed every High Sheriff since 1155 when Jordanus de Blossevilla held the post.  He - and until 1989 it always was a he - is elected for one year and it's fascinating to trace the local families back through time; John Lindley Marmion Dymoke (1979) for instance has at least one ancestor in every century back to Robert Dymoke in 1484....The service finished with upmarket canapes and champagne in the nave where chief constables and QCs made polite conversation with random tourists; the Dean asked me where I was from and on hearing York responded, "Ah, welcome to a proper cathedral!" Margaret caught the train back home and I continued south, originally by way of the old railway line towards Boston alongside the River Witham and then through the village of Washingborough which marked the beginning of the Lincolnshire Fens. One of the stained glass windows in the (Norman) church there commemorates the Zeppelin raid on the village in 1916. Along minor roads and footpaths to Potterhanworth, Nocton, Dunston, and with dusk falling, into Metheringham. I'd booked a room at the Lincolnshire Poacher which proved a great choice. First class accommodation, excellent food and beer and one of those enjoyably serendipitous conversations with a couple of semi-retired teachers, Frank and Anne, who were also staying there.

The following day dawned bright and clear with some spring sunshine and was almost entirely across fields, on bridleways and footpaths - brilliant walking. The route in these parts in called the "Spires and Steeples Way" and is aptly named with sleepy village churches in almost every hamlet and village. I often find that paradoxically it’s through walking that one finds some inner calm. The mechanical action of steady walking leaves the mind free to reflect and meditate. Archbishop Stephen Cottrell, in his own book about walking the camino, comments, “It was the insistent activity of the walking that was bringing me to stillness, doing something to me, and heightening my awareness of what was around me and what was within me”. Robert McFarlane in his lovely book “The Old Ways” captures something of the same idea: “Walking is a reconnoitre inwards, and the subtle way in which we are shaped by the landscapes through which we move”. Through Scopwick, (where there was a mainly Canadian war graves cemetery filled with Canadian aircrew) Digby, Dorrington and into Ruskington where I stopped for a sandwich. The last part of the day was minor roads, bridleways and then finally along the river Slea into Sleaford where the day's walk ended at the station among hundreds of kids awaiting their school buses back to the surrounding villages.  

Later in March, an early start from York had me back in Sleaford before eight, although no thanks to the pea brained signalman who decided to put a slow freight train just in front of the 0600 from York thus creating a 20 minute delay into Grantham and a rush across the bridge to catch connecting train. Dank and misty in the early morning, this was a day to put one's faith in the weather forecast, which had forecast a fine day by mid-morning. Signs warned of the possibility of deer, cattle, and more unusually, toads, and there were plenty of rabbits and squirrels in evidence. The minor road I followed took me past some industrial chicken farming, with a nasty accompanying niff of ammonia, but then more pleasantly onto a footpath along an old disused railway line (The old Sleaford to Bourne line, but with such negligible passenger traffic that it survived for less than sixty years after its opening in 1872). It now makes a lovely walk through ash and oak trees with small copses from which partridge and pheasant would occasionally clatter. Arriving in Scredington the road took me over an ancient packhorse bridge, originally created by Gilbertine monks to aid travel between Sepringham Abbey and Haverholme Priory, and rebuilt in the seventeenth century, and eventually after a long straight minor road with just an occasional car, into Helpringham - the many villages ending in -ham around here (Old English for a farm or homestead) - reminding me that this has been farming country for many centuries.  Stopped briefly at the only shop I encountered between Sleaford and Spalding for a drink, and headed south and then east. The minor roads became tracks, with grass growing down the centre, and serving only the odd house or farm. (Passed two Home Farms, a Bridge Farm and a Grange Farm today, but no sign of either Eddie Grundy or, more regrettably, "The Bull").  On schedule the sun came out just after eleven, and the path eventually led onto a bridleway paralleling the busy A52 and then headed south again as a footpath next to the functionally named South Forty Foot Drain. These drainage ditches were a real feature of the day's walk and necessary with the altitude rarely more than 10 feet above sea level. Disappointingly large amounts of litter along one stretch adjacent to a picnic table led to my wondering whether the preponderance of Carling cans mean that Carling drinkers were especially antisocial, but concluded that it's probably just a function of brand size ("More dentists use Colgate": true, but so do delivery drivers, dancers, dockers, dieticians and detectives - it's the biggest brand!). This is really thinly populated country but as the hamlets got smaller, their names became increasingly grandiloquent: Donington Westdale, Burton Redwardine and Gosberton Risegate were just some encountered during the day. (My favourite named Lincolnshire villages lie a little to the east of the walk; to the signpost with the legend "To Old Bolingbroke and Mavis Enderby" someone once added, "A son"). Turning east once more, the fields were mainly devoted to growing daffodils. Wordsworthian it wasn't, with huge gangs, mainly east European, bent double harvesting these and stacking them on special pallets. Through Gosberton and eventually into Pinchbeck and Northgate where a final leg east and then south along mainly tiny roads led to a footbridge across a large Drain, alongside some nurseries, and into Spalding town centre leaving me feeling both weary and contented after a long day.

Easter Saturday and another day's walking. An early start from York, breakfast at Sainsbury's in Spalding and quickly left the town behind. Past ubiquitous fields of daffodils, and along a road for a couple of miles until a footpath to the right took me along tracks past huge stacks of hay bales being rearranged with a forklift truck - a Sisyphean task. Back onto an A road for a mile or so then onto a small track where a guy was forking crab apples into a wheel barrow; he proudly indicated his labour of love - a fantastic open garden flanking the road for several hundred metres. Stopped for lunch and ate my sandwiches outside the church of St John Holbeach Fen which was unlocked and open to visitors. A little further on and stopped for a post lunch kip in a field for 30 minutes and then arrived at the "Woadman's Arms" in Newton where the clientele were nearly as scary as the blue daubed face on the pub sign. Legend goes that ancient Britons used to fight naked daubed in bright blue woad; giving rise to the song popular about a hundred years ago (tune - Men of Harlech): "What's the good of wearing braces / Vests and pants and boots with laces /Spats or hats you buy in places / Down the Brompton Road?/ What's the use of shirts of cotton / Studs that always get forgotten / these affairs are simply rotten / better far is woad / Woad's the stuff to show, men / Woad to scare your foemen / Boil it to a brilliant hue / And rub it on your back and abdomen...."  And finally into Cambridgeshire. Farewell Lincolnshire.  It does feels like I've been walking through England's second biggest county for ever. I've enjoyed it;  its deserted old airfields, daffodils, waterways, village churches, beer, eponymous sausages and windmills but most of all its sheer emptiness; huge in size but one of the most unpopulated (83rd out of 90 counties / metropolitan areas for population density with only 121 people per square kilometre: the comparable figure for Greater London is over 5,000). The last few miles into Wisbech on a footpath parallel to yet another waterway which led past some docks into Wisbech town centre where a monument commemorates Thomas Clarkson (1760 - 1846), a contemporary and friend of Wilberforce who was active in the campaign for the abolition of slavery.

A couple of weeks later and continued south from Wisbech - a day of bright sunshine although still quite cold. Surprised within a mile or so to find myself in Norfolk - had no idea it came this far west! Breakfast at a propitiously placed Morrisons near the outskirts of the town and then off the road and onto footpaths - with so much birdsong it sounded almost artificial. The paths continued, through woodlands, over fields, and skirting an orchard before arriving in Upwell, where the perfect combination of an ancient church and a pub (both open) presented itself. Today was one of those days where you sense things imperceptibly change in terms of landscape (more trees and woodland) architecture (churches) and even the beer (first pint of Norfolk Wherry!). Only when walking does one tend to notice these slight changes that signal movement from one part of the country to another. The footpath a bit further on had been illegally blocked by the farmer with threats of loose dogs but clutching a heft of fallen branch I decided that D J Boyce of Outwell was probably bluffing and so it seemed as I remained unbitten... The last few miles were remarkably deserted - footpaths and bridleways took me past a pair of swans fiercely guarding an egg, bemused looking cows crowding the footpath and some remarkably stupid sheep until I arrived at the Lamb & Flag at Walney where I stayed the night. (The Lamb, representing Christ, and the Flag, representing the Crusader emblem, were often originally meeting places for the 13th century Crusaders. Other surviving variations on this theme are the Turk's Head and Saracen's Head).

Sunday dawned much warmer and a brisk morning's walk took me almost exclusively along footpaths and bridleways towards Ely, the cathedral looming in the distance for the last few miles.  Was much taken by the small medieval church at Chettisham, its ancient font, and its sense of peace. Stephen Cottrell has observed that some places of worship have a stillness “achieved by the intensity of prayer over many centuries” and this was one such where I stopped awhile before completing the last couple of miles, arriving in Ely and the cathedral there just at the end of the morning service.

Carved out a couple of days walking prior to the wedding of Rosie (my cousin's daughter - first cousin once removed?) which was to be held in Cambridge on the Saturday. Starting out from Ely the path follows the flood wall along the Great Ouse, the pink and blue trains in the distance running roughly parallel to the path looking most incongruous against the green and gold of the fields. Path well defined although overgrown in places and at times with abundant nettles and thistles. The tall grass hiding the river provided the illusion of boats seemingly gliding through the fields - a mixture of narrow boats and cruisers. Many of these were named in a pretty conventional way (Serenity, Carpe Diem, The Good Life, Liberty) although I liked the ones that seemed to reach out further in time and space (Guinevere, Aurora) although “Omega Three” proved that whilst Alpha is the beginning, Omega is not necessarily the End. Through some fields with a sign warning of the presence of bulls (which always makes me slightly on edge, especially when, like today, wearing a bright red T shirt), the path eventually diverged and I swung right to follow the Cam, and stopped for a picnic opposite a small marina. I continued past Waterbeach station and saw the welcome sight of the Bridge Inn just off the path where I stopped for a drink and enjoyed the view from my bench outside by the river. Another couple of miles took me to some locks with a long list of rules posted from the slightly sinister sounding "Conservators of the River Cam". A little further, and about three miles outside Cambridge passed an increasing number of rowing eights practising on the river. Past the well-appointed homes of the Cambourgeoisie in the outer suburbs and finally arrived at the Forts St George pub where I enjoyed another pint and later that evening a meal for old times' sake in nearby La Mimosa - a restaurant by the side of the Cam that I have eaten at several times over the last 4 years during Caroline's stay in Cambridge.

Following day was less warm with the promise of heavy showers later. Followed the Cam when it emerged from the Cambridge Backs southwards and after a small detour arrived in Grantchester, made famous by Rupert Brooke's nostalgic verse, written in Berlin in 1912 (“Say, is there Beauty yet to find? /And Certainty? and Quiet kind? / Deep meadows yet, for to forget / The lies, and truths, and pain? … oh! Yet / Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?) Past The Old Vicarage (home to Jeffrey & Mary Archer) and to the church with its ubiquitous pelican motifs (a reminder of its long association with Corpus Christi College where the pelican forms part of their coat of arms - the pelican was traditionally thought to be particularly attentive to her young, to the point of providing her own blood by wounding herself when no other food was available, and as a result, the bird came to symbolise the passion of Jesus and to be incorporated in heraldry). Across fields and across the M11 on a footbridge and into the small village of Haslingfield in a light drizzle. (“Is dawn a secret shy and cold / Anadyomene, silver-gold? / And sunset still a golden sea / From Haslingfield to Madingley?) Er, no. Continued into Barrington and ignoring the tempting pub, followed a footpath across the river Shep, round the edge of some fields, past a farm and across a railway line to arrive in the village of Shepreth. At the green, thought I could see a pub sign in the distance to the left and sure enough found the Plough - recently reopened and serving great beer and a Spanish deli board. Sitting outside, munching piquillo peppers, chorizo, lomo, manchego cheese and reading on my Kindle an account of someone's walk along the camino felt authentically Spanish, the weather and the beer notwithstanding. Continuing I then stumbled quickly across the "Teacake", a small tea room where I decided to again stop and enjoy a cup of tea and a fantastic chocolate and beetroot cake as dessert. Two other ladies were engaged in animated conversation about the Scottish independence vote - the first time I've heard this spontaneously discussed in England! I liked Shepreth. Some ribbon development led me to Meldreth and the rain started in earnest. Remembered I had been here once before in a previous life to visit the head office of a large ice cream wholesaler (I could still see their lorries parked in a yard behind the station) I pressed on in what was becoming a deluge. Even with my map tucked into a kagoule, it was now sufficiently wet for the map to begin to disintegrate into pulp but just when I could get no wetter, the rain eased and I swung right from a small footpath onto the beginnings of a bridleway, part of the Icknield Way. This led after a while onto a main road that led me the last couple of kilometres into Royston (“And Royston men in the far South / Are black and fierce and strange of mouth”) and its train station.

Back on the road just a couple of weeks later, I headed south from Royston station just after 9 one morning. Eventually found the path which broke out of suburbia into some fields and eventually became a well-defined bridleway. Someone had built a cairn and laid an engraved stone with the words. "Opening your eyes can take a lifetime; seeing is done in a flash" which provided some food for thought. Countryside open and still very rural although the small villages (Reed, Buckland) beginning to feel rather more manicured (raked gravel. manicured lawns, all visible through freshly painted security gates) than some I'd passed through further north. Buckland had a lovely village church (St Andrews) straight out of central casting but no longer in regular use but still consecrated and maintained. Paused for lunch at Wyddial; inoffensively (I thought) sitting on a bench by a small road and when suddenly a horse and rider appeared from behind an adjacent hedge. The horse reared, and cantered to give me a wide berth, looking back nervously once it had passed. Its rider just smiled and said "You're very scary, you know!" Thanks. On through Hare Street (nice tearoom, dodgy pub) and through Hay St, Braughing, Puckeridge (the post office that time forgot) and into Standon, where the old station has been lovingly restored. The path followed for a while the track bed of the old railway (part of the branch line from Ware to Buntingford which opened in 1863 and closed just over a century later under Beeching).Towards the end of the walk I managed to lose the path and found myself inside the grounds of a big stately home - my exit at the end of a long drive blocked by large gates and a CCTV camera - not being able to face the long walk to retrace my steps I eventually scrambled over a fence and back onto the track I wanted, into the evocatively named hamlet of Cold Christmas. 30 minutes later I arrived at my destination for the evening, Fanhams Hall. Looking for somewhere to stay the previous night I've stumbled across this luxury hotel offering a £145 room at less than half price including breakfast - what's not to like?

The following day after a great walker's breakfast (granola, full English, toast and marmalade and two mugs of tea) I walked the mile and a half into Ware hoping to buy a map (I'd accidentally forgotten to bring one showing eight miles of today's walk). Ware was smaller than I'd anticipated and the local paper shop had no maps at all. Just as I was wondering what to do, a retired gentleman in the shop asked if he could help as he'd overheard the conversation. Turns out he was a fellow long distance walker and gave me (what turned out to be immaculate) detailed instructions for the missing (mapless) section. Good things happen on the camino! For much of the day I was following the Lea Valley Navigation which took me through Broxbourne and then Waltham Cross. More meditative fuel was provided by an inscription by William Blake set into the canal towpath, "He who binds to himself a joy / Does the winged life destroy / But he who kisses the joy as it flies / Lives in eternity's sunrise." Under the M25, and on to Enfield and a particularly desolate section of waterway past industrial parks and factories. Eventually found a small Greek cafe just off the towpath whose beans on two toast, diet Coke and Kit Kat refuelled me and gave me fresh energy (and change from a fiver). Past Pickett's Lock (there seemed to be a lock every mile or so) and the density of moored narrow boats became even greater - most of them permanent homes rather than transient holiday makers. Although many of them were named clumsily or unimaginatively (is there really anything less like a dragonfly than 15 tonnes of steel that can move sluggishly in a straight line at a maximum speed of 4mph?) some made me smile; best of the day was "Narrow Escape". On through Edmonton and Tottenham, where for a short stretch of the towpath there were many orthodox Jews and families walking, and onto Walthamstow and eventually Old Ford with the Olympic Park straight ahead. The philosophical theme continued with a graffito on an overhead pipe running across the canal noting that "Change is the only constant" and exhorting me "Play Your Part". Someone had then risked life and limb to add a further graffito that very Englishly reassured me "But Feel Free Not To." The sun came out and I stopped a couple of times for a quick cup of tea, and, later, a snatched pint, aware however of deadlines and performing complicated mental maths to work out average speed so far and average speed required to get to Kings Cross station by 8pm!  At 5pm turned west onto what became Regents Canal and took me through Hackney, Clapton, the achingly hip Haggerston, Islington and Pentonville to eventually arrive at Kings Cross station around ten past seven. It seemed very appropriate to celebrate arrival in London with a glass of red wine at the Spanish "Camino" bar a stone's throw from "Cruz del Rey" station.

It was later in November I set out from Kings Cross in a light drizzle and headed off down the Farringdon Road, across Chancery Lane, past St Pauls, noting Pilgrim St as I paused for a coffee, and down across London Bridge to the George Inn which stands close by the site of the famous Tabard Inn from where Chaucer's pilgrims set out one showery April morning in 1386. The Tabard Inn burnt down in 1669 and was promptly rebuilt but was finally torn down for redevelopment by the Victorians - a plaque nearby commemorates the site. Down the uninspiring Old Kent Road with its melancholy mix of fast food joints, pound shops, second hand car lots and the occasional hypermarket and through Peckham, once the butt of jokes and home of Del Boy but now rapidly becoming yuppiefied and home to trendy bars galore. A road sign however raised a smile with its directions to Dover, the Channel Tunnel.... and Peckham (shades of Trotter's International Trading). Through New Cross, Deptford and a left down to Greenwich where I enjoyed my sandwiches under the watchful eye of Nelson, still ceaselessly watching out over the Thames signs of an invading French armada, and the Trafalgar pub. From here followed the Thames Path which allowed one to sample both derelict wharves and forgotten warehouses interspersed with new apartments and shiny offices. This led eventually past the O2 to the Thames barrier which close up appears to be clad in bacofoil, and then to the Woolwich free ferry, the path affording great views of London City Airport on the opposite bank. Abandoning the now rapidly widening river, I headed towards Plumstead and eventually to Abbey Wood where I'd found some unconventional lodgings in a housing estate between Abbey Wood and Thamesmead.

The following day set out early and was treated to some fantastic views as the sun came up and the mist lifted over parks and Bostall Woods. For an hour or so I was definitely the odd one out as I marched south east into an endless oncoming stream of hurrying commuters and kids heading to school. Eventually reached Dartford and stopped for a welcome coffee and banana cake -special mention to cheery waitress at Costa. After a mile or so I stopped to look at my map, searching for the road that would take me south over the A2 towards Green St Green and into Kent proper. A lady stopped and pointed me in the right direction. "Just take the second right past the doctors' surgery - it's called Pilgrim's Way..." There's always a moment walking out of a city when you feel you're starting to escape the centripetal urban pull and escape into the country and for me it was just outside Dartford - the buses switch from red to green, there are farms starting to appear and fields replace houses and shops. Under the M25 and along a rather long and empty road, stopping for lunch in Longfield at a small sandwich bar called Nancy's where a ridiculously beautiful woman made me a cheese and pickle roll and served me a Coke. Pausing at the imposing church of St Mary Magdalene, I forked off onto minor roads which took me through Meopham and Sole Street - by now deep into stockbroker country. A footpath led through some apple orchards where, incongruously, I could hear the faint drone of bagpipes. Into Cobham and, pausing only for a brief pint at The Plough, I continued along a footpath through Cobham Park and past the Cobham mausoleum (commissioned by the 4th Earl of Darnley and built in 1786) and through woodland and eventually across the high speed railway to France and anticlimactically into the suburbs of Strood where a further 25 minute walk, past seas of purple placards exhorting passers-by to cast their votes for UKIP's Mark Reckless in the next day's by-election, led me to Strood station.

 Train down to London - another late arrival from Virgin East Coast. Apparently we were late leaving Peterborough due to "slow running". In other words, we're late because we're late because we're late... From Strood station past tattoo parlours and dodgy pubs over the Medway; the traditional dividing line between Kentish Men and Men of Kent. Heading south along the Medway I passed the village of Borstal where the original young offenders' institution was set up. A Baptist church was offering hot cross buns and tea so stopped on impulse and enjoyed a chat, tea and buns. Out onto the Kent Downs, and enjoyed the many different shades of green from avocado to mint saturating the landscape.  The Robin Hood pub was tucked away and stopped there for a pint and to read the paper. The path wound on until I found myself in Thurnham and the White Horse where I decided to stop. Random conversations heard today: "I've stopped wet shaving my underarms", "we could put them on the hymnbook shelf but then they might get communion wine on them" and " he drank all the profits - occupational hazard for a barman". Fantastic meal and a good night's sleep.

The following day decided I needed to cover a bit more ground so after a proper walkers' breakfast set off at a good pace along the Pilgrim's Way and quickly arrived at Hollingbourne (with its famous monk themed pub "The Dirty Habit") and then on past Harrietsham and detoured off the path to Lenham where I found a great tea room serving carrot cake and tea - weather warm enough to sit outside - and bought a cheese roll and cake for lunch. The path was peaceful with just a quiet hum from traffic sometimes audible as well as the occasional plane two or three miles above gradually closing on Gatwick some 35 miles away to the west. "Pilgrim bound, with thy staff of faith, rest thy bones" exhorted a plaque on a bench. The scenery became increasingly beautiful as the path typically followed a ridge on top of the Downs offering great views and perspectives - rolling grassland, stud farms, vines, and traditional oast houses with their traditional clapboard sides now almost all converted into private houses. Despite the views, there were remarkably few walkers; just the occasional dog walker following a lead. Signposting was awful - clustered thickly when the path was blindingly obvious and completely absent at key junctions where four or five paths spread in different directions. Lay in sunshine and read paper and ate picnic and then continued on through Westwell and eventually after some 25 miles arrived in Chilham where I found a room at the Woolpack Inn. Went to the other pub in the village for dinner which was a great choice - good food, beer and affable young landlord who combined a career turning round failing pubs with an antiquarian book business, Bed and a welcome nine hours’ kip.

Left Chilham for the final 8 miles walk into Canterbury and after some stiff climbing and wending my way past an vast acreage of orchards complete with portakabins for the (largely East European) pickers and fleet of buses for transport arrived on outskirts of Canterbury where I stopped for a coffee and a chat with two brothers, one of whom had a Taiwanese wife and the other a young son called Lorenzo. Destination's end was the cathedral where I slipped in and joined the Good Friday service for an hour or so. "Forgive us Lord when we achieve our ambitions because we have wished for so little; forgive us for arriving safely when we have sailed too close to the shore" seemed apposite and challenging prayers both for the day and the journey thus far.

July / August 2012

Started pilgrimage on Wednesday 18th July at the early morning communion service at York Minster where a special prayer for pilgrims was said; the reading for that day was Psalm 91 - very reassuring! Margaret said goodbye is typically undemonstrative fashion – “Have a good session – see you sometime” – which made walking away easier. Caroline joined me for the first two days and after taking the train to Canterbury, we had a great day’s walking from Canterbury from the stone that marks the start of the Via Francigena that actually goes all the way to Rome – I was only doing approximately half of it to Switzerland! The path escaped the city’s suburbs and became the Pilgrims’ Way. This took us through Patrixbourne with its lovely church and shortly after past Higham Park, once home to racing car driver Count Louis Zborowski, known for building and racing cars which were known as Chitty Bang Bangs, and were the inspiration for the eponymous book and film. Other famous visitors to the mansion (beside Ian Fleming) have included Mozart, Jane Austen and Charles de Gaulle. The path continued, across fields smeared yellow with oilseed rape, to the village of  Womenswold with its thatched cottages, and finally to Shepherdswell where we took the train back to Canterbury.

The next day a return train to Shepherdswell to begin a day’s walking which was gentle and fairly flat. Lots more oilseed rape – but also some woodland copses and villages with red tile cladding and peaked chimney oast houses, originally for hop kilns. The route also took us through the grounds of another grand house, Waldershare House, a grade 1 listed Palladian building from the early eighteenth century, and once the seat of the Earl of Guildford. The path then followed minor roads to begin the descent into Dover past the castle – the largest and arguably the most impressive castle in England. It dates from the 12^th century and contains almost five kilometres of underground tunnels which saw extensive use during the Second World War when invasion was thought to be imminent. I said my goodbyes to Caroline, and boarded a ferry, where I met an Italian pilgrim, Francesco, and we walked to the youth hostel in Calais together. Had dinner together and chatted - he was a history teacher in Tuscany - and then decided to walk the next 18km together the following day until our paths diverged (he was walking further than me that day). Had a chance to briefly look round Calais which is pretty much the dump I remember. Noted that the English are specifically blamed for bombing the cathedral in 1944 whilst it was just "bombing" that destroyed much of the rest of the town in 1940...

The path starts off on the beach until climbing to Cap Blanc Nez and fantastic views - England clearly visible 24 miles away. Place rich in history with lots of crumbling concrete German bunkers as well as reminders that Caesar set out from near here to invade England. I also passed Bleriot plage, the take off point for the first powered aeroplane flight of the Channel in 1909. Wissant where I stopped for the night was a pleasant seaside town.

Set out in rain along path which that day (Sat 21st) was a mixture of farm tracks, forest paths and minor roads; however some sunshine by the time I arrived in Guines for lunch  (a beer and a packet of crisps as a small bar was the only sign of life). Fellow historians will remember this as the meeting place of Henry VIII and Francis 1 at the Field of the Cloth of Gold in 1520. Also passed en route at Mimoyques the site of the V3 base where Hitler planned his final throw of the dice in 1944. Chambre d’hôte that night at Alembon with classic four course dinner with wines for each course - just like being at home, really....

Sunday is always the hardest day to walk in France - everything is shut and as one trudges on in the sunshine one catches the classic smell of French Sunday lunch drifting from dozens of windows - today I had to endure roast chicken, grilled lamb, beef daube and other enticing smells.... Good to arrive in Wisques and present myself at the Abbey de Notre Dame where on scrutiny of my pilgrim "passport" was shown to a basic room, and then served a simple dinner with other pilgrims before joining the Sisters for the service of compline at 8 which was sung in Latin - tremendously haunting in the huge abbey church; and then abbey doors locked and a welcome 10 hours sleep concluded my first ever night in a nunnery. Learned that religious sisters are never addressed as "Madame" but "Masoeur" (unless it's the Abbess who is "Mamère"). Gradually adjusting to life in rural France where things are generally reliably open between 10 and 12 and then 3 to 5 on Tuesdays to Fridays - beyond that one hopes for the best but without much expectation!

Monday 23rd July set out from Wisques just for a few kilometres to Wizernes where I travelled off the path to St Omer where I found an auberge and then had a rest day which I appreciated.

The following day (Tuesday 24th) I caught the bus back to Wizernes and continued south east over the river Aa (surely the first river to be listed in a gazetteer of all the world’s rivers?) onto Thérouanne. Accosted by the mayor in the street who insisted on providing me with a drink and showing me the two rooms of the municipal museum including cannonballs from the siege of 1533. Making my excuses I continued on some remote tracks through a couple of hamlets eventually arriving in Auchy en Bois. Spotted some Commonwealth war graves in churchyard - allied airmen killed in crash between two aircraft in August 1943 and buried there - very peaceful now. I'd phoned ahead to book a chambre d’hôte I'd plucked at random from the guide but what a find it turned out to be! Turns out it is recommended by Alistair Sawday and other guides and has been run for many years by Gina Bulot who was tremendously hospitable, has some fantastic accommodation and cooked a great dinner. There were three other English couples staying there en route to Italy and Switzerland and we had a convivial dinner together - good to be able to talk in English for a change - it seemed strange that one couple was planning to arrive in Switzerland the following day where for me it's still a month away...

Wednesday 25th set out just after 8 en route to Bruay-la-Buissiere where I arrived late afternoon. This is gradually becoming (ex) mining country - lots of spoil heaps in evidence that over time are becoming grassed over and even forested; their unnatural cylindrical shapes the only clue that these are manmade and not natural features. The path meandered a lot today - as Gina explained last night it has become quite political with every small commune wanting to route the path through "their" hamlet or village. Given that I've met exactly one other walker in six days walking in France they may be being optimistic in the perceived benefits of the 'pilgrim euro'; but I'm sure they were having exactly the same arguments a thousand years ago...  With 169km under my belt I'm now about one sixth of the way to Geneva and I think I'm only just belatedly starting to realise what an undertaking this is! Enjoying it hugely but taking it a day at a time is the key. Feet in good shape and having done over 100 miles in new boots I'm hopeful that they're now properly broken in and should be OK. Weather has gradually improved the further from England I have travelled - today has reached 32° with more to come apparently.

Thursday 26th was a big stage - 35km to Arras. Got up early therefore and was en route by 6.45. Route a real joy to walk - a mixture of old railway lines, farm tracks, minor roads and grassy paths beside the river. Quite misty to start with but the sun coming through around 10. Hardly saw a living soul - and was relieved after 21km non-stop to stumble across a boulangerie five minutes before it closed at noon. The long morning included thousands of spiders' webs already dissolving in the heat; curious cows following me; alternate rows of red and green lettuces growing (very artistic) and lots of hay bales stacked in fields. The route to Geneva is predominantly south east so I'm always happiest when the compass is showing something between 120 and 150 degrees - anything else is effectively a detour! This means that most days I get lightly toasted on my left hand side in the morning but then really grilled in the fierce afternoon sun between 2pm and 5pm on my right side - Thursday was no exception.

About 4 km from Arras the route goes within 200m of Louez First World War cemetery.  Like all Commonwealth War Graves cemeteries this is immaculately maintained - but significant for me as this is where my maternal great uncle Wright - killed on the Somme in August 1916 - is buried. Along with 154 comrades the graveyard lies tucked away in farmland on land ceded to Britain by the French government in perpetuity. As I made the short journey to his grave I inevitably found myself once more reflecting on the lines from Rupert Brooke: "If I should die think only this of me / that there's some corner of a foreign field / that is for ever England." Wright’s younger sisters survived him by nearly three quarters of a century. On to Arras, found a hotel and over dinner got chatting to Bryan and Sylvia, two friendly Canadians (brother and sister) also visiting family graves from a century ago after fulfilling some work commitments in Paris.

Following day set out for Bapaume. Getting out of big towns on foot is always a dreary business and Arras was no exception but after 4km hit open country and the sun came out. On what has become the "normal" mix of quiet country roads and tracks suddenly came across another war cemetery - "Sunken Road Cemetery". Many of these small places - containing perhaps one or two hundred graves from a particular phase or location of the war - are folded into the surrounding countryside and are very serene and peaceful; it certainly now is "all quiet on the Western Front". I found myself reflecting on the words of Edward Thomas, killed in France not far from here in 1917 (and whose own wife Helen also lived another 71 years until 1988): “Now all roads lead to France / And heavy is the tread / Of the living; but the dead / Returning lightly dance.”

Later that afternoon a recumbent form in the distance resolved itself into Marcello, another Italian pilgrim. He is really pushing himself; having allowed himself just 62 days from Canterbury to Rome (I'm doing about half the distance in 44 days). Walked with him into Bapaume where he found a pilgrim's shelter (the local church hall) and I a cheap hotel. As this didn't open till 6 I sat outside a bar sipping a beer or two and watched the heavens open and a torrential thunderstorm unfold. Dry under a canopy I nevertheless eventually admitted defeat and went inside where a cheerful Aussie and an equally relaxed Frenchman were rapidly becoming best buddies comparing notes about the (very valiant) Australian exploits at nearby Villiers - Bretancourt in 1917. I made the mistake of joining the conversation at which more beers flowed; tearing myself away at 7.30 I went to check in and eat an evening meal. Slept well apart from a persistent mosquito which had infiltrated itself into the room. Was reminded of Anita Roddick's famous quote; "If you think you're too small to have an impact, try going to sleep with a mosquito in the room!"

Saturday 28th dawned a bit cooler. However nowhere open and relieved to find a bakery open at Moislains just before noon. Rain showers started and feet starting to hurt as well but marched on and arrived Péronne and checked into first hotel I came too - too tired to contrast and compare. Bought some Compeed and sat outside café writing up journal and pondering several things including why French hotel rooms favour such lurid colours (orange and primrose yellow two particular favourites, often together); why France as a major European nation has no indigenous pop music and has to rely on English classics; the strange and unnatural French love of the endive, a peculiar vegetable; and my growing fondness for Leffe Belgian beer.  

Sunday took a "jour de congé" or day off to rest the feet. Sat in square in morning and finished "The unlikely pilgrimage of Harold Fry" A brilliant book and highly recommended - thanks Mary Wride for pointing me at it before I went. There's a lovely bit in it just before the end about listening to nuns singing: "the nuns' voices rose, woven in song, and for one splendid, fleeting moment the beauty of it crammed her with something that felt like happiness" which put me in mind of my experience at Wisques a week earlier. Visited the big memorial museum there, "The Missing of the Somme" which was very powerful in showing the war on both the front and at home for France, Britain and Germany. Feeling by this stage the need for some activity I borrowed a bike from the Tourist Info Office and cycled 25km in a big loop around Péronne, encountering yet more war graves. The inscriptions on the grave stones (all identically sized, without variation by rank, and made from white Portland stone) are often moving, particularly filtered through early twentieth century restraint: "It's hard to say farewell to such a kind husband and loving father", "Called to higher service", "Where your treasure is there will your heart be also", "Missed", read some of them. Dinner at family restaurant where mother combined waitressing with eating with her husband and 3 kids on big table at front of restaurant. 

Monday 30th departed from Péronne along an old railway track and the miles quickly fell away. The landscape is gently undulating, with crops including wheat, maize, courgettes, lettuce and cabbages among those I could recognise; together of course with the ubiquitous and never ending poppies at the side of the fields. Someone had recommended to me a pilgrim hostel at Tugny-et-Pont and I walked steadily towards this arriving about half three. What a place! Run by Jean-Marc and Marie-Antoinette there are four self-contained little rooms in a field by the edge of the river Somme where Jean Marc (a sculptor) is also restoring an old 14th century mill destroyed by the Germans during the retreat of 1917. They left about 9 having cooked me a fantastic supper of omelette, pasta and salad washed down with rosé and followed by cheese and peaches, leaving me in charge of the site, a goat and a small sheep! Slept for ten hours despite the goat plaintively rubbing its head against the door; the bell round its neck ringing the whole time.

On Tuesday I quickly arrived at Tergnier; the last 10 km the most scenic including a grassy track and then following a canal into the town. My guidebook had given me low expectations of Tergnier; "Tergnier" (it opined darkly) "is one of the least attractive towns on the route. It is a former railway hub and has limited accommodation; some of which is very poor". To be honest, I've seen worse, but it's fair to say the influx of Brits who've decided this is the new Dordogne won't be arriving just yet. It has a footnote in history, however, as being the station from which the German and French delegates departed in 1918 to discuss Armistice terms, before transferring to a railway carriage that the French had deliberately chosen as belonging to Napoleon III (defeated of course by the Germans - or more accurately the Prussians - in the 1870 Franco-Prussian war. The French have long memories). Being a former railway hub it was easy to jump on a train to Laon (tomorrow's destination) find a cheap hotel and then return Wednesday on the train just with a day sack to walk the 36km back again.

Plan worked flawlessly and having caught the 0641 from Laon I started walking from Tergnier back towards Laon on Wednesday just after 7am. One of the best days yet. My pace was slightly faster without the rucksack and the countryside was changing as well: more hills and more forest - for the first time since Calais found myself above 200 metres, a gentle reminder of what's still to come! There was just the perennial problem of finding somewhere to eat as 23km in I was beginning to fade in the hot sunshine. On cue however unexpectedly appeared "Le Rustique" which was offering today's menu (rabbit terrine with cornichons, chicken in mustard sauce with fried potatoes, cheese, mousse au chocolat and 25cl of wine) for 14 euros. My reckless addition of a coffee pushed this to nearly 16 euros and I left refuelled with a smile on my face remembering one of the reasons I love France so much. On in the sun (it's 1pm and 32°, real mad dogs and Englishmen stuff) but with regular application of sun cream and water reached Laon without incident. Laon is a beautiful town, the old town perched on a rock 100m above the surrounding countryside and as a result the cathedral dominates the view from miles around (I could see it, rather depressingly, when I was 15km away in the distance). Sat in the cool interior for a while, admiring the huge rose window, and listened to the plainsong quietly playing.  At 347km I'm now over a third of the way with 15 days out of my 44 gone so still on track; I'm perhaps a bit fitter and can walk 30 km without collapsing but still aware of some 38km stages and of course plenty of hills still to come!

Left Laon on Thursday morning (2 Aug) and this proved to be another delightful day across fields, through woodland and along small lanes, crossing the huge forest of St Germain. Even the barking dogs were more muted today. (Buried somewhere in the French civil code is a requirement for all citizens to have at least one dog; and to train it / them to bark frantically at the slightest provocation). Every day I encounter dozens of hounds who noisily mark my passage, generally from the other side of fences and gates. I have discovered that the volume, ferocity and duration of such barking can generally be extended by momentarily pausing, or banging my stick, or trailing it along the ground - these tactics send the average mutt wild with fury. For maximum effect, slowly raising the stick to point directly at the pooch and growling softly will generate the most extreme paroxysms of rage, although on two occasions now the animal has responded to this raising of the stakes by letting its ears droop and wandering off, apparently thoroughly cowed. John Hattam the dog whisperer? It made a change today to spot a sign warning not of dogs but merely "Attention - chat ferocé!" At lunchtime stopped for a picnic at the tiny village of Chernizy-Ailles and got my pilgrim passport stamped - this "proves" that one is genuinely walking long distance and is a credential that one is often asked to show when staying overnight in abbeys and the like; but is also becoming an interesting record of my snail's progress across rural France. The French love of bureaucracy means that an official stamp is rarely hard to find! Stayed at small hotel in Corbeny that night - the owner was very pleasant but was clearly in the middle of a ferocious argument with his wife which he broke off to welcome me, check me in, and give me the room key. His wife stood grimly by while he did all this, looking like a bulldog chewing a wasp. As I ascended the stairs I could hear them start again with undiminished vigour. Corbeny, a small village with a population of perhaps a couple of thousand souls boasted the following facilities: a florist, taxidermist (evidence of the French love of hunting), butcher, doctor, restaurant, bar, hotel, church, bakery, hairdresser, post office and épicerie. It also marked a significant departure in that it contained the first vineyard I'd seen since entering France - a reminder that I'm now south of the fifty degree line of latitude and proof that champagne country is approaching...

On Friday the sounds and smells of breakfast brought me downstairs and I left just before eight; setting a good pace as today was a long stage. After 10 km the route dropped down onto the St Quentin canal which I then followed until the outskirts of Reims. Canals are good for walking alongside in that they are generally (a) quiet (b) easy to navigate and (c) flat! However this seemed interminable with long straight featureless stretches. I wrote of leaving Arras that getting out of big towns is always a dreary business but entering them at the end of a long day is even worse. Having already done 32km, re-joining the road for the last 5km to the town centre was hard work but arrived eventually and found hotel. Along the way I asked two fishermen how far it was to the centre of Reims - one said 20 km and the other 4. It proved to be about 12; never ask non-walkers for estimates or directions; they have no idea! In Reims enjoyed a drink, a meal; and met once again Francesco, the Italian pilgrim first encountered in Calais with whom I shared a beer. Reflected that I've now covered 414km and am on track against the timeline required. Not yet half way of course, and still a long way from Geneva. It is not the end, or even the beginning of the end, (but to quote Churchill) I think I'm entitled to see arrival in Reims as the end of the beginning. Saturday evening's highlight was the magnificent son et lumière at Reims cathedral at 11pm. Never seen anything quite like it as the whole cathedral seemed to shimmer and dissolve; quite literally jaw-dropping.

Sunday morning found a French église evangelique and went to morning service there - good to be with people with whom I have much more in common than the language which divides us. The rest of the day involved a chance stop at a circus where jugglers were getting ready for their afternoon performance (Le Temps des Cerises) and where I got a chance to play their ancient piano; a meeting on the path with Rodney and Shani, two Oz pilgrims making their way north from Rome with 1600 km under their belts since their departure on 23 May and who encouraged me with tales of the route still to come; a walk through the magnificent vineyards of Champagne and through the classic wine villages of Verzenay, Verzy and Trepail; a serendipitous conversation with a lovely English couple, Yvonne and Giles Halling who although full at their chambre d’hôte took me in, chatted and found me a bed in Trépail 7 km down the road; and a stupendous rainbow at the end of the evening. A great day, bearing out the truth of a passage in a book I'd read a few days previously. "Travelling on foot is the right speed for human beings. Walking sorts out your problems and anxieties and calms your worries." (Nine Lives, William Dalrymple).

Monday was a quiet walk through the champagne villages of Ambonnay and Bouzy (yes, really) and then along canals and through woodland to arrive at Chalons en Champagne, where I found a hotel in the town square and had a quiet meal before an early night.

Tuesday's stage had been preying on my mind, to be truthful. It was a 39km monster with nowhere really to cut short the day, and the guidebook warning that, "this is an extremely long and exposed section crossing open country. It is essential that you carry sufficient water and food for the day - accommodation choices are extremely restricted." Having bought a picnic at Monoprix the previous night I set off before 7am having booked myself in at the only (chambre d’hôte) accommodation in the village of Le Miex Tiercelin. It was a hard day, but not too hot and for most of it following the old Voie Romaine, a wide stony and exposed track that runs pretty much south for dozens of kilometres. Straight as an arrow, one can see it piercing the landscape ahead for many miles. With my MP3 player on and with the encouragement of Eva Cassidy, Fairground Attraction, Abba (sorry), Chopin, Beth Nielsen Chapman, John Rutter, James Taylor and Bach (random shuffle is truly a wonderful invention) the kilometres quickly fell away. The landscape is huge cereal fields (almost prairies) in all directions with the occasional grain silo in the distance. First field of sunflowers today, something I always associate with the south of France and another reminder of progress made. Lunch was taken at Coole, 27km in, and then those last kms (more slowly now) to Le Miex Tiercelin where I arrived about 5. Run by a very old lady (a doppelganger, for any family reading, to dear old Auntie Ethel) who provided basic accommodation and a meal of sorts later that evening! It also marked the half way point - another landmark.

Wednesday (8th) was another long day continuing at first on the old Roman road and then on a series of pretty much deserted country lanes until an unpleasant final 6km into Brienne by the side of the D396 with lots of articulated lorries heading to pick up the motorway a few km further on. Brienne provides a free pilgrim gite for walkers who can demonstrate their credentials (see earlier in blog) and so ensconced myself there - un grand merci to the burghers of Brienne. Noticed today that I had crossed into another département. The French divide the country into 95 départements (counties). These are all numbered alphabetically from Ain to Val d'Oise and one tends to notice when one has crossed the boundary as all the car number plates start to sport the new number. So far have passed through 62 (Pas de Calais), 59 (Nord); 80 (Somme), 02 (Aisne); 51 (Marne) and 10 (Aude); do keep awake at the back, there. Today is also the halfway mark in time (22 days spent out of 44) but with 53% covered feel I'm still on track! Had a quick look round Brienne in the evening: memories of Napoleon dominate as he spent 5 years here at military college (1779 to 1784) and in 1812 the chateau became his headquarters for a while. He is commemorated in "Le Petit Caporal" tabac and "La Pharmacie de l'Ecole Militaire" among others. Dinner provided great entertainment - two German businessmen bemused by the menu but one wishing to impress and translate for the other; "Was ist coq au vin?" "Ja, es ist ein Fisch!"  Fell into conversation with a Dutch couple, Willem and Mariella, after dinner; more wine was ordered and the world put to rights. Back to my gite through a silent and shuttered town.  

Thursday 9th was a more reasonable 29km section to Bar sur l'Aube following the approximate line of the river Aube southwards. I took the time to slow down today as having completed two big stages the previous two days it's easy to press on, be focused on the destination and not take time to 'stop and stare'. The longer I spend on this walk, the more I realise that although the destination is important, it isn’t that that changes us but the process of travelling – the time and space and interactions that allow us to explore the geography of our own hearts. Robert McFarlane puts it well in his introduction to The Old Ways; “this is a book about people and places, about walking as a reconnoitre inwards, and the subtle ways we are shaped by the landscape through which we move”. The purpose of pilgrimage, therefore, is not just to arrive, but to journey well – it’s as much about travelling hopefully as it is about arriving. And it is this challenge to live in the “now” that I’m finding most rewarding, not just on my walk, but in life generally. It’s making me conscious of just how much time I can spend regretting the past or planning for the future and not enjoying the here and now. The Bible tells us that “by faith Abraham set out, not knowing where he was going”, and I’m beginning to think this is quite a distinctive feature of the Christian hope. Both optimism and despair know the answer and are clear about the outcome. They complete the story prematurely. They know too much about the future.  However for those of us who are Christians, we have no way of describing or predicting our journeys, or of knowing what lies ahead.

Today therefore made time to take a break at Unienville; sit and admire the church at Jessains; enjoy a leisurely picnic in a deserted Dolancourt; and at Jancourt the river looked so inviting that I stopped for a quick swim. Overhead all day the sky was crisscrossed with vapour trails 6 or 7 miles up - I'm guessing that I must have been underneath one of the main European air traffic control routes. Arrived in Bar - a pretty town sporting many of the half-timbered buildings that seem to be the local architectural vernacular - and found a basic hotel, the halls and stairways conforming to Hattam's rule of small French hotel décor by being strikingly decorated throughout in fuchsia pink and mustard yellow. Dinner in the 'Jardin des Délices" was OK - spoilt a bit by wasps (which wasn't their fault) and lackadaisical service (which was). 

Friday 10th a rest day in Bar sur l'Aube - good to have a long sleep and then catch up on rest day chores including a visit to la laverie! A picnic lunch and then explored the town. On the edge of Champagne it has some real gems including the lovely 12th century church of St Pierre; spent some time sitting in there in the coolness, sensing the centuries of worship that have soaked into the old stones and taking a pause for some prayer and meditation of my own. Roy Uprichard talks of the places “where memory, hope and prayer make the air porous and one can navigate the borderlands between this world and the next”. I guess we all need to find those "thin places" for ourselves.

In the afternoon, sitting in the mediateque next to the church, updating the blog and catching up with emails, was treated to the organist practising for a forthcoming concert: we had at full volume some Mendelssohn, Bach, St Saens and lots of other stuff I didn't recognise - magnificent! Evening meal in the Celliers des Moines (old 12th century cavern) provided some great food. One of the things I love about moving across France at this snail's pace is the almost imperceptible changes in the local food and wine: today for the first time the fromages included the Burgundian cheeses of Epoisses and Brillat Savarin; a nod to the fact that I'm about to move from Champagne into Bourgogne.

Saturday was a short stage through vineyards and forests in hot sunshine to the famous Cisterian abbey of Clairvaux - now mainly transformed into a high security prison. Stayed at small hotel in the village where the proprietor apologised that they had a wedding party that evening and that it would go on long into the night. Met Rolf and Petra, two German pilgrims from Munster walking to Santiago in short stages of three or four days every year as they have young family of four boys. The wedding party didn't keep me awake at all and slept soundly.

Sunday 12th a long day so breakfasted at 7 and started off at cracking pace. It was good to see a mobile boulangerie about two hours later where I bought some lunch. I covered the first 25 kilometres non-stop - one of those days where the scenery is sublime, legs are rested, the day is fresh, and the pack seems to weigh so little that I started worrying I'd forgotten to pack something! Had planned to head south east to the little village of Mormant but a series of calls to several small chambres d’hôtel and hotels in the area had established that everywhere was full. It seems that not only have the French treacherously abandoned their posts at hotels and shops that I would have liked to have used but have then had the temerity to decamp en masse to some of the most beautiful countryside in France taking up valuable beds there.... Took a detour therefore to Chaumont, which I knew would add about 13km to overall distance; worse, psychologically, was that the last 15km of the day took me slightly north east in the "wrong" direction. Passed close to the village of Colombey-les-Deux-Eglises; the ancestral home of Charles de Gaulle and the place where he is buried. At Chaumont took a train to Langres, the next day's destination and found hotel there: this meant that I could return to Chaumont the following morning without pack and walk back to Langres with just a day sack. On the entry to Chaumont passed under the magnificent three level railway viaduct that has featured in several films. In Langres in the evening there was an organ concert which I went to which finished with that old crowd pleaser, Widor's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Arpeggios a bit shaky at the start but nevertheless provoked a long ovation from the audience. I've always loved the piece - it was the music Margaret and I walked down the aisle to 28 years ago and always brings a smile to my face and, dare I say it, a nostalgic tear to my eye...

Monday 13th was up early and walked to train station with moon still clear at 5.30am. Caught train back to Chaumont and started the long walk down the canal back towards Langres. I'd estimated 38 km but turned out to be 44km in the end with all the loops, twists and turns. Not much traffic: only 5 boats all day, all pleasure craft, two of them English ("Yanina" of Bosham, you're a long way from home). Just kept going, and after 31km arrived at Rolampont where there was a bar just off the canal who also served Leffe Rouge, my new favourite... Found some shade by an abandoned boat house near the next lock, and ate my picnic. The early start, a long walk, food, lunchtime alcohol, and the hot sun had the inevitable effect and I lay down and dozed off, waking 90 minutes later. Finally arrived back in Langres at 6 pm. Wildlife encountered included two cranes who flapped lazily off almost noiselessly on my approach and a fox some 50 metres ahead at one point which turned slowly to examine me and then glided away into the trees. Langres is a beautiful town, set on a rock at an altitude of 475m; the archetypal "town set on a  hill which cannot be hidden" and visible for many miles away. It's the birthplace (1713) of Diderot the French philosopher who is proudly remembered in a statue in the town's centre and whose "bons mots" are often engraved into local buildings as the town prepares for the tercentenary of his birth next year.

Tuesday was a short stage of just 15km to Les Archots, a chambre d'hote that had been recommended to me. Morning spent at leisure in Langres having a good breakfast, a wander round and finding, a couple of kilometres from town, some internet access. The 15km to Les Archots took me around four hours. To describe Les Archots as a hamlet would flatter it. Four houses clustered together, one of which has been renovated into a very modern and comfortable gite with state of the art rooms. Arriving at 5.10 (determined not to be early - the owner had asked me about what time I'd be arriving and when I'd said 5pm he had said OK and had then added, almost as if thinking aloud, "the English are always early"). Also staying were a friendly Dutch family, Marcel and Mieke and their three teenage children Niek, Heleen and Marloes. Sharing a great supper of tartiflette, meat and mushrooms we discussed cannabis legalisation (in Netherlands you can have up to 5 plants in your garden, but sometimes they get nicked); Dutch perceptions of the English (and vice versa); education in our respective countries; the name of the legendary Dutch boy who put his finger in the dyke (Hans - a suspiciously Germanic name it seems to me); Sintar Klaas who traditionally brings presents on 5 Dec; and the legendary rivalry between Rotterdam's Feyenoord and Amsterdam's Ajax.

Wednesday dawned hot but with a heaviness that presaged storms at some stage. A very clear day, with just a few scraps of cirrus in a deep blue sky. Walking through the Forest of Buissière for the first 9 km it was so still and quiet that when leaves fell from trees I could hear their gentle impact as they landed on the tarmac below. Perhaps three or four cars passed every hour. That year the weather was remarkably kind; in approaching perhaps 200 hours or so of walking since Canterbury I've walked precisely 3 of those in the rain (to be precise that's walking in France: on both days of the walk in England on 18th and 19th July it rained for part of the time, bien sur).  It's rained once or twice in the evenings but the rest of the time the temperature has been between 21° and 34° with many days in the mid-twenties - lovely walking weather). The wind picked up as did the heat and I felt the need for a siesta and curled up under a tree for an hour - catching sight in a window of my travel stained shorts and two days beard I did wonder how easily it is for the locals to distinguish between pilgrims and tramps...The last 6 km into Champlitte was directly SW into a strong hot wind and was glad to find a small hotel and rest for a while. Today was a public holiday in France (Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary).This gave an opportunity for any business not already closed - for fermature annuelle, or for weekly closing (fermature hebdomadaire), or for lunch, or for exceptional reasons (fermeture exceptionellement, merci de votre comprehension) - to shut.  In the evening had dinner at hotel which was fantastic including a great starter of snail and bacon casserole in a cream and garlic sauce. The atmosphere was further enhanced by a thunderstorm and lightning that had duly arrived about 7pm and which at the start of the meal knocked out the power to the hotel (and to most of the rest of the town). Candles appeared, the food kept arriving (good old gas)  and for some reason everyone started whispering... Champlitte is another picturesque and old fortified town but seems a bit off the tourist track, partly perhaps because it sits at the borders of several other regions (Champagne, Burgundy, Comté and the Haute Saone). Interestingly from a wine lover's perspective it's also a liminal region, the influences of  Alsace, Jura, Champagne and Burgundy all making themselves felt. The main grapes seem to be auxerrois, chardonnay and pinot gris (white) and pinot noir and gamay (red) and I sampled a couple of glasses over dinner (It's OK, I've stopped now).

 

Thursday 16th another shortish stage (17km) so had a wander around Champlitte, admired the art of Boris Beluche who had an exhibition at the Office du Tourisme (brilliant - see www.borisbeluche.free.fr  for more) and found out there was a pilgrims' gite in Dampierre, my destination. I was sure the lady in the office du tourisme had said it was the second turning on the left as I entered the village and that I should follow signs to the college but this started to look so unlikely that I nearly gave up. Persevering, I came across some young kids in the middle of a field playing games and having a cookery competition (only in France). The leader, a young woman, greeted me warmly and showed me into this huge municipal building where other kids were playing table tennis, jumping on a trampoline, and colouring pictures. I was shown the loos, the showers, the kitchen, the bedroom.  At half past six everyone went home and I was given the key, asked to make a 5 euro donation, told to help myself to whatever I wanted from the kitchen and asked if I wanted to borrow a laptop. Tomorrow could I just lock the door and leave the key in the letterbox! As I took a shower, trying to preserve some privacy as kids swarmed in and out I reflected that such an arrangement would certainly fail safeguarding standards in English education! As a stranger, though, it was great to be trusted so unconditionally. As a foreigner in another country, carrying one's possessions on one's back - without status, home, family and friends, one is often entirely reliant on the random kindnesses of strangers, and becomes acutely aware of how much a simple gesture can mean to the recipient. Memo to self – be kind to monoglot foreigners when next I meet them in York! Difficult not to be reminded of Jesus’s words in Matthew’s gospel; “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in.”

Not much choice to eat in Dampierre in the evening - ended up at a Turkish run kebab joint, slightly apprehensively, but had a fantastic meal (steak sandwich, frites, iced tea and ice cream) for 8 euros. (It was called "Pret a Manger" - wonder who should be issuing the writ for brand infringement here....?)

Friday, after acquiring breakfast and picnic continued south. Through quiet villages, with the churches now beginning to acquire the decorated and gilded patterned tiles on the roof that I associate with Burgundy. I realised that I now have fewer than 300km to go and began to think I was nearly there. I had to remind myself that 298km is pretty much the distance between London Kings Cross and York - still a little way to go yet! Across the Saone (France's sixth longest river - small prize for anyone who can name the first five in the correct order without resorting to wiki) and then the road cutting through a long forest but with little shade as sun now directly overhead. Arrived in Gy and met the friendly M Coutout who took me to the pilgrim gite - a great space with bedroom, dining room and bathroom and evening meal neatly laid out in fridge complete with 2 bottles of Leffe - he must have second sight! An evening walk through the small town - still too hot to sit without shade - for a digestif and to ponder whether this experience has been different qualitatively as well as just quantitavely  from shorter walks in previous years. I think it has.

Saturday I made an early start, leaving the gite at 6.30am. The road, another minor "departmentale" the D66, was a long way from its famous namesake in the States. Two cars passed me in the first hour although the second hour got busier with a doubling of traffic. Arriving in Geziers at 9am I felt quietly satisfied to have the first 12km under my belt so early. However, I have developed a rule about "hard" and "easy" days. The key factors are distance, climb and temperature.  Hattam's rule of thirty says that it will be a hard day if the distance is more than 30km and / or there is more than 30m of climb every 30 minutes and  / or if the temperature is more than 30°. Saturday hit all the buttons. A 36km stage with temperatures in the upper thirties and with 747m of climb (balanced by about the same descent) made it a toughie.  Six litres of water later, and with frequent stops for rest and shade, I reached the highest point 8km from Besancon and could look NW at the forests and valleys traversed. Found a small hotel and a meal in the town before an early night.

Sunday was a pleasant day wandering around Besancon. A difficult town initially to warm to (everywhere is roadworks as they install the tram network that seems to be the essential proof of a large town's virility in France), but a picnic lunch by the river Doubs,  a climb to the impressive Citadelle, friendly staff at the Office du Tourisme who offered free access to a computer and cold water, and a quiet beer as I pondered the walk ahead made it a pleasant "jour de reste". Temperature again in high 30s - more pleasant as a tourist than as a walker! As I walked through the quiet streets stopped to listen to the sound of classical guitar being practised somewhere and drifting down from an upstairs window. In the evening a great meal at a small creperie with my new favourite aperitif, guignolet. (I have been taking the opportunity to widen my repertoire of French aperitifs beyond kir and pastis by selflessly tasting something new nearly every evening, and if you're not very careful a digression on this subject may appear in  a few days' time after my departure from France into Switzerland).

Monday had breakfast in town and sent texts of congratulation to my son and daughter-in-law on the occasion of their first wedding anniversary! Exit from Besancon was eased by a path along the river Doubs where "un joggeur" stopped to chat and walked a little way with me. A lovely bloke, it's these sort of "random" conversations I value - merci Jacques! Then the hard work; a steep climb to Montfaucon and on to the village of Saone. As I was lacking my traditional tartelette for déjeuner I stopped at a bakery in the village. Saone's claim to fame is as the home town of the great Raymond Blanc, owner in the UK of Le Manoir aux Quatre Saisons in Oxfordshire and perhaps one of the greatest living French chefs (well that's the impression he gives, anyway!).  Got into conversation with the boulanger who pointed out M Blanc's house and told me that he is Raymond's local baker and that Raymond is un ami. He didn't have any raspberry tartelettes but insisted on me waiting while he hand glazed and finished a small apricot flan for me. He asked where I was going and I replied Etalans, the next stop on my guide. He looked horrified and said I should stop instead at Ornans; "Ornans c'est une plus jolie ville que Etalans, n'est ce pas?" he asked his assembled clientele. This proposition met with a small susurration of assent. "Oui", "Bien sur", “vous avez raison", tout à fait', "c'est vrai".... Faced with this, what could I do but divert a few kilometres hence and take his advice? Such moments of serendipity are for me an important part of these walks and I try to respond to them. Ornans was indeed a pretty town, with the river Loue running through it, overlooked by mountains and forest and with many old buildings - for once, local planning law appearing to work. It's also the home town of the celebrated painter Gustav Courbet, who led the Realism school of painting in mid nineteenth century France. En route I stopped at Trépot to visit the Museum of Cheese (more interesting that it sounds, honestly) and used an old railway line for the last 8 km into Ornans including walking through a very dark 180m tunnel and across an old viaduct 25m above the river valley.

Tuesday was a quick visit to the local market, the helpful Annabelle at the Office du Tourisme, and an overdue haircut. A straightforward path led along the river Loue, the main aural background for the first time the clanking of cowbells. Passing a herd of llamas in a field, I arrived at the village of Lods where the path started to climb steeply into the forest. The next three hours were pretty unremitting as the path climbed and then descended and climbed again; finishing with a scramble through woods above the river with many rapids and waterfalls (or water jumps as the French call them) to the source of the river Loue below Ouhans. On arrival at Ouhans (tiny village of perhaps a  few hundred) about 6pm the hotel I'd hoped to stay in was shut so had a wander while I reconsidered options. Discovered round the back of the hotel a small gite for pilgrims - unlocked and with four rooms. Installed myself in this and a neighbour wandered over and asked if I'd like some bread and advised me of the existence of a small village shop that opened for an hour every evening between half six and half seven and sold local farm products including yogurts, cheese and saucisse. Perfect! Found a peach I'd forgotten about from yesterday and ate my impromptu supper outside the gite in the twilight watching the local bats swoop in and out of the deserted barn opposite.

Wednesday was an uninspiring 18km walk mainly along busy roads, all trending uphill, to enter Pontarlier (now above 800m for the first time this walk) where I booked into the local youth hostel (recommended by text from my Italian friend, Francesco); The woman at reception as she gave me the key wished me "bonne installation", which was nice! Having installed myself, had an afternoon at leisure to catch up on emails, update blog, find a laundrette, enjoy a great lunch at a small restaurant on the banks of the Doubs, do some shopping, visit the local church of St Bénigne with its impressive stained glass windows and visit the local pastis distillery for a guided tour to see the manufacture of "L'anis de Pontarlier". Food is now beginning to have a Swiss flavour which is fine with me: after all, however you combine cream, potatoes, bacon and cheese it's quite difficult to create something inedible! The distillery was shut by the time I arrived on Wednesday afternoon, so the guided tour ended up being first thing Thursday morning: a pastis and absinthe tasting at 9am in the morning falling into that extensive category of experiences in life entitled " it seemed like a good idea at the time."

Thursday started another steady climb to the border (and the phrases "steady climb" and "crossing the border" kept squirrelling round my brain until I eventually managed to resolve them and dragged  W H Auden's "Night Mail" from my subconscious)  "This is the Night Mail crossing the Border / Bringing the cheque and the postal order / Letters for the rich, letters for the poor / The shop at the corner, the girl next door / Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb / The gradient's against her, but she's on time....") and busy for the first hour until becoming quieter as the climb to the frontier really started. Passed the 1000m mark and stopped at France's last restaurant for lunch at village of Les Fourgs. An hour later crossed the border into Switzerland. Now, I wasn't expecting armed guards and razor wire but the post was completely empty and 35 days after entering France at Calais my departure was noted only by some uninterested cows. (The man at the restaurant had told me the border would not be manned, "it never is on Thursdays". Contrabandiers, notez bien!) Celebrated with a glass of wine at the hotel 20 metres into Switzerland who graciously allowed me to pay in euros as I hadn't managed to change any Swiss Francs yet. Noted that close to the frontier many houses displayed either the tricolour or the Swiss flag as if to remind people that Switzerland / France hadn't started just yet! Despite this, my assessment is that the risk of armed border skirmishes remains low. Some further climbing and then reached the summit at 1153m - it's all downhill from here! Arriving in Ste Croix I decided to go first to the church where outside there was a list including the contact details of someone who offered accommodation to pilgrims. Phoned him up and he directed me to his lovely "maison familiale"  that had been in his family for generations. My host Jean-Samuel Py was a lovely and gracious man with many interests including his church, music boxes, trains, old books, genealogy, fossils and local history. After some discussion he told me that my French was very good. I interrupted him to make the usual English deprecating remarks about how that was very kind of him but that I'm sure it wasn't true. He waited for me to stop talking and then finished his sentence, "...pour un Anglais". Has my French improved? Perhaps a bit. I can generally talk with some degree of assurance  - albeit with an execrable accent - occasionally amazing myself by getting pronouns in the right place and using the things like the conditional tense, but then someone says something simple to me and I have to get them to repeat it several times. Margaret says that I should reflect on the fact that I find it much easier to talk than to listen, and to see if there are any more general implications from this that I should consider - I have no idea what she's on about. Slept well despite the storms and rain lashing the valley.

OK - a short digression as we leave France, on French aperitifs (from, of course, the Latin aperire, to open: but you knew that). Having carried out extensive field research over the last 5 weeks I offer this short guide so the next time you're in France and the waiter says to you those magic words, "Madame / Monsieur, vous désirez un apéritif?" you can amaze them with your extensive knowledge. If you have no interest in French culture, alcohol, trivia or savoir-vivre and are in fact a complete philistine please do feel free to skip this next section. My top five looks like this.

5 Pastis: Dominated by the big brands of Ricard and Pernod but with other regional variants (eg Anis de Pontarlier tasted only the other morning - see above...) Made from star anise and liquorice root and normally diluted 5 parts to 1 with water, it can be further customised by adding flavoured syrups to create a Mauresque ("Moorish") with the addition of orgeat syrup; a Perroquet ("Parrot") by adding bright green mint syrup, or my personal favourite, une Tomate (pastis with grenadine syrup).

4 Pineau de Charentes - the nearest thing the French have to port but a little lighter. Made from freshly pressed grape juice and cognac - so red or white variants available.

3  Kir - still a great standby (traditionally two thirds wine - Bourgogne Aligoté for the purists - and one third creme de cassis (blackcurrant liqueur)). Invented by the wartime mayor of Dijon, Felix Kir, allegedly to disguise the poor quality of wartime burgundy white wine. Add champagne for a kir royale, or many other flavours of liqueur eg peach, raspberry. You can also get Kir Breton which is cider and cassis.

2  Marsala aux amandes - wine to which is added marsala that has been made with almonds. This is really worth seeking out.

1  Guignolet - made from sweet and sour cherries macerated in brandy. Gorgeous.

Other drinks I have tried and won't be adding to my repertoire include Suze (green liqueur made from gentian roots, unbelievably bitter); absinthe (illegal from 1915 until 2001, much loved by Oscar Wilde and called la fée verte (the green fairy) by the French this includes wormwood and tastes like old carpets; ratafia de champagne (ratafia quite nice by itself but ruins champagne when added to it); chouchen, a fermented honey drink not dissimilar to Drambuie; various vermouths including Noilly Prat, martini and cinzano; Dubonnet - a nasty mixture of wine, quinine and plant extracts tasting like bitter Ribena - best left to Her Maj; the imaginatively named Get 27 which is made from spearmint, alcohol water and sugar and tastes like it (the number refers to the alcohol content - Get 31 also available); and the unfortunately named  Lillet (pronounced Lil-lay) which is wine and oranges macerated in brandy with quinine.

Well, Friday broke the rules about constant sunshine. A wet and miserable day, walking down to Yverdon. Set out in rain and it continued pretty much constant all morning. The guide I'm following got rather nannyish about the footpaths down into the valley, warning about how steep they are, and that much care should be taken. It didn't say anything about the risk of being smeared against a rock face by a 38 tonne lorry barrelling down 9km of hairpin bends on a narrow road, or the unpleasantness of being honked by smug Swiss businessmen in large German cars for having the temerity to share road space with them (they were probably bankers). Eventually walked or slid down sufficient forest paths to arrive in the village of Villeboueuf and from there the way became a little more scenic along farm tracks and through forests, occasionally encountering the small electric trains that cling to the mountainsides and appear in the most unlikely places - "cute" is the word that springs unbidden to mind. Had to smash up an electric fence that a farmer had erected across a clearly marked footpath (in fairness, the first time the path has been illegally blocked since Canterbury). Found hostel and explored Yverdon in the rain for a bit. It looked very pleased with itself.

Sat 25th by contrast was a much better day in all respects. Weather was perfect for walking, with temperatures in the mid-twenties and a gentle breeze. And the path was spectacular. Entirely off road between fields, bypassing tiny villages where I would catch a glimpse of a distant church and realise that I was unlikely ever to return. As Housman put it  ("...what spires, what farms are those? / that is the land of lost content / I  see it shining plain / The happy highways where I went / and cannot come again"). Arrived into Orbes at lunch time, ate picnic sitting in a park above town looking down from the ramparts at the path below. As tomorrow was a long stage I walked another 4km to the village of Chavornay just to take the edge of it and then caught toy Swiss electric train back to Orbes. Checked into small hotel and sat outside watching another marriage just up the street with the attendant noise and excitement. Went for a walk round the town and found a small cinema open only on Saturdays and Sundays that was - bizarrely - showing Woody Allen's "To Rome with love" in VO (version originale in original language with French subtitles rather than VF, version francaise where it is clumsily dubbed into French). Really enjoyed it and then found a pizza, which whilst like most things Swiss was ruinously expensive, was actually quite good) 

Sunday caught the little train back to Chavornay (section already walked yesterday) and carried on south east.  Once more, brilliant walking and marvellous weather. Followed a small river for the first few hours and then the path led through forests with some steep uphill climbs (back to 700m at one stage) and across open country where a small monoplane with red wingtips a couple of thousand feet up threw itself into a series of rolls and loops. About lunchtime arrived in small village of Oulens-sous-Echallens to the distant sound of speeches and laughter. Arriving at the town hall, they were just ending the "Fete du blé" (Harvest Festival) with the whole village turned out to participate. This took the form of a brass band processing through the village with everyone following it, many of the men wearing an assortment of special breeches, hats, medals and sashes. The procession moved off, an Englishman with sunhat, rucksack and stick bringing up the rear. Easy to mock this slightly Ruritanian spectacle, but it did seem to provide a sense of community that is rather elusive in the UK. After half a km the Englishman peeled off left on a  footpath but the strains of tubas and trombones followed him, floating across fields for a while. Stopped for a picnic at Etagnieres before continuing to the very outskirts of Lausanne. Here the guidebook (never at its best in built up areas) let me down and left me wandering around an area of electricity substations. Finally abandoning the book I set a course south and eventually found a way across the motorway to lose myself in the suburbs. First glimpse of the lake was quite emotional - made me realise I'd come a long way since Calais! Found the Youth Hostel and had an evening meal of sorts there. Chatted to Gudrun from Germany who was cycling some of the old pilgrim paths from Germany through Switzerland and who gave me some places to see between Lausanne and Geneva from her guidebook.

I'm trying hard to love Switzerland but am feeling homesick for France. I suspect, like the UK and the USA that a shared language leads to assumptions that minimise cultural differences rather than magnify them. There are of course lots of trivial differences but underlying these there's something more fundamental that I haven't quite understood yet.

Monday was a day off from walking. I decided that my homesickness for France had a simple solution - go back. As France was only a few kilometres across on the southern side of Lac Leman I caught the boat from Lausanne and had a morning wandering round the small town of Thonon les Bains. Bought and enjoyed a picnic at French prices! The afternoon was spent back in Lausanne having a wander round the old town, looking at the cathedral before catching a boat back to France (Evian this time) where I enjoyed an evening meal from a huge choice of restaurants (the starter of snails in a roquefort gratinee was the decider). Back once more to Lausanne and a bus back to the youth hostel for a good night's sleep.

On Tuesday Switzerland once more delivered a goldilocks day weather wise - not too hot, not too cold, not too much wind, not too still....If I had been carrying on to Rome I would have turned left (east) at Lausanne and continued through Vevey, Montreux and over the St Bernhard's pass to Aosta and southwards through Italy (perhaps another time...) As it was, I turned west for perhaps the first time in the journey. The initial walking as far as Morges was flat as the path hugged the curves and contours of the lake like lycra. Navigation was easy (sun at my back, dirty great big lake to my left) and I had time to observe the lone early morning swimmer, the swans still asleep with their heads tucked into their feathers and the Alps opposite bathed in early morning mist. A cyclist passed me, shouted "Santiago" and gave the thumbs up sign. I made the traditional Spanish response, calling after him "Ultreiea!" (westwards!) and got a wave as he disappeared. Noted the well behaved dog owners - whilst Switzerland has its share of incontinent hounds, its owners appear less feckless than elsewhere, diligently clearing after their mutts. This may be related to a concerted poster campaign with a variety of techniques used, all interesting from a behavioural change perspective. There is social proof (everyone clears up after their dog); empathy (cartoon of child about to step in something unpleasant and the slogan asking how the mother will feel; reward (thank you printed on the disposal bags in four languages); threats (reminder of the eye watering fines); humour (cartoons indicating how the well behaved dog behaves), and shame (dog hanging its head with the caption - don't make your dog ashamed). In the afternoon the path started throwing itself away from the lake up into the vineyards. I passed a donkey, smiling to myself as I was reminded of my favourite French proverb. The French don't throw pearls before swine; rather they observe that, "Chantez a l'ane - il vous fera des pets" ("Sing to a donkey - he will fart at you"). A quick lunch for fuel (toasted sandwich, frites and a small beer - thank you, that'll be thirteen quid) and pressed on to my destination of Gland, halfway to Geneva where I had read that there was a pilgrim gite. Arrived and phoned for the access code to find a Dutch lady already installed in the 7 bed dormitory. We went out together for a great meal at the local restaurant (run by a Portuguese family with a liking for pilgrims) and Ria told me about her life teaching yoga and sculpting for 8 months of the year and then wandering the pilgrim paths of Europe for the other 4 - how's that for work life balance...

Wednesday dawned uncertain but soon became significantly hotter than the previous three days. Out of the gite at 7, I stopped for a quick coffee at Nyon and paused again at Celigny as I'd read somewhere that Richard Burton was buried in the cemetery there. Sure enough, I found not only his grave but that of Alistair Maclean (thriller writer) and, bizarrely, that of Vilfredo Pareto, creator of the Pareto Curve (popularised as the 80 / 20 rule). The path moved uphill away from the lake, past apiaries and apple orchards, through fields and vines towards the forest. Now significantly hot, I carried on, past the beautiful chateau of Belfoy and lunched at a small restaurant I came across. As I resumed walking and watched the procession of jets coming down over the lake towards the airport I was pleased to think that for the first time in 6 weeks I would be in Geneva centre before their passengers! Through a succession of villages, which now began to merge together in ribbon development as I got nearer the city. The weather was now hot and heavy and some rain was inevitable. I turned into the tiny village of Malagny, seemingly deserted apart from two teenage girls sitting in front of the church and watching me. Refilling my water bottles with cold water from a fountain, I turned a corner and suddenly there below me in the distance was my long awaited destination, the famous "jet d'eau" in the harbour clearly visible. A final 6 kilometres, through some welcome light drizzle, and I arrived gratefully at the youth hostel. 

September 2010

Left Geneva before 7am. It’s difficult to describe to non-Camino addicts the sheer joy of setting out on another section of this never-ending walk. Threaded my way out of Geneva and across the Swiss / French border - as deserted as the one I’d encountered when entering the country. There was a gradual climb to Noydens, by this stage accompanied by a dog who’d “adopted” me in Jussy. At first I assumed he’d return but when he was still “doggedly” following me some kilometres later I started to worry. Shooing him away, creeping off and hoping I’d lose him both failed as strategies and arriving for the night at a comfortable chambre d’hote the bemused host allowed us both to stay.

The following day the dog was restrained from following me by my host; I walked away with its forlorn howls echoing across the valley. (Happy ending – she phoned me to say that the local vet had visited, read its microchip and it had been reunited with its owner and heartbroken children in Jussy)! The stunning scenery of the Auvergne Rhone-Alpes continued and apart from a brief lunch stop at Frangy, a long but satisfying day’s walk brought me to an undistinguished auberge at Pont du Fier near the top of Lake Annecy. I was greeted by a German couple on the balcony who I’d met the previous day – “Where’s your dog?” One of the simple evening meals that makes rural France such a delight – goats cheese, rabbit and crème caramel and change from €15.

The following day (Sunday 5 Sept 2010) was to provide me with perhaps the biggest surprise of my life. After a brisk morning’s walking I arrived at Chanaz and Sunday lunch en terrasse. The afternoon was hard work. Tartiflette and a couple of glasses of red is not the best preparation for a long uphill gradient in hot sunshine. Passed only one pilgrim (unusually going the other way). A young German woman, she was accompanied by a large Alsatian, who growled at me; thankfully he was rebuked by the woman’ “Nein, es ist gut…” . The path left the hair pinned road and struck directly up through vineyards. Arriving again on a minor road I felt the need for a siesta, and lay down on the grass verge. As I was drifting off, a car pulled up nearby which I ignored. Imagine my surprise when someone shouted my name! Waking up suddenly I was confronted by my dad and two brothers who unknown to me had planned to come and join me for a few days’ walking to celebrate my dad’s 75^th birthday! I’d happened to text Dad a day or so previously and after flying into Geneva and hiring a car they’d tracked me down by asking various pilgrims if they’d seen an English pilgrim matching my description. They then told me they planned to share some of the walk for a few days – great. Paul accompanied me the remaining 8km to Yenne while Roger and Dad drove ahead and booked accommodation. A few beers in the sunshine followed by an evening meal rounded off a great day.

This was followed by a long day via St Genix to Les Abrets; most of the day with walnut trees in abundance, planted to replace vines after phylloxera killed these in the 1880s. I was reminded of the saying that planting a walnut tree is a most generous act as they take so long to fully mature that their fruit is generally enjoyed more by subsequent generations. Rain made its appearance the following day; much stopping in cafes ensued for breaks from the rain. On the final stretch to Le Ferme du Futeau the heavens really opened and we arrived looking like the proverbial drowned rats; however Madame was hospitable and we soon dried out and drove to the nearest town (Le Grand Lemps) for supper.

Dad’s 75^th following day was marked by an excellent breakfast and then an idyllic day of minor roads and paths along the valley bottom. Just beyond Gillonay we parted and they drove back to Geneva airport leaving me to walk – in a slightly melancholic fashion – past Grenoble airport (named, in common with most of Ryanair’s destinations, for being nowhere very near its appellation) and through St Simeon de Bressieux to my destination at Marnans (pop 153) which proved to be one of those serendipitous marvellous auberges one occasionally encounters. I was the only guest; and as it wasn’t yet open I enjoyed sitting outside for some time, watching the birds scatter from the eleventh century church of St Pierre opposite every half hour when its bells rang; the village and trees utterly still in the fading sunlight. 

Dinner was a serious affair – as was the wine. I enjoyed a half bottle of St Joseph (Les Pierres Seches). I love seeing the way food and wine changes on an almost daily basis to reflect one’s progress across the gastronomic landscape. To bed where in the absolute stillness I slept soundly.

The following morning it came on to rain and I lost the way. I hate retracing my steps and the extra unnecessary kilometrage! Arriving in Roybon rather later than planned, I had a restorative coffee, stocked up with provisions and carried on. A watery sun appeared which gradually grew stronger. Eventually arrived at a picnic bench in the forest where lunch (St Marcellin with a bread roll a peach and tarte aux pommes) was perfect. Started down the hill and arrived at a nunnery where I had just missed the reconsecration of the new building. As a bona fide pilgrim I was pressed to stay for drinks and food which I’m ashamed to say – despite earlier picnic – I did! On through rolling countryside to the huge abbey (St Antoine de l’Abbaye) visible for many miles. Down through forest tracks and then another steep climb to the chambre d’hote I’d booked, just this side of Montmirail. Onion soup, chicken, rice, cheese, tarte aux pommes, wine and pastis ensured a good night’s sleep! The following morning glorious sunshine had re-established itself and a beautiful morning’s walking ensued: fields, forests, minor tracks and stony climbs led to Mours St Eusebe, where there was a pizzeria. I promised the owner I’d be back in about a year….

One year later and the walk continued!  It’s always a joy to pick up again from where one finished a year previously. Paul Smith, a fellow walker, has written, “The camino has a way of calling you back, living on in one’s spirit, enriching lifelong pilgrimage. It is both the same and different every time.” Today was predominately westward towards the town of Glun. Crossing the TGV rail line after a few kilometres, the Chemins trended gently downhill, passing through the vineyards of Crozes-Hermitage and many orchards – principally kiwi fruits and apricots, to which I occasionally helped myself. As ever, I’d not booked accommodation but on arriving at Glun found most of the addresses in my guide book were full. Eventually I found a bed at an “acceuil jacquaire” and “Isobel” [not her real name] picked me up outside the church where I waited in the shade. An extraordinary house, which made me feel very uneasy; the bathroom contained a black witch’s hat and the house other occult paraphernalia. Dinner was stilted and I escaped to my room fairly early. An uneasy night’s sleep and was glad to get on my way the following morning.

 

Heading south past hydroelectric barrages, and passing the 45th parallel, I arrived at lunchtime in the famous wine village of Cornas – alas no options to sample this as everywhere closed. Through Soyons to Beauchastel, the traditional end for this “étape”. I pressed on a few more lm however to Voulte sur Rhone. This turned out to be a bad mistake. The hotel was shabby, overpriced and I was berated for leaving my light on in the morning when I went out to do some shopping. Dinner was poor and on asking for butter for my bread Madame hissed at me, “Jamais en France – Ce n’est pas un sandwich!”

 

Metaphorically shaking the dust from my feet, I left the town and started the first of today’s three ascents, each steeper and longer than the previous one, to 200m, 300m and 400m, each time returning to the river Rhone which was an almost constant presence. The path followed an old Roman route along the right bank, and from time to time old Roman remains were visible. Perhaps my concentration was slipping, but near Richard I followed a route towards Cruas but was very depressed after some 7 km and an hour and a half to find myself back in exactly the same place! Deep breath and a banana! The second time round I paid more attention at a crucial fork in the path and eventually arrived at Cruas to stay with a family. Bed by half nine and slept a straight nine hours.

 

The following morning took me past La Centrale Nucléaire and on to Le Teil. Somewhere beyond this managed to stray off the path and was soon hopelessly lost. As so often happens on the camino, a stranger suddenly appeared seemingly from nowhere, and guided me over fallen trees and across meadows to put me back on a path towards Viviers. As someone has observed, there are many Camino angels on the way to Compostelle. These are the people who come, seemingly from nowhere, with the appropriate help at just the right time.

Arrived at the Hôtel Relais du Vivarais hot and bothered but sometimes you just know it’s going to be a good’un – delightful rooms, food and hosts.

Another long day in the sunshine took me to St Martin d’Ardeche where I found another excellent chambre d’hote and enjoyed a walk round the town before following the locals to a boucherie that in the evenings became a restaurant and cooked your requested cuts to order. Perhaps the best steak frites I have ever had resulted – not an accolade I lightly give!

The following morning provided some serious climbs and a break to admire the magnificent Chartreuse de Valbonne; originally a Carthusian monastery founded in 1203. Lots of wandering through vineyards and through forests to the lovely town of Bagnols-sur-Cèze, a Roman town with the 13th century square intact, and then the final few miles to Laudun where I caught the bus south to Villeneuve-les-Avignon to find some accommodation. Phoning some possible accommodation, I booked one more or less at random and was delighted to find a spacious building complete with the coquille de St Jacques motif carved into one alcove.

The following day I caught the bus back to Laudun and had an enjoyable rucksack free day to then walk back into Villeneuve, and a day off sightseeing – including of course the famous pont d’Avignon.

The next stage to Montfrin was largely flat with only one serious – but short - climb. A welcome Leclerc provided a picnic lunch for a day without too much scenery and with too many roads.

The last day into Arles was a great one. Weather warm and the landscape gradually dissolved into rice fields, the occasional Mas (big house) with Tarascon an interesting town en route. It has many legends associated with it, including the story that Martha of Bethany, who came from Judea, landed there around AD 48 and tamed an amphibious dragon that was destroying the river traffic. Some nineteen centuries later, it isn’t myth to say that the town was seriously damaged by Allied bombings in the summer of 1944 where the bridges across the Rhone were targeted in an attempt to hamper the German retreat. The chemin followed the Canal des Alpines for several kilometres, along with its unwelcome clouds of mosquitoes, before the suburbs of Arles appeared heralding journey’s end.

September 2006

The otherwise unremarkable flight from Gatwick to Marseille was enlivened by sitting next to an older guy on the flight to whom I chatted to who had first visited France as a boy in 1938 – great company. A great dinner at “L’Ardoise” and the following morning set out early and promptly took a wrong turning, necessitating a 3km detour – a habit of mine on the first day of walks. To be frank, a pretty uninspiring day; flat and featureless countryside, walking for the most part along small stagnant canals whose mosquitoes were delighted to see me. Saint Gilles was an interesting town with a marina and dominated by its eleventh century Abbaye. The hermit Gilles founded a Benedictine monastery here in the 7th century, and by the ninth it was already an important pilgrimage site on the Way of St James. The day rounded off by a simple simple but great meal (goats cheese salad, pave of beef with ratatouille and pommes dauphinoise, and a glass of Faugeres) – one of the many pleasures of the French chemin. The next stage (to Gallargue-le-Montueux) was mainly through vines – a pleasant contrast to the day before. The harvest was in full swing – tractors and the smell of grape juice everywhere. ”Un joggeur” stopped and walked with me for a short while. He approved of my plan to do the camino “morceaux par morceaux”. Through a nectarine farm and into Vauvert and shortly afterwards, feeling tired, I went to sleep under a tree for an hour. Little accommodation in Gallargue when I arrived but the Tourist Information office sorted me out in a pilgrim’s hostel (located in a local sports hall!). At dinner quail was on the menu and the waitress asked me what “une caille” was in English. Reminded of my south London accent when I heard her go back into the kitchen proclaiming that “en Anglais ils s’appellent kwe-a-els…”

Most unusually the following day I developed some blisters and perhaps with diminished concentration took a series of wrong turns. Met again a pilgrim (Jean-Louis) I’d encountered the previous day – he’d apparently walked through the night for reasons I didn’t understand. Later that day, hungry and in some pain from my feet, I stopped at a ramshackle house to ask for water (it turned out to be a six litre day…) She invited me in, gave me bread and cheese, tuna, a glass of wine, coffee and some frozen water in addition to refilling my camelback. Un grand merci! Once more encountered Jean-Louis who gave me the bad news that that the accommodation I’d hoped to stay at in the dormitory village of Le Cres was fully booked. By that stage, tired after the unnecessary detours and in real pain from my feet, I realised I’d have to keep going to Castelnau. I remember asking myself, “how can I keep going” but deciding that it was either that or sitting down and crying! I have to confess that the second did seem an attractive option by the time I crawled into Castelnau at half past seven in the evening twelve hours after leaving Gallargue-le-Montueux.  I was heartened along the way by remembering a phrase from “The Strange Pilgrimage of Harold Fry”: “It was simple. If he kept walking, of course he would get there.”

A short hop into Montpellier the following morning and an afternoon at leisure before dinner with Jean-Louis in the student quarter. Dining outside, brochettes du porc, canard aux midi and tarte aux abricots were all perfect. Jean-Louis introduced me to some pastis variants – une tomate (pastis with grenadine syrup); un Perroquet (with crème de menthe) and une Mauresque (with sirop d’amandes). I’ve found over subsequent years that there’s an invisible dividing line somewhere in France, south of which a request for une tomate is met with a nod and the required drink; but north of which there is a mystified stare from the barman….

The following day, faced with a long stretch to St Guilhelm-le-Desert my resolve weakened, and I took a taxi the first 9km to Grabels, which I instantly regretted – up to that point I’d walked every metre. (This nagged at me sufficiently that several years later when holidaying en famille in the region Margaret kindly gave me a day off so I could travel back to Montpellier on the train and walk this missing 9km, along with a  few kilometres from outside Lodeve into the town – see below! Some will think me insane for worrying about this; others will nod their heads approvingly!) Boots chafing again and the last few kilometres once more a huge challenge. Arriving wearily in St Guilhelm and with feet swathed in Compeed and other plasters, I treated myself to two nights at “Le Guilhaume d'Orange” which was just delightful – wonderful hotel, great food and wine, solicitous service. My day off allowed me to recuperate and visit Arboras, Montpeyroux and St Jean de Fos. Returning  to the hotel for lunch (second half of a memorable bottle of Daumas-Gassac broached the previous evening) and a wander round St Guilhelm, which is a remarkable Romanesque village and UNESCO listed site, where the saint retired in 806 after having founded the monastery of Gellone.

The path from St Guilhelm led across the Cirque d’Infernet with dramatic views then through vines and garrigue to Arboras and the sleepy village of St Jean-de-la-Blanquiere, where a grumpy boulanger sold me some bread. Weather had been OK – one light and one heavy shower thus far, but around Usclas du Bosc the heavens opened. There was no possibility of walking – torrential rain and heavy and persistent thunder and lightning. Taking shelter in a stone barn, I waited for this cascade to abate. Nearly two hours later I was still waiting. A pick-up truck pulled up and offered me a lift to Lodeve, which I guiltily accepted (I made amends by going back and walking this stretch subsequently – see above!)

 

2005

The Lodeve to Castres stretch was undertaken in 2005 when I was very much finding my camino feet. Travelling the previous day from UK to Montpellier I’d enjoyed a wander round the town that evening. Meal good apart from a waitress who managed to spill scalding espresso over me after the meal. I reassured her in true English fashion and through gritted teeth that it was “pas grave” – but it would have been nice if the offending coffee had been knocked off the bill!  Catching a bus to Lodeve the following morning, I soon found the trail was rather less well waymarked than I’d expected – a point brought home rather abruptly when I found myself in some random woodland close to an isolated house. Retracing my steps for half an hour I eventually found the path which climbed steeply up rocky screes towards a summit.  You won't now catch me with less than a couple of litres of water, despite its weight, and I top up wherever I can. But I suppose I hadn't yet realised just how isolated the chemin could be; nor how few people one comes across, nor quite the effects of walking all afternoon in 32 degree heat. I'd packed a water bottle of course, but it was quickly drunk and I found myself on a scorching hillside, crossing from one valley to the next, with no human habitation in sight and the sun beating down. I began to wander off the faint track to seek out the odd clump of blackberries but the tiny amount of juice did nothing to quench my thirst. An hour later I was very thirsty. Three hours later I was beginning to stumble in the heat and seek out shelter - but there wasn't any. After four hours I was thirstier and more desperate for water than I had ever been in my life before. I staggered down the hillside on to a remote and rural track - no sign of any life. Then I turned a corner and in the middle of nowhere on this deserted track, a France Telecom van was parked up, with the driver dozing in the shade. I asked him if he had any water. Nodding slowly, he told me to sit down and produced – somehow – cold fresh water from the back of his van. I’ve never appreciated water quite so much. Another hour and the sanctuary of Lunas provided a hotel and a pilgrim’s meal. A day that brought into sharp relief the words of the prophet Isaiah: “They will not hunger or thirst, Nor will the scorching heat or sun strike them down; For He who has compassion on them will lead them And will guide them to springs of water.”

The following day I left the sleeping village early with only the municipal dustcart stirring. Le Bousquet d’Orb provided an open boulangerie and breakfast consumed sitting on a bench in a kid’s playground as dawn broke. The day provided some more challenging walking; exposed countryside and several peaks with the highest at nearly 1000m. The small village of St-Gervais-sur-Mare was the kind of rural place one only really encounters on foot. A bar, a church, a smattering of shops and a pizzeria – along with the all-important gite d’etape. In retrospect, I realised how much my waterless state on a path miles from civilisation had both scared and scarred me. I tended to book ahead, keep to (admittedly quiet) “D” roads, and treat each day as a route march rather than something to be enjoyed. There was little room for serendipity and happenstance in this approach. Today was the worst example of this approach. Leaving my accommodation before half six, I kept to the road and didn’t stop until I was half way to my destination. I was slightly embarrassed to arrive at Murat-sur-Vebre and the hotel I’d booked therefore just before 11am! The afternoon passed slowly; Murat is not a big village. Its only attraction really was a museum of menhirs and dolmens (shades of Asterix) which didn’t really occupy too long. I wandered around the church and lit a candle, and then whiled away the afternoon with a beer, reflecting on the words of a poem displayed in the church:

 

Va, pèlerin,

poursuis ta quête ;
va ton chemin,
que rien ne t’arrête

 

Prends ta part de soleil
et ta part de poussière;
le cœur en éveil,
oublie l’éphémère

Tout est néant :
rien n’est vrai que l’amour.
N’attache pas ton cœur
à ce qui passe.

 

Ne dis pas : j’ai réussi,
je suis payé de ma peine.
Ne te repose pas dans tes œuvres :
elles vont te juger.

Garde en ton cœur la parole :
voilà ton trésor

Tout est néant :
rien n’est vrai que l’amour.

 

(Go pilgrim

Pursue your quest

Go on your path

Let nothing stop you

 

Take your share of sunshine

And of dust;

The heart on alert

Forget ephemera

 

Everything passes

Nothing is true but love

Don’t set your heart on

Things that don’t last

 

Don’t say – I’ve made it

My efforts have been rewarded

Don’t rely on your works

They will judge you

 

Keep in your heart the promise

There is your treasure

Everything passes

Nothing is true but love)

I think God then arranged for this lesson to be hammered home – as I looked at the inviting gite étape, with its swimming pool and animated pilgrims - and compared it with my lacklustre hotel, Roger, an older French pilgrim came and joined me. I’d met him yesterday in St Gervais. He commented that he hadn’t seen me at all on the path which he described in detail – the forests, the views, the streams… Rather shamefacedly I explained my early departure and arrival and the roads I’d taken. He smiled gently and shook his head. “If faut vivre jour par jour sur un pelerinage.” This has turned out to be advice which has dramatically changed my approach to pilgrimage in subsequent years. The “control freak” in me has sometimes found this quite difficult, but when I drop the rigid planning mentality I often feel that God has had me in the right place at the right time meeting the right people. To have a successful pilgrimage I’ve realised over the years that I must drop my normal mindset of planning and control, and relax: challenging but liberating!

An indifferent meal back at the hotel – it is possible to eat badly in France but you have to expend a little more effort in order to do so – and quickly to sleep.

(As is perhaps easy to see from this blog, good food and wine are one of the many joys of walking the camino in France. Poor restaurants are relatively few although often more frequent in city centres and tourist hot spots. To further minimise the risk of a poor meal, Hattam’s rules are simple: avoid anywhere where (a) the dishes are illustrated in laminated menus; (b) where the menu is translated into four languages, especially if one of them is German; (c) is empty; (d) is called McDonalds (e) highlights the availability of “les sandwichs” or (f) offers more than five choices of plats principals).

A short stage the following day to La –Salvetat-sur-Agout, which gave a taste of the forested paths to come. As I walked I reflected on the surplus clothes and books I’d posted back to Margaret a couple of days earlier. It was to take me several years before I stopped carrying too much on my annual pilgrimages, Like almost everyone, to start with, I took far too much - not just on my first trip, but so far on each of the subsequent three visits, resulting over the first couple of days in leaving stuff behind, giving it away, or occasionally posting things back home from rural French post offices….It's interesting the things that one jettisons and the things that one keeps when the chips are down. You see people weighed down with all sorts: towels, lots of toiletries, extensive changes of clothes, portable umbrellas, books…all actually not needed on voyage. To move forward successfully, I found that I first needed to sort out what it is I'm going to leave behind. I found the symbolism of carrying things around in our lives that either hurt or impede us was a powerful one. “Come to me, all you who are heavy laden, for my burden is easy and my yoke is light”.

As I progressed westwards, I also enjoyed the thought in my guide book that each day the night fell towards “finis terre” and symbolising our own eventual death but balanced each day by the sun rising in the east representing the rebirth and resurrection. After yesterday’s conversation, I followed the path proper and was well-rewarded with tranquil forest paths, occasionally thinning to provide magnificent views. Villelongue proved not to be the bustling village of my imagination replete with bars, cafes and shops, but I nevertheless paused and enjoyed the church. Re-joining the path, some concentration was required as the path snaked through the forest; after an absence it’s always reassuring to see the faded red and white markers on a tree, wall or stone! Sometimes the waymarkings seemed to give out altogether and I had to navigate by compass with the beautiful poem by Antonio Muchado in mind:

“Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace el camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar.”

(Walker, your footprints
are the only road, nothing else.
Walker, there is no road;
you make your own path as you walk.
As you walk, you make your own road,
and when you look back
you see the path
you will never travel again.
Walker, there is no road;
only a ship's wake on the sea).

Arriving in La Salvetat my new found insouciance about living day by day was put to the test as there was a wedding in the village and all accommodation seemed taken. However a kind Belgian lady too me under her wing and made a number of calls, culminating in an offer of a bed at a farm a couple of kilometres away. This turned out to involve a farmer from central casting with the bed in fact a mattress in a hayloft. Comfortable enough, and a deep sleep followed - once one had to learned to ignore the family of bats who would silently fly past, never touching, but with the wind from their wings providing evidence of their close proximity. Showers and loos were adequate but again “rudimentaire” the al fresco shower block lacking one of its four walls.

Back into La Salvetat for breakfast and watched the town gradually come alive. Decided to have a “jour de congé” and stay for the day. Found some alternative accommodation, dumped my rucksack, and as it was a Sunday, went to church – the Eglise St Etienne. It was great! Before the service, a man wandered to the front dressed in a woolly jumper and tracksuit bottoms and then sang flawlessly and with a magnificent voice both Panis Angelicus by Franck and Gounod’s Ave Maria – I was absolutely spellbound. The church also displayed on one wall the lovely poem by St Therese d’Avile:

 

Que rien ne te trouble

que rien ne t’épouvante

tout passe

Dieu ne change pas,

 

la patience obtient tout.

Celui qui possède

Dieu ne manque de rien

Dieu seul suffit.

 

The gospel reading also reminded me that Jesus said “Je suis le chemin…” Picnic acquired, I wandered down to the lake and spent a hugely lazy afternoon wandering the paths around it, reading, sunbathing, hiring a boat, sleeping, and enjoying an ice cream. Back to my gite for a swim in the pool, some Sudoku, and a marvellous meal topped and tailed with a pastis and cognac, the latter consumed on the terrace as darkness gradually fell.

 

The next day Madame gave me a lift back to the centre of town and told me with a laugh that my stay had started various tongues wagging - two people had apparently asked her if her husband was not at home. After a short stretch on the road the chemin dived back into the forest, and climbed steeply. Had to watch the balisage (way marking) quite carefully. Emerging into a clearing, I slept for half an hour and awoke refreshed.  Arrived into Angles , my planned stop, after some of the prettiest walking so far, but options were limited. The helpful Syndicat d’Initiative suggested a chambre d’hote eight km distant near Bouisset. As today had been a short stage and tomorrow was a long one, I was more than happy to press on. The approach to the village was marked by a series of commemorative plaques honouring the French resistance fighters of the last war, and specifically the le maquis du Corps franc du Sidobre and their commander le capitaine Coudert. There was no English spoken at the gite – why should there be? – and so the evening creaked a little as I tried to respond to the very rapid questions fired at me over dinner about the chemin, England, the Iraq war (“quelle folie” in their opinion) along with some gripes about how English second homers had pushed up house prices. I was her first English pilgrim. Comfortable bed (big “bateau lit”) and slept soundly.

 

After a pre-ordered breakfast I left before eight, to another day of great walking. Arriving in the village of Boissezon, I paused for a drink – another hot and sunny day. Somewhere after this I lost the way and ended up taking a massive detour around Noailhac. Passed a memorial to the 34 dead from the 1914-18 war  where 34 cedars had been planted – now mature trees. Such a large number from such a small village.

 

The approach into Castres was less scenic: interminable barracks, factories, schools but eventually sweaty, footsore and weary arrived in the centre and, choosing a hotel at random, now showered and refreshed went out to reconnoitre the town. Castres dates back to Roman times and was an important fortified town (hence its name). It has endured a turbulent history since then and although largely undamaged by the ravages of the last war has seen industry gradually die and the population stagnate. It’s the birthplace of Jean Jaures, the influential socialist politician who was assassinated in 1914, and is also the town where the mathematician Pierre de Fermat (famous for Fermat’s Last Theorem) died in 1665. Sitting down for a beer, the speed at which I polished of the complimentary nuts and olives reminded me that I’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. Rectified this by a five course extravaganza at “Le Relais du Pont Vieux” (Roquefort salad, frogs’ legs, beef with beans and potato gratin, cheese and “iles flottante”) overlooking the medieval heart of Castres.

September 2007

 

An early start, flight from Leeds to Toulouse and a train to Castres. The ubiquitous sound signature played immediately before announcements in French stations (C, G, Ab, Eb) always makes me feel immediately back in France. It also inspired David Gilmour of Pink Floyd fame to approach the composer of the jingle, Michael Boumendil and ask for his permission to use it in a composition. M Boumendil agreed and the resulting single (credited to both as co-authors) was “Rattle that Lock” – well worth a listen to! Unfortunately the relationship soured with Boumendil bringing a legal case against Gilmour in 2019. Just a short 9km stage for this afternoon from Castres to Viviers-les-Montagnes which was mainly on minor roads and uneventful. Leaving Castres I crossed “La Place du 8 Mai 1945” – as one walks through southern France one can track very exactly the history of the Allied forces heading south. The inhabitants of Barginac, a small village about 4km from Castres had provided shade and a seat and a man came out with a free drink when I sat down – all very welcome! I passed a memorial to seven Resistance fighters shot in 1943; as I read it, an elderly man stopped and wanted to know which nationality I was and relaxed visibly when I replied English – memories sometimes seem long in rural France. A pleasant chambre d’hote and a great cassoulet made with the owner’s ducks.

 

The next day was a long one, a mixture of quiet “D” roads, gravel paths and tracks through woods and passing only one village, Cahuzac, en route. The old paths led through forests and once more I had to concentrate at junctions from time to time where paths bifurcated. Remembered the words of Jeremiah in the Bible: “Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your soul”. Rucksack felt heavy – still at this stage bringing too much! – and was pleased to arrive at Hotel La Commanderie in Revel, an old “Bastide” town. Bastide towns are common across this part of south west France. Effectively “new towns” set up in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries after the Albigensian crusade – ended by the Treaty of Paris in 1229 - had devastated this part of France, they were designed to repopulate the countryside. Peasants were invited to move from their scattered farms to a house in town, with attached land. The lords would make their money by rents on the land and by taxes on trade, rather than by tithes as in the old feudal system, and the tenants would no longer be serfs, but free men. Bastides were therefore an important element in the transition from feudal to modern society. Their layout typically recalled the Roman castrum, with a central square lined with arcades and surrounded by a grid of streets. Early Bastides were not fortified, but later, as the Hundred Years War between England and France ravaged the area, they were usually walled and often defensively placed on hilltops. Many changed from English to French hands and back again during the conflict.

 

The following day was another long stage – 35km to Montferrand, but made easier by reasonably flat terrain as the path followed broadly the path of “La Rigole”. When the Canal du Midi was conceived, linking the Mediterranean and Atlantic, the seemingly insoluble problem was how to maintain the water levels when the slope flowed in two directions. Locks were already being introduced, but “la rigole” (“channel” in French) was constructed to feed the canal and ensure the levels remained navigable.  Montferrand, a small commune of some 400 inhabitants, was many centuries ago a significant place of pilgrimage as the route from Bordeaux to Jerusalem passed through the village. Enjoyed a good meal with a couple of glasses of the local Gaillac wine.

 

An early breakfast saw me on the road by half past seven. Just after the Moulin de Narouze there is a famous spot which marks the “partage d’eaus” or watershed where water flows one way to the Mediterranean and the other to the Mediterranean. Through the village of Avignonet-Lauragais with its magnificent 14th century church, Notre-Dame-des-Miracles. This part of France seemed drenched in history; it was also notably the site of the first Cathar Council in 1167. The Cathars (also known as Cathari from the Greek Katharoi for “pure ones”) were a medieval religious sect which flourished in the 12th century in this part of France and challenged the authority of the Catholic Church. They were also known as Albigensians (the town of Albi was a strong Cathar centre of belief). Cathar priests lived simply, had no possessions, imposed no taxes or penalties, and regarded men and women as equals; aspects of the faith which appealed to many at the time disillusioned with the Church. Cathar beliefs ultimately derived from the Persian religion of Manichaeism but directly from another earlier religious sect from Bulgaria known as the Bogomils who blended Manichaeism with Christianity. Not surprisingly, the Cathars were condemned as heretical by the Catholic Church and massacred in the Albigensian Crusade (1209-1229). For Avignonet-Lauragais this came in 1215 when the town was captured by Simon de Montfort.  The Parliament of Toulouse also took refuge here in 1482 to escape the plague.  Pressing on I reached Villefranche by late morning. I had realised that the rail route would allow be to dump my rucksack here and walk to Baziege without this, returning to Villefranche by train in the evening. The walk was much easier without a 10kg pack and gave me renewed energy for the afternoon. Enjoyed the serendipity of the random shuffle on my MP3 player – “La Mer” by Charles Trenet as I passed a small lake and Rutter’s “For the beauty of the Earth” as I climbed a ridge offering spectacular views. One of the hottest days so far and when I arrived in Baziege everything was perfectly still; the heat shimmered off the rails of the tiny station and the benches were too hot to sit on! Back in Villefranche the Auberge de la Pradelle made the mistake of confusing quantity and quality – the tasting menu delivered absurdly huge portions, leaving me waving a while flag against the relentless flow of food! An early train the following day all the way to Toulouse where I figured I could arrange for another packless day to cover the 28km from Baziege to Toulouse. Managed to find a basic hotel, deposited pack, and took train back to Baziege. The day was a long walk along the Canal du Midi which I shared with increasing numbers of joggers and cyclists as the day progressed, through the villages of Montgiscard, Corronsac, Rebigue and Pechbusque after which the banlieues of Toulouse gradually thickened and led me eventually into the heart of the city and la basilique Saint Sernin – journey’s end.

May 2007

 

Flew to Toulouse – apartment was very pleasant: and so it should have been for €120. Set out reasonably early, but it took a long, long time to wrest myself from the centripetal force of France’s fourth largest city. But almost imperceptibly the city streets gradually morphed into suburbs and then into an intermediate zone past the huge factory assembling – at the time – the Airbus 380, still the world’s largest passenger aircraft. Lunch in the sun but something disagreed with me – was pleased to encounter an isolated bar and its facilities a couple of hours later! Open countryside was finally reached mid-afternoon with a path though woods to the village of Pibrac. Found a cheaper hotel back in Toulouse and an evening exploring the city. The following day – there’s no way round this – I faffed around in Toulouse with bits of shopping and as a result didn’t arrive back in Pibrac (via train) till 1pm, which rather limited the day’s distance. A good afternoon’s walk, much of it through woods including the Foret de Bouconne, I decided to stop at L’Isle –Jourdain. Found a room at the Hotel du Centre which wasn’t great. Sparsely populated and smelling of stale cigarettes, Madame sat in a corner of the dining room; as every plate came out of the kitchen the waiter presented it to her; to each she peremptorily nodded and it went on its way. I didn’t observe any being sent back! The following day was wet. Often morning rain clears up so I optimistically lingered in the town over several coffees. Accepting eventually this wasn’t going to happen, I put on my wet weather gear (a kagoule – over trousers just add weight for most of the walk when not required, and shorts dry out quickly anyway) and set out. The rain was relentless, turning maps to papier maché and seeping into every crevice. Lunch was a pain au raisin consumed in the church porch at Monferran-Saves, where I was heartened by the statue of a pilgrim near the entrance. I’d planned to walk a bit further, but approaching Gimont I encountered the Chateau de Larrouque. Set in a 19th-century mansion, this hotel looked great and I decided that with my right ankle twinging, and with the rain pouring down, if serendipity had placed this in my way it would be rude to refuse! Ascending the grand staircase towards the entrance, and looking like a drowned rat, I expected to find the hotel “full”. However the dinner jacketed doorman confirmed they had vacancies and then insisted on taking my pack upstairs to my room. When I went down for dinner a table had a little name card on it to show my place; and the meal that followed was sublime.

 

Set out early as today was another fairly long “étape” It was market day in Gimont but I had to keep going. The tiny village of L’Isle-Arne nevertheless boasted the Auberge di Vieux Moulin where I stopped for a coffee, and the next village of Lussan provided lunch - tartine du pelerin and a glass of rosé. A climb followed and I got a little lost on the crest of this. Vainly trying to make the terrain “fit” my map, rather the more logical approach of trying to map my map “fit” the terrain probably didn’t help – there must be a parable in there somewhere….

 

I eventually found my way down towards Auch where an elderly man was gathering snails (of which there were many after the recent rain) in a plastic bag. A good dinner in which all of the gastronomic highlights of the region were represented (foie gras, duck, pruneaux d’Agen and Armagnac). The evening was further improved by a lucky guess of mine on the identity of the house wine (Petit Manseng) which earned me the grudging respect of the sommelier!

Sept 2007 (continued!)

 

I’d set out from Castres in September intending only to get as far as Toulouse and thus complete the missing section from earlier in the year. But the weather was good, and I found myself in Toulouse with nearly three days to spare – so I pressed on. Leapfrogging the Toulouse to Auch section walked the previous May, I took the train and bus to Auch, arriving at half past eight. I sat and ate breakfast in the shadow of the magnificent cathedral of Saint-Marie. Begun in 1489, it has some spectacular stained-glass windows and carved choir stalls. Thursday was market day and this was now in full swing. Many scarves and posters attested to the popularity of the local rugby team, FC Auch Gers. After breakfast by the cathedral I assembled a picnic of rolls, Comté cheese and bananas, and left the town.  The first couple of hours were hard going but a memorable moment came as I crested a rise and saw, for the first time in the far distance, still some 200km distant, the Pyrenees. After stopping for lunch, I entered the small village of Barrans to see another two pilgrims just leaving. Fellow walkers had been pretty rare recently, and we chatted. One of them was Dominique, a Frenchman, and I chatted to him for a little while. He turned to his female companion, introduced her to me (in French) as Mary, and then explained to her (in English) that I was from the UK. She looked at me in disbelief. Do you speak English, she asked.  I replied that I was fluent in the language! For some reason I could see she was happy about this, and the story poured out. She’d flown from the US with a friend, planning to walk the camino from Toulouse. Although Mary spoke no French, her friend spoke the language fluently. On the first day, her friend had badly damaged her ankle and had had to fly back to the States. Mary, despite her complete lack of French, had bravely decided to continue alone, and had quickly met Dominique, who walked with her but in turn had quite limited English!   She told me later that it put her in mind of the famous Larsson cartoon where she could only recognise her own name when Dominique talked about her to others and longed to be able to communicate properly!

 

The new trio continued together to L’Isle-de-Noie where refreshment - a Magnum and a glass of white wine – was consumed. Dominique and Mary continued ahead and I met them again at Montesquiou where we stayed in the pilgrim hostel, together with two German pilgrims. Good conversation ranged widely over dinner. Montesquiou itself is a ridiculously pretty village, and the ancestral seat of the eponymous aristocratic family, famously represented by le Comte Robert de Montesquiou-Fézensac (1855 – 1921) who boasted of being able to trace his lineage back to the Dukes of Gascony and ultimately to Charles de Batz de Castelmore d’Artagnan, the fourth Musketeer. Le Comte was a royalist, social snob, and literary dilettante, and a prominent member of the Parisian Belle-Epoque; one of his alleged mistresses Sarah de Bernhardt was also a close female friend of the Prince of Wales (the future Edward VII). He was also the inspiration for Baron de Charlus in Proust’s ‎À la recherche du temps perdu.

 

Walked the next day with Dominique and Mary. We set a good pace and kept the conversation in a mixture of French, English, and – if I’m being honest – sometimes Franglais! I wanted to mull over my work situation during this walk – whether I should ditch the well paid but deeply unfulfilling role I was in and pursue self-employment, and Mary was really helpful in skilfully questioning me and providing a sounding board for this. (Now I look back at how I’ve phrased the question, I have to concede the answer was rather obvious)! Lunch was taken near the village of St Christaud; Mary and I had picked up a few basics earlier in the morning but Dominique’s shopping had clearly been more extensive; he kept producing a seemingly inexhaustible supply of food at intervals from his rucksack well past the point where Mary and I were convinced there could be nothing more left. “Eez like Mary Poppins!” he exclaimed, happily. We continued on to Monlezun where I bet Dominque a beer that we’d arrive in Marciac within 90 minutes, a wager which happily I won. Marciac is another attractive Bastide town, with the characteristic arcaded central square as well as being home to a famous jazz festival every summer since 1978. Another short stage to Maubourget - of which the mesmeric moment was the mist slowly clearing near the church at Auriebat – and my chemin for another year was over. I caught the bus back to Tarbes, and train from Tarbes to Toulouse reflecting on another of the transitory but surprisingly meaningful relationships that characterise the chemin.  Friends and human contact are key components of human happiness.

 

 

September 2008

 

Last September’s journey in reverse – York – Leeds / Bradford airport – Toulouse – Tarbes -  Maubourget and a comfortable evening at Kim & David’s excellent chambre d’hote. Took a nectarine and an extra roll from the breakfast buffet and was glad that I had – it was all I found to eat all day until reaching Anoye, some 22km where I arrived mid-afternoon. Met three women on the way – Joelle, Aniq and Mechtilde – and sure enough they arrived a little after me at the gite étape. Th e war memorial listed not only those killed in the first War but for some reason also those killed in the Lebanese conflict of the 1970s. The four of us had a good dinner together purchased from the sparsely stocked village shop but even so this yielded cassoulet and gratin dauphinoise and a decent half bottle of Madiran. English cuisine was gently mocked all evening (in particular for some reason Marmite), but as I reminded them, they had andouillette…

 

We were all up early before 6 – don’t think anyone slept particularly well – and out of the gite by 7. The next stage was a short one of only 17km to Morlaas and I arrived here shortly after 10. Far too early to stop, so decided to combine the following short day’s stage to Lescar and keep going. Worked out there was a bus between the two points which allowed me to shed my pack and walk the next 20km to Lescar unencumbered. Pretty uninspiring route to be honest – lots of tarmac, gravelled minor paths and too many places where the sprawling suburbs of Pau intruded. The one exception was a couple of kilometres which ran straight as an arrow through the adolescently amusingly named Foret de Bastard. Had time to visit the Cathedral Notre-Dame before catching two buses (via Pau) back to Morlaas. The cathedral seems too large for its modest setting. Dating back to the 12th century, its founder, Bishop Gui, found against the Moors in Spain where he was captured before being released after a ransom was paid.  One of the stained glass windows depicts one of the archers with a wooden leg, apparently a well-known technique by the Arab surgeons of that era. From the end of the 15th century the cathedral was used as the burial place of the royal family of Navarre, and several members of the royal family were buried here, among them Henry II of Navarre and his wife Marguerite de Navarre, grandparents of King Henry IV of France. Dinner at the hotel was enhanced by the company of Hedo, a German pilgrim from Munich who was cycling the path. We shared a previous employer in Nestlé; he’d worked in the German pet food business but had left to set up on his own and now owned a business producing over a one hundred thousand tonnes of cat litter every year!

 

The following day I once again met Aniq, Mechtilde and Joelle who had stopped in Morlaas and didn’t want to walk the stretch to Lescar – a neat solution for me so we shared a taxi back to Lescar. We parted company again and I struck out at my own pace. A brief stop 6km in for a bee and pretzels (just what I needed to top up sodium levels!) and then a series of ascents and descents began. Leaving an encouraging sign for my three friends who I guessed were now an hour or more behind me (“Allez les filles!) I eventually arrived in Lacommande, where I’d banked on getting lunch – alas an hour too late. What it did have, slightly surreally in the deserted village was the local co-op for Jurancon wines. In retrospect, introducing myself as the owner of a small wine business was a mistake, as the salesperson insisted I should embark on a tutored tasting of thirteen of their finest dessert wines. All very enjoyable, but as I stumbled out of the building at two thirty in the afternoon into hot sunshine, still with nine miles to go I realised I had made better decisions in my life. I had also forgotten that  - as one does – last night’s washing was still pegged out on the back of my pack – I expect they still talk in these parts of the English wine merchant who conducted “une degustation” and then exited – a little unsteadily - with two pairs of underpants and some socks hanging from the back of his pack.  On in warm sunshine to Estialescq where I refilled my bottle from a kindly woman tending her garden (“Mon fils travaille en Angleterre – Cheltenham, Gloucestershire”) the latter two words pronounced so phonetically that I initially failed to understand her. The path was difficult to follow and I realised I was lost. No one was around and it was the peak heat of the day. I sat down to consider my options and out of nowhere appeared another pilgrim. I asked him directions but he shook his head. The second time he just said “Je ne parle pas Francais – je suis Anglais”. “I’m English too” I reassured him. Surprised, he was able to give me some directions, and towards 8 o’clock I finally entered the town of Oloron-Sainte-Marie, and found a room at the Hotel de la Paix. The sympathetic owner could see I was weary. “Vous avez parcouru un long chemin aujourd'hui. Mais maintenant vous devez marcher un peu plus loin. Votre chambre est au troisième étage…” (You’ve covered a long way today. But now you must walk a little further – your room is on the third floor!”).

 

A day off the next day - the morning occupied by chores (internet café, la laverie, and some shopping) and then the afternoon wandering around the town, which was well worth the stop. The cathedral of Saint Marie was particularly impressive, with its ancient 12th century Romanesque doorway. The old medieval district of Ste Croix was also a place to sit with a class of rosé whilst the river and time drifted by. As this was the first Saturday in September, the town was also “en fete” with “La Garburade” where teams (to be more precise, this being France, “Confreries de Garbure”) compete to make the best garbure – a stew based on cabbage, leeks, carrots and goose confit, often with ham, cheese and stale bread added: much nicer than I’ve made it sound here! In the afternoon I visited the tourist information as I was trying to work out a route up the Pyrenees to the Col du Somport (the Spanish border) over the next couple of days avoiding the busy road. Is it possible? I asked her. She smiled. “Tout est possible, monsieur”. Evening meal was a crepe (une basquaise – tomatoes, peppers, ham – brilliant) with a class of the local irouleguy (nice blend of Tannat and Cabernet Franc). I was working my way through some poetry on my kindle and read for the first time R S Thomas’ “The Bright Field”, which mesmerised me.

I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the pearl
of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realize now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you

September 2009

One year later and was very excited to share this year’s walk with my two brothers, Paul and Roger. I’d been bending their ears for years about the wonders of the camino and this year they’d agreed to join me. Arriving in Jaca via Leeds Bradford, Alicante, Zaragoza and a bus from the airport there. We’d found a great hotel and that evening had one of those memorable meals where everything – food, ambience, weather, conversation – was perfect. Threaded our way out of Jaca and past an extensive church renovation. I felt almost apologetic on behalf of the camino, as this stage wasn’t it at its best. The path stayed too close to the road for most of the day. An ice cream and a beer at Santa Cilia de Jaca, with its narrow streets designed to offer some shade from the relentless sun, and onto Puenta La Reine de Jaca. The last few kilometres were surreal. No sign of any habitation on these paths and then suddenly one dropped into the tiny hamlet of Arres and its pilgrim hostel. The ten people staying the night (three Austrians, two Germans, two Spanish and three English) consumed a meal on a long trestle table outside of tomato salad, lentil and vegetable soup, tortilla and good wine. Accommodation was in a tiny dormitory where I quickly fell asleep.

Roger had suffered badly from blisters on his first day and was unfit to walk. Breakfast discussions ensued where we agreed he would get taxi back to Jaca and then bus to Pamplona to acquire new footwear and rendezvous with Paul and I in two days’ time at Sanguesa. Taxi despatched, Paul and I set out on what had already become a blisteringly hot day. Across an empty – almost burnt - landscape, with hay bales dotted from time to time across field we walked through. We easily found a good pace that suited us both and swung through Martes and past its church without stopping. We talked easily of family, work, and of our experiences of our fifth decade as we approached our 50^th birthdays. I talked about work dissatisfactions; Paul reminded me of where in Philippians 4 it talks of God’s peace guarding our hearts and minds. I hadn’t really thought about the “and minds” part before and as we discussed this the 29 kilometres passed pretty quickly and mid-afternoon found us dropping into Ruesta and its albergue near the lake. Ruesta’s fortified citadel reflects its “front line” status in the ninth and tenth centuries at the limit of Islamic rule in Spain (effectively defined by the Pyrenees). In the lowlands of what would eventually become Aragon, Muslims exercised effective rule, organizing agricultural production and developing a network of cities based on the deteriorating Roman heritage; however In the Pyrenean fringe, poor, borderline and impossible to colonize, a network of small fortresses was scattered where small garrisons were located to guarantee tax collection and the defence of their territory. Ruesta was one of these forts that defined the Muslim defensive line deep into the mountains. The afternoon passed agreeably reading, chatting and playing backgammon before the communal meal at half past eight.

Ruesta to Sanguesa was a shorter stretch. Fantastic views as we climbed some lovely paths. Undues de Lerda was the only hamlet on the route, where we stopped and chatted to a couple of Belgians. On the long straight stretch into Sanguesa a distant dot duly materialised into Roger, complete with new shoes! We found a campsite with some wooden cabins and enjoyed a late lunch together. I attended mass in the ornately decorated and gilded iglesia de Santiago Apostol (of course) and then dinner together with frequent recourse to online dictionaries.  The following day Paul and Roger decided to stay in Sanguesa so I walked alone towards Monreal. A day of two halves; the first part wild, empty and beautiful countryside – I met only one person in 17 kilometres – and the second with more signs of human habitation and punctuated with the small hamlets of Izco and Abinzano. The second half was walked under clear skies with a burning sun. I was grateful for the occasional fountain on the way, and especially appreciated the ice cream vending machine which allowed me to purchase a Magnum from an otherwise deserted hamlet. Monreal was lively, with a fiesta. Wandering and enjoying the atmosphere I eventually arrived at the bus stop where I’d planned to catch a bus back to Sanguesa. This never arrived, so I started hitching. A young couple stopped and insisted in going out of their way and wouldn’t accept a cent towards petrol. More random acts of kindness! Convivial shared dinner with a couple of bottles of Mazuelo.

Paul and Roger decided that this week was being redesignated as primarily a holiday but minus the walking, which had the advantage of them taking my backpack on the bus from Sanguesa to Puenta la Reina. Boarding together, I disembarked at Monreal where I’d walked to yesterday. Good to be without pack on this 30km stretch.  A mixture of minor roads and farm tracks, there was little shelter today. Tiebas provided a welcome bar about a third of the way along. The highlight of today was the octagonal church at Eunate which gradually looms into view from some distance, so empty is the landscape. Built in the twelfth century, seemingly at least in part as a burial place for pilgrims who had dies on the path, it’s surrounded by its own low wall, punctuated with arches. The whole building seems perfectly at peace and exudes serenity. Inside, the tradition is to make three circuits of the church.  The “windows” are actually wafer thin marble which casts a subdued light inside. After a rest to enjoy this “thin place” I walked on to Obanos, where a thin crucifix in the square outside the church marks the confluence of the route I had been walking and the main “Camino Frances” from Pamplona. Both converge at an arch through which both routes pass. The effect is rather overwhelming. It feels like driving a long a tiny rural “B” road which suddenly and without warning merges with a motorway. From seeing a handful of pilgrims each day, suddenly there are hundreds, and Puenta la Reina is where they are processed. Scores of albergues line the streets along with cheap hotels. Drying washing seemed to hang from every window and noisy bars lined the streets. It was all rather a contrast from the quietude of Eunate.  However my brothers had found us all some excellent accommodation and met me as I arrived – I could get used to this concierge service!

Leaving Puenta la Reina over the eponymous bridge (named after Dona Mayor, wife of Sancho III) which was an early investment in the infrastructure required to support the growing number of pilgrims already evident by the early eleventh century. The path to Estella was mainly on natural paths across farmland and vineyards with little shelter outside the villages which punctuated the route. Cirauqui was a particularly beautiful hill top medieval village with narrow winding sheets, many of the houses with ornate balconies and bearing armorial crests. As I entered the outskirts of Estella I suddenly felt faint and had to sit down, Everything seemed clouded and I wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Paul who had walked ahead came back to find me, and diagnosed sun stroke. This was the first time I’d experienced this and was more careful thereafter with shade, water, hat and sun cream. Arrived in Estella and found a hotel; and then in the afternoon I’d arranged a visit to one of H C Wines’ suppliers, Bodegas Senorio de Sarria. I’d always enjoyed their wines and this was a great chance to have a look at their hundred hectares of vines and winery. We were given a guided tour – including the estate’s private chapel - and a tasting which all enjoyed.  A taxi back to the hotel and another evening chatting together followed.

Estella to Los Arcos was a delight. The vast majority was on natural paths which wended their way through forests of holm oak and pine. An early stop was at Bodegas Irache and the famous Fuente de Vino. I’d heard lots about this and had wondered what it might be like. Some kind of gushing fountain, spurting red wine twenty feet in the air, perhaps? The reality was a little more prosaic – two taps, one labelled agua, the other vino. But to be fair, free red wine on tap meant consumption was obligatory, even if you wouldn’t normally drink thin and acidic red wine at 9 am in the morning. Some pilgrims were however imbibing enthusiastically and filling bottles with the stuff. It put me in mind of the biblical story in Acts 2. Peter’s claim “these men are not drunk – it is only 9 o’clock in the morning” might have been less convincing at this particular point on the camino.   Paul muttered that he was looking forward to the gin and tonic fountain later that afternoon… Late morning saw a stiff climb to Villamayor de Monjardin and a lunch stop. The second half of the walk, after passing through Cruce, was marvellous walking, often through remote vineyards and we arrived at Los Arcos in the early afternoon. A beer near the bus station and then a bus back to Estella, where we’d liked our accommodation.

The following day Paul and Rog took the bus from Estella all the way to Logrono; again, with my pack (muchas gracias, hermanos); I disembarked at Los Arcos to continue on foot. The exit from Los Arcos passed the cemetery with the traditional inscription, “Yo que fui lo que tu eres, tu seras lo que yo soi” (you are what I once was, and you will be what I am now”. Through Sansol and then paused at the Iglesia de Santo Sepulcro. One of the temptations on a longish stage is to keep walking for the first ten or eleven kilometres to get what I think of as a “good start” on the day. The idea is that you then stop for a coffee around ten or half ten, having completed at least a third of the day’s walk. I was glad I resisted that impulse today, as the church was definitely worth stopping at. It’s octagonal in shape, with links to the Knights Templars (some think it was built by those responsible for the church at Eunate). A taxing climb to the day’s high point (570m) before a precipitous descent to the valley of the Rio Cornava, and through Viana to Logrono. Today was a farewell to the region of Navarre, as just before Logrono one arrives in the famous Rioja region. It was a memorable goodbye, with most of the day following exposed dirt tracks and natural paths across open farmland which I enjoyed immensely. Met as ever as I walked in by the welcoming committee of Paul and Rog who had found hotel and scoped out the restaurant for that night’s celebratory meal, before the following day’s bus to Pamplona and flight home.

September 2013

Great to arrive back in Logrono. The different airports I am using to join the camino as progress continues westwards feels like a tangible marker of progress. The journey to Logrono was via Bilbao today – the first time I’d visited the city and the brief wander around (and the tapas) before catching the bus to Logrono made me want to return. Logrono itself I loved; a compact city with a reputation for loyalty in the fifteenth and sixteenth century to the King of Castile against the depredations of the Aragonese king to the east and then for its resistance to a French siege in 1521. The city seal still contains the words “Muy Noble”, “Muy Leal” (Very Noble, Very Loyal”). A plaque in the city centre told me that it was twinned with several other towns. These all made sense initially as towns, like Logrono, in wine producing regions (Libourne in Bordeaux, Darmstadt near Heidelberg, Brescia in Lombardy…) but this theory became less tenable when I came to Dunfermline in the list. Logrono is also regarded by many as the tapas capital of Spain with more than fifty taperia crammed into four blocks in the city centre serving tapas and pintxos, and I grazed my way around several that first evening.

A cloudy start the following morning. I visited the cathedral and made my way out of the city, enjoying the liminal way in which city centres gave way to suburbs, and then parkland, and finally to open country. It was an easy walk to Navarette where I stopped for coffee and croissants and bought some lunch for later. The sun was well up by now. Stopping for lunch I met Jill from Boston in the US. She was a recent convert to Catholicism and was suffering with her feet. She described “bargaining” with God about whether she was going to finish the camino. I caught up with her again near Ventosa and we walked together for a couple of kilometres. Najera was a delightful small town on the banks of the Rio Najerilla which had been extensively pedestrianised and was consequently great for an evening saunter (incidentally some trace the etymology of that word to early pilgrimage – it described the act of walking to Jerusalem in the Holy Land, or Saint Terre). I found accommodation at a premium. My belief is that there’s always a bed somewhere and you just have to find it.  After some searching I found this – a 3 bedded room which was mine for sole occupancy for €35.  A great evening meal from the “menu peregrine” (macaroni, albondigas, crème brûlée (or crema catalana as I’m gradually getting used to calling it), 250 ml red wine and coffee for €11). Slept soundly.

Woke at half six, just before my alarm, and breakfasted at a café in town. Began the long slow climb out of Najera and quickly fell into easy rhythm. The village of Azofra provided an opportunity for a quick coffee and to marvel at the large table of travellers who looked as if they were ensconced for the day and who were already surrounded by a sea of empty beer bottles. The day’s walk was a fairly easy one, made easier by the fact that for once the hot sunshine had given way to light showers. Arrived at Santo Domingo de la Calzada in light rain. The town is named after its founder Dominic de la Calzada, who built a bridge, hospital and hotel here in the eleventh century as the town became a favoured stop for pilgrims. I eventually found a room at Hospedería Cisterciense, a renovated Cisterian abbey. After a shower and change I walked back into the town and met Adrian, a Dutch pilgrim. We shared a washing load at the launderette and a beer while we waited. Afterwards I bumped into Jill, who I’d met the previous day, and went to mass in the cathedral with her. The legend attached to the town is well known: a German young man and his family were travelling as pilgrims to Santiago. On the way, they stopped in Santo Domingo de la Calzada for the night, where he turned down the advances of the inn keeper’s daughter. Upset with the rejection, the young woman hid a silver cup in the pilgrim’s bag. (Echoes of the story of Joseph in Genesis 44…) This was subsequently found, he was accused and convicted of theft and condemned to death. Heartbroken, his family continued to Santiago. On their return (one tends to forget that in those days one walked all the way back as well!) his parents went back to Santo Domingo de la Calzada to give the final farewell to their son, and found him still alive, thanks to the intervention of Saint Dominic who knew of the young man’s innocence. Astounded by this miracle, the parents went to the local magistrate to tell him of this. The Corregidor of Santo Domingo was in the middle of his dinner and replied that their son was as alive as the roasted cockerel and hen he was about to eat. As he pronounced these words, the cockerel and hen instantly got up on the plate, their white feathers grew back and they started to sing. This legend explains the (very much alive) rooster and hen in a cage that are always kept high up against a wall inside the cathedral. I also attended a pilgrim mass with others that evening and a blessing. I often think that the Spanish blessing (Vaya con Dios, or Go with God) is theologically better than the “God go with you” formulation that we use in English; it’s surely better to assume that the pilgrim should stay with God than assume the reverse! Another pilgrim’s meal, and bed.

The walk to Belorado proved less scenic,  much of it paralleling the main N-120 road on mainly gravel paths with occasional detours across fields and into a string of small villages along the way.  A pretty rubbish breakfast from the hotel (stale bread, fiddly little pots of margarine and great slabs of jam-  but redeemed by interesting conversations with Dil, an Australian pilgrim) and onto the road. A couple of kilometres from Santo Domingo I passed over the Rio Oja from which the region takes its name, and entered Castile.  Further brief conversations with two Austrian pilgrims and then fell into step with Kathryn, a pilgrim from Brisbane. I walked 9km with her to Redecilla del Camino where we stopped for coffee and pastries. As is traditional Camino etiquette, we both provided an opportunity for the other one to go  on ahead or alternatively linger but both agreed we’d enjoyed each other’s company and wanted to carry on together. Conversation flowed and we found each other on very similar wavelengths. Pausing once more at Vilamayor del Rio we soon found ourselves in Belorado. Kathryn was staying at the albergue but I wanted to find something a bit more comfortable so continued.  We said our goodbyes (which often turn out to be “au revoirs” on the camino) and I found a room at the Hotel Jacobeo which seemed appropriate. Belorado has a central square, a church, a bar and several shops, all closed of course for the daily siesta. Time hung heavily, to be honest, but was whiled away with my kindle, a glass of rioja, and a couple of circuits of the town (the latter took about ten minutes each). I was hoping to bump into another pilgrim for a chat but those encounters are almost always serendipitous and unplanned.

Eventually found a small restaurant that served the menu de dia which was OK. Another pilgrim sat alone at another table and I’d have liked to join her but was wary of being unwelcome or misunderstood.

The first sentence in my notebook for this stage starts, “what a great day”! Leaving the hotel, fuelled by a great breakfast (in contrast to the previous day’s, not that I bear grudges) I walked for 5 minutes in the wrong direction, but realised my mistake and retraced my steps. This short delay meant that I bumped into Kathryn again – both pleased to see each other. Cold to start with, the day gradually warmed up as we passed fields of sunflowers, many with arrows carved into them to indicate the direction of Santiago! Warmer still and on through small villages until we reached Villafranca Montes de Oca. Two coffees later we left and were joined by Bob. I’d met Bob a couple of times since Najera and in my mind he had become “Anxious Bob” or “Bob the Unhappy Californian”. He didn’t seem to be enjoying the camion and was clearly missing his wife and family. He was however fond of talking at great length without listening to anything anyone else might have been saying. I was reminded of the Doug Larson quote. “I never learn anything when I’m talking”.  Up a steep path to St Juan de Ortega. Coming down the path in the opposite direction was a heavily laden donkey led by a Spanish pilgrim in a sombrero. Kathryn and I joked that he was perhaps an actor employed by the local tourism board to add colour to the day. St Juan de Ortega (literally St John of Nettles) was a contemporary of St Dominic and also devoted himself to improving the infrastructure of the camino for those early pilgrims. This area was notorious for bandits and so he built (possibly aided by St Dominic) the pilgrim hospice and monastery here. This imposing edifice remains the only thing in this remote village, and many pilgrims thronged the space outside the albergue. This turned into a three beer stop, where Kathryn and I were joined by Siobhan, Jennifer and Elaine, all from Ireland, and, like me, on a week’s walk.  Anxious Bob also eventually joined us. With relatively fresh legs, Kathryn and I decided to press on to Ages a few kilometres further; but took the precaution of booking rooms at the albergue there. Arriving there I found the Senora in a state of agitation. It turned out that her brother had double-booked my room and it was now occupied by another pilgrim; but that she had found me a room at Atapuerca (3 km distant) and hoped that was OK? I laughed and said of course it was. She was so relieved she bent forward and gave me a kiss on the forehead. I walked onto Atapuerca, found my room, showered and walked back to Ages where I met my friends from earlier as well as some new arrivals. Dinner was excellent from a food perspective (white bean and chorizo soup, paella with vegetables, ice cream) and company (Kathryn, Ruth and Andy from Canada, Adriana from Mexico and Barbara (who had an Irish / Australian heritage)). Turned out Barbara was the pilgrim I’d seen in Belorado and it turned out she also wanted to join me for dinner but was similarly wary of being misinterpreted. On the camino, people often don’t walk together, but regularly bump into familiar faces in the evenings; sometimes from the previous evening, or perhaps from an encounter some sixty of seventy kilometres back where one’s own walk has become first out of kilter and then accidentally resynchronised with that of someone else. As someone has written, “we are nodes on a line of pearls, strung out on a long necklace”. The conversation turned to serious topics as the third carafe gradually disappeared before the company eventually retired to bed and I enjoyed my post-prandial moonlit walk back to Atapuerca.

Met Kathryn again the following morning as we’d arranged. Anxious Bob also appeared and joined us. We walked up from Atapuerca on a steep path to a cross (cruceiro) at the summit (1,070m altitude). From this vantage point one can see in the distance today’s destination of Burgos, still some 18km away, as well as the terrain for today’s walk. Walked down to Orbaneja and had a coffee there. Barbara also appeared but wanted to stay longer so Kathryn and I swayed on together. The day was incredibly hot, even by camino standards and there were frequent stops to apply sun cream and drink water. Burgos airport was a sign – we thought – of journey’s end but the centre of town was a further interminable 6 km of industrial estates, factories, and concrete. It would never have been a pleasant walk but jarred all the more I think because of the contrast it provided to the rural idyll of much of the last few days.

The historic old centre however when we eventually reached it didn’t disappoint. For five centuries Burgos was the capital of the Castile and Leon region of Spain: It grew wealthy in the 15th and 16th centuries as a result of the wool trade and spent a good proportion of this on fine art and architecture. In a country with boasts so much wonderful ecclesiastical architecture, it’s home to Spain’s third largest cathedral (after Seville and Toledo) and boasts the tomb of El Cid, born just to the north of the city. Its central heart is a maze of narrow streets with painted buildings that open up into large squares It also possesses something of a reputation for food, inspiring me to text Kathryn and Barbara and invite them to a tapas and sherry crawl that evening  - an invitation they both accepted with alacrity. Four different bars followed as we sampled local dishes accompanied by, in order, a fino, manzanilla, amontillado and finally a pedro ximenez sherry. A great evening which ended in a small bar with Kathryn and Barbara, eating brownies, drinking PX sherry, and with me on the piano…

The next day was one was one which filled me both with anticipation and slight trepidation, as it led me onto the meseta. The meseta (or tablelands) is the name given to the large and expansive flat plains of central Spain. Beginning just after Burgos, and ending in Astorga, the Camino Frances travels through the northern point of the meseta for approximately 220km It’s renowned for its long stages, empty landscapes, and big skies, while being very hot and dry and with little shade. Some also talk of its monotony, but as another pilgrim reminded me, monotony is a state of mind, not a place! In fact, today sticks in my mind as one of the best (there is stiff competition!) on the Spanish camino. Leaving Burgos early, I made my way along the river with my head torch, and past the university and out of town. Encountered Mariana, a Dutch student who favoured me at some length with her theories about religion, nature and life in general. Not all camino encounters are nourishing! Accelerating gently away, I left her behind. Villalbilla didn’t warrant a stop, but I did have a coffee and croissant at Tarjados to fortify for the rigours of the meseta. This started abruptly with a  short climb and then, after some pylons and a windfarm in the distance, settled itself into the typical meseta landscape – large fields of wheat and sunflowers moving gently in the breeze. In hot sunshine and with high clouds, it seemed almost as if I were walking on the roof of the world. Into Hornillas, a small village that I could see from 4 km away thanks to the flatness of the landscape. Stopped in this little oasis for lunch (a slice of tortilla and peach). Continued on into scenery so majestic that it made one’s soul sing. On and across this beautiful landscape, past a small albergue and eventually, and dramatically, into Hontanas. Unlike Hornillas, Hontanas is buried in a cleft in the landscape and is hidden until one is a few hundred metres away. This is where I’d planned to stop, but at three in the afternoon and with 32km under my belt, just didn’t want to stop yet. The path led onto a hill and eventually swung round and joined a small road into Castrojerez. One guidebook calls Castrojerez “ a delightfully sleepy town whose resident population seem to be permanently occupied with siesta”. I concur. It was great! I had a beer with two Spanish pilgrims one of whom who kindly phoned up “caminofacil” (a transport service that shuttles back packs - and occasionally pilgrims - along the camino, and they duly turned up and transported me back to Burgos. A quiet dinner (bumped into Kathryn again) and a nightcap with her and Diane from Washington before bed, accompanied already by thoughts and anticipation of next year.

September 2014

Back to Burgos via Bilbao and ALSA bus, and an evening revisiting some of the taperia in the town. Great to be back! The following morning, I was up early and stood for a while on my hotel balcony. It was half past five in the morning and raining lightly, yet below me a steady stream of ghostlike wraiths in ones, twos and threes silently materialised and dematerialised as they drifted westwards. I spent half an hour here, watching the night sky move, in infinite shades and gradations, from black to dark blue. Launching myself into the rain, and via a quick pit stop for a coffee, I found the taxi rank and explained that I wanted to go to Castrojerez.  He was delighted – a €70 fare – and justified by me as I only had 5 day’s walking this time round and wanted to make the most of it. He dropped me after an hour’s drive at the same building that had been my terminus the previous year, and I walked off, already feeling that deep joy that is so often associated for me with the camino. The writer Adam Gopnik has observed that, “happiness may come at us face to face, but joy always comes at us from an angle” I think he’s right. The path from Castrojerez starts with a sharp but relatively short climb back on to the meseta, at the top of which was a small café that provided breakfast and from which I could watch the sign rising from behind Castrojerez. Another great day’s walking, mainly on small earth tracks. Somewhere along the way I enjoyed my favourite camino lunch  - bocadillo de lomo y pimientos (fried pork with red peppers in crusty roll). The last part of the day was along a canal and then into Fromista where I found a room at the Hotel San Martin. Fromista (from frumentum, Latin for cereal, as it supplied copious amounts of wheat to the Roman empire) is something of a tourist hotspot as regular coachloads arrive to see the eleventh century Iglesia de San Martin, a beautifully proportioned Romanesque church with hundreds of carved corbels. A pilgrim meal and a glass of wine rounded off the day.

Breakfast in a café the next morning was a contemplative affair. Lots of pilgrims, sitting quietly, lost in thought and all anticipating the day ahead and our own individual caminos. The peace was broken by a German pilgrim I’d met yesterday who asked me if I slept well. I had, I replied. Had he? He had. He said that in German he would say, “Ich habe geschlafen wie ein Bär”. (I’ve slept like a bear). He asked me what the equivalent English idiom was and I told him we’d probably say that we’d slept like a log. This sparked a quick conversation where I learned, in rapid succession that after a good night’s sleep the French sleep on both their ears, the Spanish sleep like babies, Italians sleep like dormice, while in Norway they sleep like stones.

The path out of Fromista ran alongside the road for a little while and rather than trace the rather soulless official path I took an alternative route which followed the rio Ucieza. After about seven km this led to the small hamlet of Villavieco where I stopped for a drink. I caught up with two pilgrims, Sarah Catherine from US and Pete, an Australian medic. Sarah was into wine and walking and we fell into a deep conversation about these which morphed into a wider discussion. I felt guilty when Pete broke off and started walking ahead, but he seemed to see this as a natural break. Sarah and I stopped for lunch at Villalcazar and sat outside the dramatic double south front of the church of Santa Maria la Blanca, a lovely 14^th century building built in the transition period when architectural styles were moving from Romanesque to Gothic (bigger windows, higher walls, pointed rather than circular arches, weight on columns rather than walls, more ornate, more buttresses). Here we also adopted Susie and the three of us walked on to Carrion de los Condes. The albergue was full, so I wandered on and crossed the bridge to find the Real Monasterio San Zoilo, a 3 star luxury hotel where they had a room for only €60! The room was luxurious and set in the colonnaded quadrangle. Absolutely perfect. A shower and change and a late afternoon at leisure in the meandering streets of the town. Carrion de los Condes (The Counts of Carrion) were influential figures from as early as the ninth century when Alonso Carreno took the city from the Moors and changed his name to Carrion. One of his descendants is reputed to have met a violent and premature end at the hands of El Cid after reputedly (and unwisely) mistreating his daughter. Many pilgrims seemed to spontaneously congregate for a meal. I noted down names and nationalities. America is sometimes talked of as a melting pot but the camino is often, if not a melting pot, a wonderful mosaic. Sitting down together were Matteus (Slovakia), Ricardo (Brazil), Pius (Switzerland), Per (Sweden) me and Susie (UK), Sarah (US), Pete (Australia), Kelsie (NZ) and Manfred (Germany).  Back to my deluxe accommodation where I slept like a log / stone / baby / dormouse.  

Awaking in my luxurious accommodation, I padded downstairs to the restaurant, where I found a whole different camino demograph; it was like a SAGA convention –  a large group of slightly furtive pilgrims aged 50+ all of whom had evidently decided that their camino was not going to be completed on €10 a day! The next 17km to Calzadilla were pretty flat and featureless, following for the most part the old Roman road, the Via Trajana that connected France and Astorga. One of those days when one just had to put the miles in without much in the way of scenery or distractions. Arrived in Calzadilla, went into second café I found (the first café after a long stretch is often the poorest – the owner gets used to everyone stopping there and has little incentive to offer great food or service – the second and subsequent ones have to try a bit harder!) Sitting there – of course! – were Sarah and Susie. Too early to stop, and I’d provisionally planned in any case to stay at the albergue at Terradillos de Templarios, 10km further on, of which I’d seen good reviews. However when I arrived there about 3.30 in the afternoon, it was very much “complet”. Bit of a disappointment as I’d already done 28km and was ready to stop. However, nothing for it but to press on, although the next likely accommodation was at Sahagun, another 11 km. However, I’d only gone a little way when Sarah texted me. They had also pressed on and had already arrived at Sahagun and found a decent hotel. She offered to book me a room if I wanted – yes please! Accommodation secured I relaxed the pace a little and stopped to chat to two Scottish cyclists, Alex and Steve. Their relentless pace had earned them the name “Los machinos” on the camino – it was good to finally meet them! We stopped for a coffee and exchanged brief life stories as one does from time to time in these serendipitous encounters. Just south of Sahagun there was a small monument marking the half way point between St Jean Pied de Port and Santiago – only 396.1km to go.... Arriving in Sahagun I found the hotel and most of my camino “bubble”. A great meal with wine included; shame it was virtually undrinkable. Sarah and I upgraded and ordered some decent stuff which we enjoyed whilst discussing some of the great wines we’d tasted (In retrospect I suppose you had to be there…)

The following morning the path paralleled the N120 for a short while and then across the old Puente Canto to arrive at Calzada de los Hermanillos where I fortified myself with a cheese bocadillo and then the relentless via Trajana continued. It became quite remote across scrub and bush land with the occasional small flock of sheep and the last 15kn offered no towns or asphalt roads and very little in the way of amenities. A day to be grateful for sun hat and well filled water bottles. Arrived in Reliogos and the hostel there was full; I wasn’t to sorry in truth as it looked pretty flyblown. Carried on to Mansilla de las Mulas, an historic stopping place on the Camino dating back to 1189. One of those times however when everywhere seemed overflowing. As a fellow pilgrim muttered – also looking in vain for accommodation – “muchos muchos peregrinos!” After a few circuits of the town, I decided that I’d get the bus to Leon, find somewhere there and then bus back to Mansilla the next day to walk – packless – to Leon. Plan was duly effected – nice hotel in Leona and a great pisto de Manchego for supper (think ratatouille with cheese on top – good walker’s fare!)

Started the morning in non-walking gear - a clean(ish) short sleeve shirt and lightweight trousers are my evening and “day off” wardrobe - and had a wander around Leon: it was raining lightly and I was hoping it might stop.  Even at that early hour pilgrims was arriving in the city – goodness knows what time they had started from Mansilla. I wished one woman “buen camino” as she passed and was rewarded as her whole face lit up with a smile. I spoke to a Scottish friend who updated me on the result of the independence referendum the previous day.  By lunch time the rain hadn’t stopped, and although today was only going to be an easy 18 km, it wasn’t going to walk itself!  Found the bus station and caught the bus to Mansilla. The walk was undemanding although a big contrast to the previous few days in shadowing the main road for large stretches. Stopped for lunch in a small bar and chatted to two Irish women – one of them such a huge fan of the motormouth Ryanair airline boss that she sported a badge with his photo and the legend “O’Leary for President”. The friendly bartender provides bocadillo, pastry, beer and coffee with a smile. Eventually back into Leon where I nursed a glass of wine and read. In the evening met up with some familiar faces and enjoyed dinner opposite the magnificent cathedral in the watery evening sunshine. The camino can help unknot the mind, but exerts a price on the body; so the following day I enjoyed a welcome massage that also unknotted some muscles.  Then a day at leisure in Leon before catching a bus to Asturias and a flight back to the UK.

September 2015

As one approaches Santiago there’s no doubt that the camino gets busier. Partly this is due to relentless rise in pilgrims every year (numbers have doubled in the 15 years from 2004 to 2019 from about 180,000 to 360,000) and more than half of these travel along the main route (Camino Frances) from St Jean Pied de Port to Santiago. It’s the route I travelled between Puente de Reina and Leon. It’s also due however as those without the time or inclination to walk the whole route opt to start closer to Santiago, and as one progresses westward numbers also therefore grow for that reason. One of the great joys of the camino is the unexpected conversations one has with strangers, but sometimes as I’d approached Leon I’d felt, like the pilgrim searching to no avail in Mansilla the previous year for a bed, that there were “mucho muchos peregrinos”. When research indicated the presence of another camino heading north to Oviedo, the Camino de San Salvador (named after the cathedral of San Salvador in Oviedo where it ends) I became interested. When I learned that fewer than 2,000 people had walked it the previous year, a decision crystallised to take this path north from Leon and then join the Northern Camino to Santiago. Sure, it added a few hundred kilometres and delayed my arrival into Santiago by a year or two, but where was the hurry? And didn’t the old Spanish proverb say that “Quien va a Santiago y no va al Salvador, honra al criado y deja al Señor” (“Whoever goes to St James and not the Saviour honours the servant and leaves the Lord”)?

It became clear that this would be quite a challenging walk. Only 126 km, but with some serious ascents to around 1500m as it traversed the Cordillera Cantábrica; the mountain range that separates the coast from inland Spain in the northwest of the country. The remote nature of the walk also meant that my almost complete lack of Spanish might be a problem – but fortunately I’d invited a good friend, Mike, to come along with me. Mike, as well as being a Hispanophile, also has fluent Spanish.

The flight to Asturias was routine, arriving in rather damp and misty weather. This cleared on the bus ride south however, and it was warm and sunny by the time we arrived in Leon.  We sat in the sun with a beer and looked again at the maps before demolishing a great dinner (lentil soup, albondigas, cheese, wine).

Setting out the next morning, for a few hundred metres we went with the human tide creeping westwards on the man camino, and past the Café des Peregrinos before arriving at the impressive parador de San Marcos, a Leon landmark whose colonnaded frontage dominates the square on which it is located, and in front of which a statue of a peregrino marks the split between the Camino Francés and the Camino del Salvador. The effect was like at Puenta la Reina, but in reverse. As we left Leon we were suddenly alone and exited Leon rather abruptly, as half- finished buildings petered out and we found ourselves on a smaller road wending its way through a couple of smaller villages, in one of which an elderly man shuffled, picking mulberries. The road became a track and climbed sharply, past some “abejas” and evidence of bee keeping, and into pine forests and higher country with intermittent views when the trees cleared from time to time. The track climbed and climbed, with some concentration required to avoid potential sheer drops in places. It then descended again into the village of Cabanillas where we stopped for lunch. The track followed a river and we detoured off the track to the small village of La Seta and a couple of beers. Another few kilometres brought us to La Robla. The auberge looked uninviting so we caught the bus back to Leon where yesterday’s hotel still had places. Later that evening a small bar provided the opportunity, over very spicy morcilla, a bottle of Bierzo and some crema catalana, to review the day and to look forward to the next.

On these remote sections with little accommodation, we deemed it wise to break my normal camino rule and book tonight’s destination and Mike found us somewhere in Poladura de la Tercia. The bus whipped us back to la Robla where we felt disinclined to start walking immediately and stopped for a coffee and a slice of orange cake. Eventually hauling ourselves to our feet, we covered some fast kilometres, past a restored aqueduct, along the side of a small railway line, and past a village church where preparations for the local fiesta were well underway. An information board reminded us of the excesses of Franco’s troops in the Civil War. This region of Spain was solid for the Republican side and it seems memories are long.   Arriving in La Pola de Gordon, we spotted the “Bar de Miguel” where we were obviously fated to stop! The tortilla looked good too, and was; in almost every bar there would be some of this under a plastic dome – some fresher than others. We found ourselves rating these as the week progressed, always looking for that perfect slice where the ingredients were well proportioned, the onions were properly caramelised, the potato thinly sliced and cooked properly to avoid absorbing too much egg and becoming heavy, the eggs not overbeaten so they can “hold” the other ingredients when cooking: a proper tortilla is a thing of beauty, but not often encountered! Given the quality of the tortilla, we decided to buy a picnic there: the chicken and mushroom empanadas and the orange and almond cake did not subsequently disappoint. Leaving the village the path followed a main road for a kilometre or so and then turned off onto a much smaller the road and climbed; alarming signs warned of the dangers of snow, ice and rock falls in winter. Steadily gaining altitude, the minor road looped in steady hairpins until it arrived at the idyllic village of Buiza. We stopped and consumed our lunch, refilled our water bottles, and visited the parish church where a service was taking place. It was good sometimes to stop and spend time in churches along the way; a reminder that while we often go through life thinking we are human beings on a spiritual journey, we are in fact spiritual beings on a human journey…

 The afternoon’s walking that followed was both challenging and full of dramatic and beautiful views. The guidebook says of it that “Es la Etapa Reina del Camino del Salvador y una de las más bellas” (It is the “Queen” stage of the Camino del Salvador and one of the most beautiful”). Leaving Buiza, the path led up a hillside and the gradient steepened sufficiently to require the occasional use of hands as well as feet. At about 1400m, two buzzards soared overhead. We stopped. There was no-one else in sight for miles around and the silence was near absolute.  I was reminded again that travelling on foot is the right speed for human beings; that walking often seems to sort out one’s problems and calms my worries and anxieties. Slowing down is good for the soul. It’s been observed that the camino offers at least three different decelerations; temporal (physically slowing down, limiting oneself – at best! - to 3 mph); technological (a chance to disconnect from emails, social media, news, screens); and episodic (just fewer decisions to make in the course of the average day). The resulting perception of slowness opens up both emotional and cognitive spaces for reflection and to make meaningful connections. Archbishop Stephen Cottrell in his own reflections on walking the camino has written, “Oh, so much misery is heaped upon the world by those who move quickly and think only of the end. Between A and B there is a space. It is here. It is now. It is your life. If you choose.”

The path eventually descended into a valley where cliffs reared on one side. We sat. chatted, dozed and watched the clouds pass slowly overhead. The path gradually flattened out and led us to the hamlet of Poladura. The bed and breakfast had promised dinner but as we sat in the bar we began to doubt it. We shouldn’t have worried – before 9pm would have been indecently early and the food just kept coming (Stuffed tomatoes, beef, cheese, soufflés…) Mike talked to the other pilgrim José, and translated easily back and forth for us both. Replete, we retired to our rooms and slept soundly.

The big day! We knew that this would be the most challenging day as we crossed the peak of the Cantabrian mountains, and were out of the house before 8 after a basic breakfast. The weather was damp and misty but rapidly burned off as the sun came up. Overtaking José, there was a steady climb – sometimes a scramble – to reach the summit at 1568m. Stopped and admired the views which included a cloud inversion where we were able to look down on the clouds drifting below the peak on which we sat. The path dropped and rose again, eventually descending into Puente de Pajares where we crossed the border – guarded for some reason by two traffic cops in shades - from Castilla y Leon into Asturias. Another 5km took us into Pajares itself where possibly the grumpiest women I have ever met stood behind the counter in the village’s solitary bar. Rolling her eyes at the request for a cheese bocadillo and coke she returned moments later to say she’d run out of bread. Shaking the dust from our feet, we decided to cut our losses and press on; however I’d somehow badly sprained my leg and could barely walk. I told Mike to go ahead and limped down the steep path which led from the village. The steepness of the descent (500m in 1.6km) didn’t help. Arriving at the bottom and the village of San Miguel de Rio, I wasn’t sure if I could go on. A phone call to my physio brother helped enormously, as did ibuprofen, and I managed to walk slowly on with Mike, who helped carry my pack for a while - my own San Miguel! Llanos de Someron was another small pueblo village and there followed a track to Puente de los Fierros. Leg twinging again, I opted for the more direct route to Campomanes while Mike followed at a more leisurely place. Arriving in Campomanes, I found us a hotel and then nursed a glass of wine at a bar near where I guessed Mike would enter the town and successfully intercepted him as he arrived. Great dinner of fabada asturiana and cochinillo asado (white bean and chorizo stew and roast suckling pig).

The following day dawned cool and misty but we were fairly sure this would burn off as it had the previous day. Leaving the town and crossing the bridge by a large house painted butterscotch yellow, the camino followed the road for a little while but then turned into stone paths through woods – as Mike remarked, the “camino bucolico”. We (or more accurately, Mike) fell into conversation with three elderly locals who insisted we detour with them into Polo de Lena before we’d really got going – still good to be diverted sometimes. A quick coffee and we walked on, the path becoming ever more attractive, and punctuated by the lovely hermitage Santa Cristina de Lena, a ninth century church. The walk to Castiello and lunch was aided by a steady downhill gradient which persisted pretty much all day. Lunch was empanadas and custard tarts and an introduction to Asturian cider. This is poured into glasses from a great height from a vanencia (or at least that’s what they’re called when used in sherry tasting), a small cylindrical cup on a flexible shaft which was originally used to extract samples from sherry butts through the bung hole in a barrel. Pouring this into glasses from a great height – to aerate the wine - is an art. Once samples had been tasted, a price would be agreed (“avenencia” in Spanish means “agreement”). In Asturias the venencia is held at head height and cider is flamboyantly poured into a glass held at waist height. It’s very impressive, and as about 30% splatters onto the floor the cynic in me thinks it’s also a way of dramatically increasing sales at the consumer’s expense! Mike – a keen cyclist – was impressed at hearing the vuelta was in the area, and we walked on to Mieres where Mike quickly jumped on a train back to Castiello where the pack was expected later that day and I wandered round and found us a room in a small hotel. I was then, for the second day running, able to nurse a glass of sherry in a convenient bar and waylay him on his return. Dinner was roast lamb and too much cider, and some good natured political argument before wandering back to our hotel at twenty to one in the morning.

Our last day of walking together was easy in terms of distance (only 19km) but challenging in profile. The path from Mieres quickly started a series of seemingly interminable hairpin climbs, as the altitude increased from about 200m back to 400m. Eventually these bends eased and we stopped at a small bar in La Padrun. What goes up must come down, and the corresponding descent that followed was equally trying. We arrived in the small village of Olloniego where a café full of furiously smoking men served up excellent garlic prawns for lunch. The afternoon was delightful. Further climbs (not as severe as the first) took us into tiny villages and hamlets including Picullanza, La Venta del Aire and, satisfyingly at journey’s end,  San Miguel. Through two further tiny hamlets of Caxigal and Los Prietos and eventually into Oviedo. The cathedral was closed for building works – perhaps another time! A celebratory dinner with a good bottle of Albarino and a chance to chew over the week. I often feel that walking the camino is like gathering the ingredients for a cake; the actual baking often takes place later once I’ve returned.

Mike was flying back to the UK but I had one more day planned before my return and was walking on to Aviles where I planned to connect with the camino de Norte. I made an early start and had breakfast at a local café as dawn broke. I found my way easily enough out of Oviedo; the path was generally well marked with – sometimes faded – arrows and the occasional shell. The path was mainly along minor roads as the suburbs of Oviedo gradually mutated into small villages through which I swung happily, keeping the pace up, as I was conscious of the nearly 30km to walk that day. The morning seemed to be punctuated by the sound of faraway dogs barking. La Rosada provided an opportunity for coffee and some welcome tortilla and the path then made a gentle curving ascent through woods to arrive at the half way point of Alto de la Miranda. Unusually, my feet were playing up and I applied Compeed and eyed the signs pointing in opposite directions to Aviles and Oviedo, both 14km away. I stopped and read a little of Paul Heiney’s moving book, “One Wild Song” while I pondered my options, and came across an excerpt from the Anglo Saxon poem “The Battle of Maldon”. “Let the heart be stronger, the courage greater, spirit the higher, as the strength goes less!” Inspired, I walked on. The path was idyllic for a few km before returning to the road where I spotted a cidreria where I unwisely quenched my thirst with the local brew; in my defence I had no idea it was going to arrive in a 70cl bottle! Through further small villages, including unexpectedly, Las Vegas, to arrive in the rather shabby but welcoming town of Aviles, where the following morning I took the bus to Asturias and a flight back to the UK. 

August 2016

I love the ritual of returning to the same place around a year later and picking up where I’d left off; so even the waiting for the bus to Aviles at Asturias airport was enjoyable! The bus took me back to Aviles and the short walk (7 km) to a Today was only a short day where I’d opted to walk to Salinas just to take the edge off the following day’s stage which would have been 39km and even with this small head start was still a challenging 20 miler. For some reason I found myself thinking about significant walks in the Bible: the walk to Emmaus of course, but also the transfiguration following a walk with Jesus, and the seemingly random encounter with Simon Peter and Andrew as Jesus was walking along the shore of Lake Galilee; there seems something significant about walking and the “chance”encounters that often result that resonates with me. The small family run hotel at Salinas was functional rather than luxe but friendly and homely – and a walk along the seafront in the evening and a reconnaissance of the path for the following day refreshed and prepared me for a good start the following day.

The road climbed from Salinas to San Martin de Laspra at which point all way marking disappeared. Wandering forlornly up and down the road searching for some clue as to the way forward, I even resorted to my very basic Spanish. But my very best “Donde esta el camino por favour?” to three of four passers-by resulting in the shaking of heads. Perhaps they had no idea, or didn’t know which path the hapless walker sought, or just didn’t have time. Finally one kind old guy whose facility in English mirrored that of mine in Spanish took pity on me and gestured to me to follow him. After a short walk to the edge of town he pointed down a long road and said something that I completely failed to understand but seemed to be camino related. Thanking him, I set up rather doubtfully but after a kilometre or so glimpsed in the distance ahead another pilgrim turning sharp left off the road. When I got to the spot I spotted a faint arrow and followed her. Sure enough, the signs became clearer as I climbed onto a path of piedras blancas (white stones) that reflected the sunlight’s glare. This turned into a marvellous morning’s walking, and I enjoyed the return of that familiar sensation of long distance walking when one switches to automatic and can gaze at the landscape as it serenely flows past at a gentle 3 miles per hour. I’ve always liked and identified with Kierkegaard’s take on walking: “Every day I walk myself into a state of wellbeing; I have walked myself into my best thoughts and know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it.” Twirling my stick, I marched onwards, feeling a sense of freedom and the openness that not knowing the immediate future induces, and smiling at the thought recently encountered on a French calendar, “On ne peut pas asservir l’homme qui marche”.  Asturias airport came into view and my perspectives of the previous day were reversed as planes swept low overhead. The tree lined track led (after a short climb and a longer gradual descent) into La Ventaniella  Santiago del Monte where bean soup, pork and potatoes, a cake and a glass of wine provided change from €10. The path continued along dirt tracks to El Castillo de San Martin (where prior to the modern bridge pilgrims would once have embarked to cross the Rio Nalon). The road continued to Soto del Barco and a narrow walkway alongside heavy traffic across the wide river which glittered below in the strong sunshine. The nature of the path and the landscape kept changing throughout this long day: footpaths through forested hills, open dirt tracks and the occasional glimpse of the sea and somewhere in the afternoon I fell into step with two Spanish women, Therese and Rebecca with whom I shared the rest of the day’s walk. They quizzed me about the act of gratuitous self harm that the UK had just inflicted upon itself a couple of months earlier and politely wondered about the collective idiocy that had led to the Brexit vote. The path wended its way by and by to Sota de Luina, the kind of small Spanish town that one only ever encounters on foot. Dinner in town was a convivial affair with many other pilgrims; amongst them Steve from UK, Chrissie and David from US, two Austrian women, an Italian, Machis from Estonia and of course Therese and Rebecca. 

The guidebook had spoken disparagingly of today’s section, but the roads were quieter than I’d expected. After Albuerne there were several sections where the path diverged from the road in sweeping loops, intersecting it only sporadically. Novellana after 6 or 7kms felt too early to stop for a coffee and I was enjoying the rhythm of the walk so continued through woods to Casteneras and views of the sea. Ballota provided a bar and a couple of fellow travellers from Netherlands with whom to compare notes. The path headed back towards the coast and across a bridge (its less robust ancestor was known as the “Puente que tiembla” (the bridge that trembles) and was one of many hazards pilgrims in previous centuries faced). Passed Emmanuel from Mexico and Sylvie from Spain who’d been part of my “bubble” for a couple of days now and arrived in Cadavedo at lunch time. fell into conversation with Elaine from Toronto with whom there seemed an instant rapport, and in the way that sometimes happens on the camino we spent an hour with a beer sharing all kinds of personal hopes and fears, knowing that these were safe and that strangers sometimes have the best perspectives. Too early to stop and the next day’s stage was only 16km – so after lunch pushed on. That afternoon (and for several days) I kept encountering the FEVE trains. These are small narrow gauge trains that run all the way from Oviedo to Ferrol on the coast, a distance of some 119 miles with around 90 tiny stations, often buried deep in the countryside.  One can be walking along and suddenly this little yellow and white train will whizz by on the other side of a wall or river where one had never suspected the existence of a railway line!  The afternoon’s walk had too much tarmac but also some quiet paths across the exposed Asturian landscape. The descent into Luarca tested the calf muscles after a long day’s walk; the town itself was charming with the harbour as its focal point – somewhere I’d like to come back to. It felt like one of these lovely small towns and villages that only pilgrims know.

After two long days in which I’d covered nearly 70 kilometres, I reminded myself that this wasn’t some kind of endurance test, and opted for a shorter day’s walk to Navia. Sometimes the prospect of a short stage can lull one into a false sense of security and that was the case for today. Relaxed at the thought of an easy day’s walk, I decided to spend part of the morning in Luarca and found a laundrette to do some washing while I wandered round the harbour. Suddenly it was nearly noon and I still had 22 km to cover! Setting out at last, I climbed back out of Luarca and across the Rio Negro and passed through Otur to Villapedre. Near here I met Juan, a Spanish student who was studying chemistry and had spent time in Dundee.  Crossing the ubiquitous FEVE at several unlikely points, I arrived at Pinera and then La Colorado. In due course I arrived at Navia where I found a room at the third hotel I tried.

An early start with another 30 km stage in prospect. For the first hour my walk co-incided with a mobile bakery and its scent of freshly baked bread and pastries making me crave a second breakfast. A mixture of paths and small roads led to La Caridad where I whiled away an hour with a  couple of cafés con leches. Stopping later at the tiny hamlet of El Franco in the day I found Juan also there. I do love the sense of encountering acquaintances on the camino in the smallest and most unlikely places. Further on I met Claire and Marie two French pilgrims and we amicably walked on together for a couple of hours. At length, and as late afternoon was transitioning to evening, I walked across the impressive bridge crossing the Ria de Ribadeo and found myself in its eponymous town. The town, however appeared full.  After trying a couple of hotels, I came across the tourist information office which at just before seven in the evening was still open. A lovely woman, Dolores, took me under her wing and made it her mission to find me a room. After about six or seven phone calls she triumphantly announced that she had found me somewhere – as it transpired, only about a hundred metres from the office itself. A small room on the fourth floor but it was very welcome. Food and sleep!

 

 

Ribadeo marked the border between Asturias and Galicia, and the landscape also started to transition - more hills,  extensive  pine and eucalyptus forests with smaller, more scattered villages were the day’s characteristics.  Practically, one also had to adjust to the way marking. In Asturias the famous camino symbol indicates the direction of travel where the rays converge and one subconsciously gets used to this. In Galicia, the reverse is true and one has to follow the direction in which the rays diverge – easy to get lost as a result if the concentration lapses. Caught up with Marie and Claire from yesterday and walked 11 km together – always good when the conversation flows and the miles melt away beneath your feet. As is often the way, we parted when one or other of us wanted to stop and the other didn’t and I found myself entering Lourenza around 5pm. I’d found what looked a lovely hotel but it was full; but had a vacancy the following night. I booked this, and then found myself cheaper lodgings a little way away. Lourenza was another lovely town, with great restaurants, although the concentration of steakhouses might make it less attractive to a vegetarian.

Having researched the return bus times, I could now leave my pack at tonight’s hotel and walk unencumbered to Abadin, today’s destination, some 24km away. Today’s walk was mainly in the mountains, with Mondonedo at 8km in the only town of any size. At about 11km I came across the visited its cathedral (known as the “kneeling cathedral” because of its short stature) and admired its rose window.  I shared a coffee and a late breakfast with a German pilgrim, and leaving the town the road started to climb quite steeply. I stopped after only about 3km near Maariz at a small private albergue offering coffees, named “O Bisonte” (The Bison). Carmen the owner was chopping vegetables for the evening pilgrims’ meal. She sat outside with me and chatted while she did so. She was curious to understand the dynamics of Brexit and quizzed me on this. All my frustrations about the idiocy of this poured out and she listened and questioned me closely. She then turned to the route and asked if, after Santiago, I was planning on continuing to Finisterre; to which I replied I wasn’t sure. She urged me to do this at some point and said it was really the end of the walk, not Santiago. She then provided me with a postcard of Santiago cathedral which she had drawn (a woman of many talents) and wrote on the back. She told me not to look at the postcard until later in the day. Thanking her, I left. When I did look later that afternoon, I had to smile. She had written, “Dear John, Brexit is not the end of the world. Finisterre is the end of the world!” What a lovely woman, one of the many who have enriched my caminos over the years.   The small road was relentless its steady ascent, although some fantastic views were beginning to open up in compensation. Somewhere near Lousada I recognised the incipient signs of sunstroke and exhaustion, and sat on a convenient woodpile for half an hour slowly consuming water, some fruit and reapplying sun cream. One last savage climb and then gradually down to Gontan and round the corner into neighbouring Abadin where I found a bar and nursed a beer thinking back on what had been a great last day on this year’s trek. A bus eventually arrived and took me back to Lourenza to be reunited with my pack and a very comfortable night at the hotel, before the following day a bus back to Aviles and the plane from Asturias home. I’m convinced that of the many benefits of walking the camino, the opportunity for a week or so to live a different kind of life is an important one.

August 2017

I’d been very conscious that this was the year, all being well, that I’d arrive in Santiago – only about 140km to go. And so in the lull between Christmas and the New Year, I sent out the following email to a number of friends, family and colleagues.

 

Over the next few months this provoked a number of conversations which eventually resolved themselves into definite “yeses” from two good friends, Andy and Steve, and also my 26 year old daughter Caroline. So it was that one sunny Friday afternoon, after a flight into Santiago, Steve, Andy, Caroline and I sat drinking white wine and waiting for the bus that would take us to Villarba from where we planned to take a taxi to Abadin. The plan worked perfectly and we arrived at Casa Goas in Abadin where we were staying the night and looking forward to our evening meal. The hotelier asked for passports as is as usual; it was with a sinking feeling that I realised mine was no longer in the back pocket where I usually kept it. An increasingly frantic search ensued before I semi-remembered emptying my pockets at Santiago bus station to find something and not picking that little pile of cash and passports up again. Reminding myself of Stephen Covey’s wise words about not worrying about things you can’t control, I decided that tomorrow was another day!

An early start and we gathered for breakfast at the café on the other side of the road that served breakfast from 7.30. We left as dawn was breaking, and quickly found a pace – quite a brisk one – that suited us all The path was a typical earth / stone one that led uphill and then through woods. Nobody seemed inclined to stop so we kept going until we reached Goiriz, 15km in, where we stopped for a coffee and admired the unusual and very space efficient graveyard!  Another 5km brought us into Villarba where we debated whether to stop for the day. But it was only half past twelve, we’d done 20km and we all felt fresh. How hard could another 20km in burning sunshine be? Having briefed my Spanish speaking mate Mike (see 2016!) by phone on the passport loss he very kindly agreed to make some phone calls to Santiago bus station and get back to me (he very kindly did, but to no avail!) Bronze shells set into the pavement led us out of town, onto a series of dirt tracks, gravel roads and paths that wended their way through a landscape of very occasional villages, all with shops and the odd bar firmly closed for the afternoon siesta.  We crossed the medieval bridge at Saa, fading fast now, and derived momentary enjoyment from all posing in front of the Casanovas sign at the entrance to the eponymous village. Trudging on, we were all now wondering if we had enough energy to reach Baamonde. Frequent stops ensued where we shared resources – particularly welcome were seemingly inexhaustible quantities of Snickers bars, fruit and crisps from Steve’s backpack which suddenly developed apparently magical bottomless qualities. One final climb, all us of now down to a pace that would have shamed Blackadder’s “asthmatic ant with heavy shopping”, and then, at last, into the outskirts of Baamonde. We halted wearily outside the first bar we came to. Andy sat and massaged his damaged leg, and Steve quietly fainted (we only realised when we tried to get him into the bar!) Eventually we woke him up and limped, sunburnt, dehydrated, aching and tired, inside. Sprits gradually revived with beer and about eight litres of water which we consumed between us, to the point where we ordered cheese and chorizo and bread and by the time we left were nearly recovered. I’d phoned ahead to find a hotel which turned out to be  a truck drivers’ hostel where the owner had developed an innovative business model of letting the rooms twice a day – once to overnight truck drivers who slept from about 10 am to 8pm and then again to pilgrims and other visitors for the more conventional overnight’s stay. The room seemed clean enough although smelling strongly of disinfectant from its twice daily clean. I didn’t care. I lay down and was out like a light.

The next day was a Sunday and we only had a short walk of 16km to Miraz planned. The path paralleled the main road for a couple of kilometres and then crossed the railway line to enter deciduous woods, where it stayed for much today’s short walk. I was reminded of the words of Peter Owen-Jones in his gentle book, “Pathways”: “There is something uniquely generous about planting a deciduous wood….those who plant them can only do so because they have imagination, they have seen the cathedrals they are to become; all of these woods are gifts from people long gone, who we have never met.” Just beyond Raposeira we happened upon a small café where the other occupants turned out to be our hospitaleros from the albergue at Miraz. The path continued through woods and small hamlets until we arrived at a bar at Seixon for lunch, and onto Miraz. The Irish hospitalero was particularly welcoming and allocated us beds. We were able to spend the afternoon in the garden where the weather turned from hot and sunny to heavy thunderstorms at least twice during the remainder of the day. The only bar was a little walk from the albergue where I sat in the sunshine with a glass of albarino and looked at possible stopping options for the rest of the week. Returned to the bar with Andy Caz and Steve in the evening where, despite their heavy reliance on passing pilgrim trade, “O Abrigo” was content to serve mediocre food accompanied by service with a snarl. The dangers of a monopoly! Andy’s feet were a bit of a mess but he was being very phlegmatic and British about it. Slept well.

 A gentle climb too us out of Miraz and then transitioned to rockier terrain. We met once more two German pilgrims, Sylvie and Christian who passed us on their bikes and wished us “buen camino”. There was a welcome unadvertised bar after a few more km where we stopped for a coffee and dressed Andy’s feet again – poor bloke was in a bad way. The path continued along a mixture of gravel and paved roads until a descent on a bigger road to O Meson. We’d done the hard yards by now for the day now, and tallied for over an hour enjoying beer and bocadillos for lunch. The afternoon was a good one, with just 6km to cover, a mixture of scenic tracks bringing us easily to Sobrado dos Monxes, the town dominated by the Monasterio de Santa Maria de Sobrado founded in the tenth century. We found accommodation (the middle aged blokes in a small hotel, Caz in the crowded albergue) and discussed our various problems (Andy’s feet, my lost passport). Steve was just about recovered from the 40km march two days previously and was nervously hoping that it wasn’t to be repeated. I set up an appointment with the British consulate in Madrid for what was to have been my day of leisure in Santiago, and with the help of my brother, an emergency appointment at the Durham passport office for the day after my return to the UK, as I was scheduled to fly to America 10 days after returning. Andy meanwhile eyed with determination the pharmacy in the main square which was due to reopen at 6pm. When it did, he hobbled over and in a mixture of French and “Spanglish” we emptied it of ibuprofen, knee braces, plasters and gels.  €44 poorer but psychologically happier, Andy re-joined Steve and I and we checked in to the hotel we’d found. Caz struck up a friendship with another young pilgrim, Marcos and they chose to eat a little way out of town – while the three of us enjoyed the best meal of the camino so far with a couple of bottles of rioja crianza.

 Sobrado to Arzua was only 22km thankfully. The heavens opened shortly after we set out and what was already an uninspiring stage was not improved by the heavy rain that followed. Seeking shelter in a bar at Boimorto (a proper “abrigo” unlike the one in Miraz), we drank café con leche and ate honey cake and peered out through windows running with condensation into the rain. Discerning a slight easing off, the other three carried on but I stayed as I had some further passport business to conduct with Madrid; don’t ever lose your passport abroad – it’s a hassle! I expected to catch the others up but they had clearly set a good pace and so I followed on minor roads towards Arzua, pausing at Santa Maria de Sendelle to visit and pray in its twelfth century church. The path rose and then fell to deposit me in Arzua, some 10km from Boimorto. Arzua was a culture shock as I knew it would be. It’s where the Camino de Norte joins the main Camino Frances (which I’d left back in Leon) and suddenly there were many hundreds of pilgrims milling about rather than the dozens we had got used to over the previous few days. Finding accommodation we wandered off separately, me to find a laundrette, drink a glass of wine and read a book. Because I now had to make an unscheduled visit to Madrid before flying home I needed to collapse two days’ walk into one, and mentally geared myself up for the resulting 43km walk tomorrow. 

The big day. By that evening I hoped I’d be in Santiago, and that evinced mixed feelings. After more than 4,000 km what was next? I’d made an early (half past five early) start and I sat in a coffee shop and pondered this. After twenty minutes decided that there would be plenty of time in Santiago to weep over the lack of fresh worlds to conquer, and in the meantime there was the small matter of 43km to walk. I was so lost in contemplation that I forgot to pay for my coffee and croissant, a fact I only realised about an hour and several kilometres, later! Using my head torch for the first 5 km I crossed a stream and small paths led through tiny villages as dawn gradually broke. John Lennon’s “Imagine” drifted from an open window somewhere. I most certainly was not the only “dreamer” on the camino today. I felt fresh and kept going until a small bar at Santa Irene after I’d covered 16km. Pedrouzo provided lunch and a wave of walkers overtook me as I sat and relaxed, drawn as if by some invisible magnet, their pace almost quickening the nearer they got to journey’s end. From Pedrouzo the path climbed again through forests before opening out to provide views of distant hills. The path ducked into the forest again, which eventually disgorged me close to Santiago airport. The town of Labacolla followed where pilgrims traditionally washed themselves properly after weeks or months on the road. The name translates as “wash scrotum” perhaps highlighting a particular concern of medieval pilgrims. The path continued, now mainly on paved roads, through San Marcos (welcome stop for a coke and to refill water) to Monte de Gozo (Mount of Joy) where at the crest one sees for the first time Santiago laid out beneath. Easy to think one has practically arrived but there’s still another 8km to walk, through suburbs, past hospitals and hotels, bars and shops. Reaching the old town, and following what is now a huge flow of pilgrims, uphill to where I finally glimpsed the cathedral, and made my way to it. Here I rendezvoused with Caz (who’d taken the bus for the final stretch) and Margaret, who’d flown in to greet me.

Laura Perazzoli and Dave Whitson, in their guide to the Northern camino, observe the various reactions to journey’s end. “The reality of arrival strikes pilgrims in different ways. For some it is a moment of unbridled euphoria, a culmination of weeks of exhaustion and joy, self-doubt and discovery…..For others it can feel anti-climactic and even depressing: an end to the great adventure and a return to the mundane.” In the drizzling rain that had now set in, I probably identified more with the latter, although part of me was already looking forward to next year! And yes, the trip to Madrid and subsequently Durham in the UK furnished me with both a temporary (emergency) passport and a permanent replacement at the cost of only several hundred pounds and a great deal of inconvenience!

July 2018

 

I’d decided that the Caminho Portugues looked fun! It’s about 620km from Lisbon to Porto which felt like a project for the next few years. Andy wanted to come again which was great by me – had enjoyed his company the previous year. We decided to start from Porto initially and walk north. So a flight into Porto, a tram to the city centre, and a short walk to Matosinhos that afternoon, just to get us going. Stopping to visit the cathedral, we walked about 500m before finding a beguiling café in a small square where we had the first of many pastéis de nata (egg custard tarts baked with cinnamon for the uninitiated, and extremely moreish especially with a glass of tawny port - when in Porto…) The path led along the Douro as it widened and headed west towards the open sea. Vintage trams rattled past from time to time. Arriving at the coast we turned right (north) and followed the coast mixing with holidaymakers and shoppers. Andy’s great sense of direction led us unerringly towards our accommodation for the night; and an unprepossessing café provided a memorable cheese and meat platter with some great rioja and a glass of ten year old tawny port to finish the evening.

The path took us up and over the “ponte movel” or lifting bridge which crosses the river Leca, and out to the coast. The path followed the promenade north, and sometimes picked its way across the beach on well-constructed wooden boardwalks. At Vila Cha, there was a rather unexpected memorial to a Lancaster bomber. On 17^th September 1943, having bombed viaducts and railways in the Cannes are, the aircraft was hit by anti-aircraft fire. A mistake in navigation meant that when the low clods cleared they found themselves not over the English Channel but rather over northern Spain and without fuel to make either England or Gibraltar, so they decided to try neutral Portugal, and successfully crash landed on the beach here. At Mindelo we shared a coffee and guidebooks with Deidre, Katherine and Margaret from Cork and compared notes on our planned routes. The route then climbed to a headland and moved away from the beach onto small paved roads. We passed the Santa Clara monastery, celebrating its 700^th anniversary since its foundation in 1318. The path then led into Vila do Conde and its mediaeval centre. A pleasant lady in the tourist office provided some suggestions for accommodation and one of these duly offered us a room. We took advantage of a laundrette and did a little shopping before setting down by the harbour for a steak and a glass of wine. I did some stretching exercises against the wall while we waited for the machines to finish pictures of which Andy later unkindly posted online with the caption “British man stops laundrette collapsing in small Portuguese town”

Up to now we’d been following the coastal route but in mix and match style had decided when planning to head inland from Vila do Conde to the central route. This required some map reading as the yellow arrows on which one can become over reliant were therefore non-existent as we were “off route” while we migrated from one to the other. We found ourselves quickly in a landscape of narrow lanes with high walls and the weather hot and humid. Andy – always better prepared than me – had done some research on google maps and had downloaded pictures of key junctions which enabled us to navigate smoothly join the path at Arcos. The way marking here was magnificent with fresh yellow arrows everywhere resplendent, guiding us along forest paths into eucalyptus woods. After a few more kms we emerged into St Pedro Rates where the only available coffee was some plastic chairs on the forecourt of a BP filling station – very classy. A shop a little further along allowed us to acquire lunch and the path led back into a wooded area with great views to the left.   Finding a low stone wall we sat / reclined on this (I may even have rested my eyes momentarily) and enjoyed our bread and fruit. The camino doesn’t feel busy, but several groups of pilgrims passed us in the 40 minutes we were there, testament to the fact that if you’re walking at roughly the same pace you can be a kilometre or two apart from others and never meet until one or the other of you stops. This was quite a long day (31.88km taking us 9 hours and 20 minutes with 6 hours and 29 minutes of this walking at an average speed of 4.9 kph) according to Andy, who fulfils the role of chief gadgetophile and stats man on our trips) and we felt the need to stop again after another 5 km at Tony’s bar where we enjoyed (listening to not singing) an impromptu alfresco pilgrim choir.    Chatting to other walkers there was the usual eclectic mix: Ivan from Denmark, Maria from Ireland, an American couple and German (from Thuringia). On through forests with a cobbled road underfoot and by and by first into Barcelinhos and then across the Rio Cavado and into Barcelos itself. A chain hotel provided perfectly acceptable accommodation for about €50 for the room. Sat in the sun with a beer and planned the next day and then had a great meal including the salt cod speciality of bacalhau (salt cod) while we watched increasing numbers of runners assembling for a fun run that was taking place through the night. My notes for the day also make two cryptic references: “Beware the Cheese” and “Mad Axe Murderer” which were intended as significant pieces of shorthand to remind me of something funny or noteworthy, but whose significance are now lost in the mists of time!

Today was the longest stage at 34km and we were both feeling a little apprehensive as there were also two big climbs (the section cuts across two river valleys (the Neiva and the Lima). Leaving Barcelos fairly early therefore after a breakfast on the outside terrace of the hotel overlooking the woods below, we quickly left Barcelos behind and after 40 minutes arrived in Vila Boa, 3.4km from Barcelos. My announcement at this point that we’d already covered a tenth of the day’s route was not apparently received in the encouraging spirit in which it had been intended. Crossing a railway line we found ourselves walking in pine woods and talk turned to retirement –  still some years away for me and even more distant for Andy – but Andy’s thesis in a blog he’d read about ensuring three elements of projects, relaxing and purpose seemed to resonate. I also shared in this context a favourite quote of mine from G K Chesterton: ““There are two ways to get enough. One is to continue to accumulate more and more. The other is to desire less.” This conversation took us into Aborim. Some 11km from Barcelos. The bar provided coffees but was mainly populated by men of a certain age knocking back ruby port at 11 am in the morning. Leaving Aborim, we found ourselves on paths adjacent to a river that would easily flood in the winter but were fine at this time of the year. It was Sunday, and ethereal recorded choral music, broadcast at high volume, followed us in a surreal fashion for some time. The mediaeval bridge at Ponte das Tabuas took us safely across the river Neiva where several had stopped for a swim. Through vineyards now the path passed through Balagues and Corgo and started to climb again. At Vitorino des Pines, with about two thirds of the walk done, we happened across a bar. Never had microwaved lasagne, ice cream and a beer tasted so good. Refreshed, we pressed on Facha and its welcome fountain and on sandy tracks, and past a kiwi orchard to Ponte de Barros to drop down onto the river Lima which led us into the town. A huge crowd had gathered by the river to watch the France v Croatia world cup final displayed on giant screens, and we found a hotel just on the river and just before the town which was prepared to offer a small pilgrim discount on a twin room which we gratefully booked.  A great al fresco meal in the evening as the local French expatriate community celebrated exuberantly their win.

A shorter day of only 20 km but with a significant climb to over 400m was the trade off today. No need for a fabulously early start soi Andy enjoyed a lie in while I went for a saunter around town and sat in the sunshine with a coffee and croissant. Portuguese croissants look like French ones there the similarity ends – they are heavier, more like a brioche in texture – very filling). The path led back over the river and past the official albergue (long emptied by the leisurely time we passed it). After about 9k, we stopped at a café in Revolta, rather daunted by the climb that followed. In the bar we found ensconced three Dutch, a Brazilian, two Germans, a Swiss, and a French Canadian – the latter an anglophile delighted to talk to us. She had done several caminos and had also walked across Hadrian’s Wall. Two cheese rolls, crisps, two cokes and four coffees later we could procrastinate no longer and almost immediately the climb started. First a little one, and then a slog to the top of the ridge, about 300m of ascent in two kilometres. Puffing a bit, we reached the top where an enterprising individual had set up a caravan selling drinks. We felt we earned a drink and sat down with a Dutch family. Direct, as his compatriots tend to be, the father quizzed me about my ancestry and I said the family tree seemed to indicate I might have some Dutch blood in me. How much, he asked? Probably about 1/32^nd I replied. “Ha! That’s the good looking bit!” he guffawed. Gradual descent to Rubiaes and some rooms just off the path. We stood on the veranda and watched a series of pilgrims gradually pass, many of whom we recognised and some of whom also stopped. Enjoyed a sports massage (guy from local village arrived with all equipment including bed!) and then found the evening meal arrangements to be rather complicated – a taxi arrived and took us to a restaurant in the village for a set pilgrim’s meal but we had to walk the 2km back!

 The final day of the walk this year was another reasonably easy one, just 19km to Valenca. Failing to engage a monosyllabic German over breakfast, we met a Brazilian called Tsiago and fell into step with him. The conversation ranged over the hereditary principle, cognitive behavioural therapy and the origins of the camino. Around lunch time we chanced across the delightful Albergue Quinta Estrada Romana near Passos who provided an excellent lunch for the three of us as we sat in the sun. The rest of the day we spent amicably with Tsiagos and soon arrived in Valenca, Portugal’s frontier town at its northern border with Spain. We sat with a glass of wine on the entrance to the town and watched our “bubble” drift in, exchanging greetings with many of them. We ceremoniously walked exactly half way across the bridge over the river Minho to the Spanish / Portuguese border but didn’t take a footstep into Spain; that was for next year! Then off to the train station where a train back to Porto already felt faintly nostalgic as we spotted several of the isolated spots we had walked through the previous year. A day at leisure in Porto which culminated in a memorable port tasting (10 yo white, 30 yo tawny, ’85 colheita, ’74 colheita, 40 yo tawny, and a ’77 vintage) and the following day a flight back to the UK.

September 2019

 

A flight to Santiago, the shuttle bus into town, and being very careful with my passport, a bus down to Valenca and our hotel set the scene for the following day’s walk.

I’m ashamed, reading my notes, to see how often coffee stops featured today! We left our hotel reasonably early and crossed the bridge into Spain. This was meant to be a shortish walk to Mos of some 21km but it transpired that the distance was set from a start point in Tui a few km further on. As a result we found ourselves with a coffee and croissant in a beautiful colonnaded square (Plaza do Concello) around half ten and wondering how it was so late, how relaxed we were, how little we wanted to start walking, and how we had so many miles still to walk. Andy stiffened our resolve by reminding us that the only time success comes before work is in the dictionary, and we walked off. We managed seven or eight kilometres before encountering another attractive café with the slogan on its blackboard outside reading, “the best time to drink coffee is now”. Agreeing, we whiled away a further half hour in the sunshine. The route continued into Porrino, a ghastly place of cement factories and where the path stuck closely to the main road. Another coffee was obviously called for, accompanied by some tortilla. The last 5 km were almost too much: a scorching sun and paved paths with little shelter and the road seeming never-ending. We kept expecting Mos to materialise round the corner but it was always a bit further. Finally the small village appeared and we managed to grab the last two bunks in the albergue. I hate albergues. Some love them as part of the authentic camino experience, but I loathe almost everything about them from the lack of privacy, the queue for the loos and showers, the snoring in the dormitories, the 10pm lights out, and of course the dawn chorus from about half past four of people whispering, feeling under bunks for that lost shoe, and clumping about as the first walkers depart. And as latecomers we had the top bunks – a further pet hate. Still, we had some good tapas and a glass of wine in the neighbourhood restaurant which restored my jaundiced perspective, and there was a bit of me that enjoyed the fact that in this quiet village the exterior door to the dormitory was left open all night allowing a cooling breeze and a view of the stars.

Mos to Pontevedra was a reasonably stiff day of 20 miles, so for once we were up early (with the rest of the albergue) just after 5 am, and exited the albergue around quarter past six. The hills that followed were fine with fresh legs as we walked along with the aid of head torches into the woods of the next stage. Streaks of the dawn started to appear, and after about an hour we were able to navigate unaided and just make out the chapel dedicated to Santiago Cabellero. The road then descended and we fell into conversation with two women, Monique and Christine (Canadian and Swede) who walked with us down into Redondala, and with whom we shared breakfast. It was great to be sitting in the open air as the sun started warming us at 9am and with nearly a third of the day’s walk already done. Two climbs today, but both modest at less than 200m. The first took us into the little seaside town of Arcade and then up again to the Alto da Canicouva. Almost all of the walking was woodland with some minor country roads. As we climbed there was a bagpiper playing by the side of the road, momentarily confusing me; like many I associate bagpipes with Scotland. But in Portugal and Galicia there have been bagpipes for centuries. They are known as 'gaitas'; and the pipers play traditional Galician folk tunes. One could even speculate on the Gaelic links between the Celtic fringe in Europe (Wales is “Gales” in Spanish for example, not too distant linguistically from Galicia)  but the piper was clearly enjoying himself and no kilts were in evidence. Planes coming into and out of Vigo airport made their presence felt. Another coffee stop and sello (stamp) by the side of the road provided another welcome break. The stamp imprinted the following in my credencial: “no llega antes el que va mas rapido sino el que sabe donde va” (The one who goes faster does not arrive before the one who knows where he is going). We found a hotel without problem, and Pontevedra proved a pleasant city to navigate before settling down for a meal. My notebook records, “A long and enchanting day”.

 

A delight to be back in Porto once more, albeit a late flight that gave me only a few hours' sleep before the 8am bus to Albergaria a-Velha, last year's terminus. The first few kilometres were through pine and eucalyptus forests but this gave way to minor roads. At Branca I stumbled across a newish alberge (Casa Catolico) and stopped for a drink. I was welcomed by Ania. As we chatted, it became clear that my lack of forward booking would be a problem with that part of the country in fiesta mode; and a few phone calls and web searches confirmed this! I decided to stay there for the night and leaving my pack, walked on. Plenty of small bars and cafes en route provided refreshment and arrival in Oliveira de Azemeis. Could easily have called it a day but pressed on to Sao Joao de Madeira, continuing to cross and recross a small narrow gauge railway. A taxi back to Casa Catolico and a great evening with Paolo and Ania – a lovely couple well-versed in the caminho and its traditions. The following morning they kindly drove me back to Sao Joao and accompanied me for a kilometre of two. A coffee at Ferradal at 10km in and then pressed onto Grigo for lunch – the last couple of kilometres paralleling the wall of the huge monastery there. Just before Perozhino, passing a bar, the owner stopped me and insisted I have a glass of wine and toast Anglo-Portuguese friendship. Ambushed by port….? The last few km from Rechousa were pretty grim walking on hard pavements and through unattractive suburbs and was glad to reach Vila Nova de Gaia – journey’s end. Another interesting day – en route encountering a lilac church, an alpaca farm, a French pilgrim on her way to Fatima, and a surprising amount of erotic statuary in the front gardens of the local population.

 

September 2023

 

Setting out from a city centre hostel in Faro into a dark and drizzly morning, I found my way to the cathedral and headed out through old arches to the waterfront. Heading tentatively north, past tarpaulined and silent boats, my spirits were buoyed by my first yellow arrow boldly daubed on the harbour wall. The path crossed the railway and gradually wended its way into the city’s suburbs via parks and dog walking trails. At a level crossing it took me  - slightly disconcertingly - along a railway line until branching right and crossing a main road into more suburbs and a welcome café. Houses falling away, a minor road (still adequately signposted) took me past the occasional barking dog through a series of minor crossroads and shuttered houses until bringing me back onto the Rua de Santa Barbara where all arrows evaporated. After a kilometre or two I reluctantly concluded I was lost and stopped at a divergence of minor roads for some water and to work out what to do next. As I swigged from the bottle I saw, beneath my feet, faded and practically invisible, a yellow arrow pointing right (head for Mata Lobos at the junction should you ever find yourself on this particular caminho!) A series of roads and tracks took me to Falfosa and the small town of Santa Barbara de Nexe where lunch awaited. Climbing steeply now, the road continued to rise with panoramic views opening up behind me of the morning’s walk and the port of Faro in the distance.   Some steep ascents before the top of the hill at just under 400m. Then downhill, Loulé appearing in the far distance. One final savage climb on a narrow path and then the final descent into Loulé. The town itself is still a further three km or so along a road but the end in sight. Treated myself to the Loulé Jardim hotel and unreservedly recommend it – great rooms, facilities and service. Loulé has lots going on – a castle, historic centre and some lovely churches as well as many shops and restaurants. Journey’s end is officially the Igreja de São Clemente which I duly visited.

From Loule the path is adequately signed for the first km or so and then one arrives at footbridge over the ring road. No signage. Cross this and then on the other side watch out for a track leaving the road to the left after about 300m. This continues along deserted small roads encompassed by stone walls on both sides before heading off left again into the Vale Telheiro with super views of the town that you’ve left behind. The path now became pretty isolated, passing the odd huge villa and keeping an eagle eye for the odd yellow arrow (or the alternative red St James waymarks sometimes stencilled onto stones and walls). The path was mainly off road but occasionally would join a minor road for a kilometre or two. Then it became seriously remote but the paths remained the wide and sandy ones so familiar to pilgrims. At a crossroads the path veered downhill towards a small road and once again steeply up to Tor. A lovely village, with a cobbled square and many trees but which was empty of all life. Up again and then off the road into small paths filled with broken ceramics and to the crest of a hill. The way meandered into the deserted hamlet of Nava das Mealhas – only one house populated, the rest in ruins; what happened here one wonders. The next few kilometres were the highlight of the day; a steep escarpment falling away to the left giving panoramic views into the forested valley below, the shadow of clouds scudding along below and a sensation of emptiness and peace. Another road to cross and another climb through small hamlets – pomegranates growing wild by the side of the road -  and over moorland until picking up a minor road that descends sharply , crosses the small Ribeira da Braziera and then up into Salir and journey’s end at the Igreja Matriz and onto the welcoming accommodation provided by Casa da Mae.

Casa da Mae is all of 40m off the Way, and the next day I continued on the road to a T junction a couple of kilometres on. Turning right, the road loops down to the little village of Ameixeirinhas. Watch carefully, as a small sign then takes you off the road to the left and into a path through forests which climbs -at the end very sharply – to the summit at around 450m.  From here the path continues, sometimes borrowing a minor road, but more often in huge loops on rocky paths through deserted forests and passing small streams. Through the tiny village of California – and yes, delightfully, there is a hotel – and then the hamlets of Sarnadinha and Ximeno. Plenty of water required – it’s seriously remote. The path eventually emerges onto a small country road and one thinks one is about to arrive. But no, Ameixial is still some 4km away; making the small bar at Azinhal especially welcome. The last three kilometres are to be endured really – road all the way and a steady – at times, steep – upwards gradient. Ameixial itself offers no private accommodation but has a pilgrim hostel – make sure you present yourself at the Junta des Freguesia before 5pm! Here I met Wilhelm, a pilgrim from Germany with whom I shared a drink and dinner.

Ameixial is soon left behind as the path twists and turns through a few houses and then delivers the walker onto a broad path as the sun gradually rises to the right. A few mountain bikers were out early as well but no walkers at seven o’clock in the morning. The path swept up and down the contours, and Revezes, 6km in, soon appeared. I’d hoped for breakfast here but it was just a few houses. Munching a rather stale pastry from the day before, I continued to a river and dam (Pegode Cascalheira) where I took a moment for a rest and some water. Across the river on a narrow concrete causeway and then just tracks, the occasional herd of sheep or goats (always serenaded in advance by their bells), through extensive forests and with the sun beating down through perhaps the remotest country so far – and it’s been far from populated up to now! One emerges onto a minor road with a steep climb up into Santa Cruz, past a deserted church. Santa Cruz offers a couple of bars and some accommodation if one is wanting a shorter stage but I’d decided to get to Almadovar; so after a short break and a cheese sandwich I continued on out of the village, past a caminho sign and the encouraging message “Boa Viagem – Deus te acompanhe”. The scenery beyond Santa Crus was radically different. The undulating country of the last couple of days gave way to featureless tracts of land, with perhaps the odd tree to provide shelter for the odd goat. Wayfinding was difficult and more than once my app saved me from diverging significantly from the path. Guedelhas provided a small café. By now it was 5pm, I’d picked up an Achilles pain in my left foot and despite extensive googling and phoning had nowhere to stay in Almadovar – everywhere seemed full. Fortunately the woman at the café was a “camino angel” and took it upon herself to phone every contact she had, and eventually announced that the local fire station would offer me a bed for the night! Thanking her profusely, I limped on for the last ten kilometres, the white painted town of Almadovar eventually appearing from a fold in the hills above. Not knowing quite what to expect – I’d never stayed at a fire station before! – I presented myself at the Bombeiros where I was warmly welcomed by the - largely female – crew and shown my very comfortable room for the night by Daniela and Francisco. A meal at a local restaurant and then nine hours sleep!   The following day was a day for rest and recuperation and to explore the lovely town of Almadovar. Over morning coffee one of those serendipitous conversations started when I met Reuben, a Spanish pilgrim who, spotting my limp, engaged me in conversation. He’d also done various caminhos and made me a gift of some anti-inflammatory cream as well as insisting buying me a coffee! A lovely guy who provided encouragement at the start of the day. Then I found some fantastic accommodation for the night (Casa da Cerca) run by the hospitable Andrea. A relaxed day, wandering the streets of the little town, visiting the launderette, buying some anti-inflammatory tablets and other pharmaceutical necessities - it’s amazing how well stocked small pharmacies in small Portuguese villages are - enjoying a siesta, and then reading by the pool until dinner and an early night.

An early start after a great breakfast and onto a small road and then onto a succession of tracks through an extensive rural landscape with no hint of shade.  I passed cereal fields, olive groves, scattered cork and oak forests, sheep pasture and even the occasional vineyard. The paths continued through forest and sheep country until the hamlet of A do Neves and then along a small road into the village of Rosario. I made the schoolboy error of stopping at the first bar for lunch before passing three others, all of increasingly superior quality as the path continued through and out of Rosario.  A very empty landscape, with the odd oak tree and parched yellow grass everywhere. At the top of a hill there was some evidence of a market garden with a stern notice forbidding passers-by from picking mushrooms and asparagus. Under a railway line, and to Monte da Filipeja – have your stick ready for dogs! There are lots of gates now which have to be carefully closed as they control the movements of the herds and ensure the rotation of pastures. Passing Monte dos Prazeres, the path sloped down, crossed the stream, and then continued through olive groves onto a rural road that led up into Castro Verde, an interesting town proud of its green credentials. The excellent Vila Verde hotel provided a welcome journey’s end.

For various complicated logistical reasons, I did this walk backwards, ie taxi to Messejana and then walked back to Castro Verde. The path from Messejana does a huge dogleg across the motorway (head out of town on the road to Aljustrel if you want to avoid and watch for the path intersecting to the right a couple of kms outside the town). It then continues through Pinheiro (estate with grounds) and eventually over a railway line and the deserted old station of Casevel. Here the heavens opened and soon found and penetrated the weak spots in my cagoule. Feeling resentful at this unPortuguese weather (I can get rained on at home) as the downpour intensified I found myself marching along and shouting at the rain, channelling my inner King Lear; “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! / You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout / Till you have drench'd our steeples…”  The rain began to abate as I reached the small village of Casevel where a small bar provided coffee, shelter and solace. So inclement was the weather I felt justified in ordering a “café um bagazo” (a coffee with an aguardiente (brandy) chaser). Thus fortified, the remaining 10km back to Castro Verde - in more rain – were there to be completed, rather than enjoyed. Nevertheless, rain and wind always make arrival in warmth and dry even more welcome!

 

 

Iona to Lisbon (and beyond!) - 3,300 miles and a great experience! But for me, more than just a long walk.  A pilgrimage is a physical journey with a spiritual purpose - however one chooses to define that word - although for me it sits in the Christian tradition. It's about setting out with the hope that one can return with a better understanding of the need to balance plenty and well-being. It's about taking time out from the frenetic pace of life, the lack of time and the stress caused by too much information to reflect on the important things in life. It's about leaving behind everyday life for a time and gaining new perspectives and orientation on our lives and relationships. And it is about making oneself vulnerable and putting oneself in situations where these outcomes become more likely.

Each day starts as a blank canvas with often no idea of where one will sleep, what one will eat, or who one will meet - and horizons shrink to the present and to the immediate. There are no meetings to prepare, phone calls to make or receive, schedules to update, colleagues and clients to negotiate with or targets to hit. One is able to enjoy more the here and now. Because one knows nothing of the immediate future, it is easier to become saturated in the present, and to enjoy it.

Finally it's an opportunity to engage with strangers, often of different nationalities, backgrounds and outlooks and to learn from them. Most of the people we talk to know us well - but on the camino we meet strangers and as we talk to them, precisely because they don't know us, we often get something totally different reflected back to us and gain new insight - what a French woman I met called, "l'école de la vie personelle"

Many of these old routes are charged with history. "The empty air has absorbed the voices and laughter of knights and pilgrims, bacon and cabbage, curses and prayers, songs now long forgotten”.(Cees Noteboom). The Celts believed that Iona was a “thin place” where the boundaries between earth and heaven were especially porous, and for me parts of the camino exude a similar sense. To be a pilgrim is to be aware of the millions who have gone before and the many that will pass after you.

 

‎Marche.  Tu es né pour la route.

Marche. Tu as rendez-vous.

Où? Avec qui ?

Tu ne le sais pas encore…

Avec toi, peut-être ?

Le chemin, ta chanson.

La fatigue, ta prière.

Et ton silence, enfin, te parlera.

 

Marche.

Ta tête ne sait pas où tes pieds conduisent ton cœur.

Marche.

Tu es né pour la route, celle du pèlerinage.

Un Autre marche avec toi et te cherche pour que tu puisses le trouver.

Il est ta Paix

Il est ta Joie

Va

Déjà, ton Dieu marche avec toi

 

"Set out!

You were born for the road.

Set out!

You have a meeting to keep.

Where? With whom?

You don’t know yet…

Perhaps with yourself?

 

The path, your song.

Weariness, your prayer

And your silence, finally, will speak to you.

 

Set out!

Your head does not know where your feet are leading your heart.

Set out!

You were born for the road, for this pilgrimage.

An Other walks with you and searches for you that you may find it.

He is your Peace.

He is your Joy

Go

Already, your God walks with you.

 

 

 © JOHN HATTAM 2023