Distance Walked: 431 miles
Current No. Blisters: ~2
Ah, another week passes. I’m now around 30% into this pilgrimage (by milage anyway), and only my feet are really feeling it.
This week has been a week of questions. I was aware before setting off that people tend to do a lot of thinking on these journeys (indeed there is not a whole lot else to do, unless one fancies focusing on the various aches and pains that come and (mostly) go, of which I’ve grown rather bored). But, perhaps the calibre of question that I’ve been pondering is not quite up there with other’s musings on the nature of existence. For example, walking into Reims, I was faced with the difficult task of working out the most diplomatic (or indeed, least undiplomatic) manner in which to hang my underwear out to dry on my ‘sac-à-dos’, as they say in France.
Another challenge faced, and greatly considered, was the pairing of a wine with much craved salmon, for dinner: a decision between a warm red, or indeed a warm white (limited by shop availability). I really do feel to be roughing it (I went with a warm red, in anticipation of some sausage the next day, and out of a long borne hatred for the transparent acidity of a warm white – adventure as this is, I naturally picked a bottle I had never heard of before, and found it to be rather drinkable).
While I’m on the subject of food and drink, there are probably three more things I should mention. Firstly, since starting the hike, I have had the most bizzare craving for Kiwi fruits (not really in my usual diet). I have no idea why this is. Secondly, I am rather glad that I brought two water bottles with me. I was expecting to be carrying enough water for a full day, and thus decided a good capacity of 1.5 litres would be needed. In reality, I’ve been taking a leaf out of Major T.E. Lawrence’s book, and travelling light between “wells”, and drinking like a fish when I arrive. As a result, the spare water bottle has found use as a receptacle for leftover wine; very useful on a long march.
The third and final point is one of breakfast. The first time I was presented with coffee in a bowl, I was in two minds about how to go about drinking it (fortunately, I didn’t go for the spoon/soup method). After a few weeks though, having a morning coffee in a bowl is really rather pleasant, and I find it keeps the heat in well. I think there’s a whole minefield of etiquette around dipping things in the coffee (which some people seem to love, and others frown at), but I’ve avoided this, just to be safe.
The walks of the week have been defined in many ways by one drink: champagne. I began by approaching Reims, through some of the northern champagne villages. I rather liked Cormicy, a neat and pretty town. Beige buildings, and terracotta roofs (and perhaps decent weather) seemed to give it an almost Mediterranean feel. Many houses proudly displayed their local champagne label outside, often followed by “vigneron indépendent”, or a similar mark. I was even let in the church (most of the French village churches are locked, unless it is Sunday morning), where I was promptly shown the statue of Joan of Arc. They graciously forgave me for being English, and indeed for the actions of the English eight hundred years ago, and then gave me the local stamp for the pilgrim passport.
I made it into the outskirts of Reims on Saturday (I remain utterly confused about the pronunciation, even having been there – everyone says it differently, each adamant that theirs is the correct way), and passed through the Cathedral on Sunday morning, during the service. As with the other Cathedrals passed on this journey, it’s an incredible building. However, inside it is mostly draped in a darkness that lends it a modesty not really befitting of such glorious architecture. The construction is beautiful, and should be seen in the same glorious light as at Laon, in my view! Again it is gothic architecture, from eight hundred years ago, something I am sure I will never tire of seeing.
After leaving Reims that morning, I made my way down the canals, and eventually turned southwards towards the vine covered slopes of the Champagne Region, proper. Of course, it is spring, and the young, almost flaxen vine leaves are just beginning to push out, beautifully contrasting the dark vines themselves. They drape most of the North facing slopes; row after perfect row of them. Stone markers by the gravel road indicate the owners, everyone from small local labels, to the big brands you’ll find in UK shops. The hills do a splendid, but unnecessary job of hiding the lovely little villages of the region – it’s easy to walk for miles, expecting to approach a village, and then to reach a vine covered ridge crest to see the houses, church, et al. hidden in a little fold in the hills. I passed through many villages, some of which are indeed big names in the champagne world (Verzy, Verzanay, and indeed the appropriately named Bouzy!). The weather was stunning, and I had a marvellous time walking between the vines, all the while carrying out a little bit of industrial espionage, in case I decide to plant a few vines of my own at some point. I took enough photos of the different pruning styles, the spacing, and even the soil (which seemed to be artificially agitated in many cases) for anyone watching to think me some spy for the burgeoning wine industry in Sussex and Kent! A walk through the cool woods that topped the hills, above the lower vine-covered slopes, made for a fantastic end to the day. I spent the night at a pilgrim host/local vigneron, where I surprised a couple of Belgians by pouring out a glass of wine from my spare water bottle at dinner.
The next day was an early rise, indeed as early as the workers in the vineyards I continued through, who roamed the slopes with secateurs, alongside the odd (and they are indeed rather odd) mechanical metal beast that did the same. I couldn’t quite make out exactly what these machines were doing, but they looked to be rather multifunctional.
I was sad indeed to say goodbye to the vines, but by the end of the day I had, despite spending that night at the regional capital of Chalon-en-Champagne. It was a rainy night, spent in a tent at a campsite, and perhaps not worth talking about much. It’s more interesting to make a note on the presence of barrels in the Champagne region. In short, barrels are king; plantpots, decorations, coffee tables, letter boxes – you name it, and the French will make it from a barrel here. Quite extraordinary, and really rather pretty (and in some cases even functional).
The following day, I pushed further south, on a ‘shortcut’ route. The modern Via Francigena avoids this part of France, because it lacks ‘services’. As far as shops, supermarkets, bars, restaurants, even boulangeries go, it is a veritable desert. There is nothing, except French road, Roman road, and a few small groups of houses – for sixty miles. But this was the historic route (and far more importantly, was 30 miles shorter), so I was determined to take it. The daily routine of walking 20 miles a day through French villages had begun to feel normal, but this section was different. In stocking up on a few days worth of food and supplies, I felt to be preparing for an adventure within the adventure of this walk – I was going against the guidebook, and into the unknown. Accommodation was as sparse as shops (i.e. less than nothing), and so I had to prepare for the worst – garden camping of the kind I’d done in Tournehem-Sur-la-Hem, three weeks ago, just after my arrival in France.
After a solid march on the first day, heading south from Chalon-en-Champagne, I finished the day a good halfway through the shortcut, glad of stocking up on supplies, but without a room for the night. I eventually found shelter in an open church, and spent the night in the cold (almost approaching sub-zero temperatures outside, uncharacteristic of France in April). It was not a particularly good night, and I left before the sun rose the next morning. I had managed to secure some kind of accommodation for the following night by ringing the town hall of one of the little villages ahead (Donnement). I understood from the exchange that there would be something, if I met someone by ‘the monument’, wherever that was in the town, at five pm. Because I had risen so early in the morning, I was in Donnement at 2 pm, and expected a long wait. It was with great surprise that I was caught unawares by my host for the night, washing and cooling my feet in the local river at what I was later told was a public area for washing laundry.
And so, after a dismal cold night in the church, I was well fed, well watered (with quince wine), slept well, and was ready to end the semi-disastrous shortcut route the following day, by rejoining the main route at Brienne-le-Château. I had barely a meal of food remaining from my original supplies when I passed the supermarket on entering Brienne-le-Château (after crossing Napoleon boulevard, passing a statue of Napoleon, and indeed walking past the illustrious Napoleon Pharmacy).
It was a pleasant evening, spent with Greg, who had finally caught up with me (after tailing me by one day, all the way from Calais). We cooked a curry, drank champagne (I was almost worried I was not going to fit a little imbibing in whilst in the region) and slept well. Today, we walked together to Bar-sur-Aube, across some rather lovely French countryside. I was really rather impressed with the clarity of water in the little streams and rivers along the way. And for the moment, that is it! I now need to go to Carrefour, to find supplies for tomorrow, as there are no shops for the next 40 km!
Final note – feet are generally doing well. I seem to have passed the blister phase. Perhaps my left big toe is not particularly happy, but otherwise the feet are faring OK. I am slow to stand up though, and can’t help but hear Richard Strauss’s ‘Also Sprach Zarathustra’ every time I do so. Still, I’d expected worse for 430 miles in!