Distance Walked: 652 miles
Current No. Blisters: 0! (Not zero factorial!)
It was an early morning, starting in Gy last Saturday. And thank goodness too, because the walk to Besançon was rather punishing: constant climbing and decending on never ending hills (for the whole day, even something so small as a glimpse of Besançon was “always over the next hill”), and all set in the scene of start-stop rain. All that made for some serious difficulty in deciding on whether, and indeed when, to wear and remove the coat and / or fleece. I didn’t catch sight of Besançon until I was already enveloped in its streets. I had also had no luck finding a pilgrim space in the city (all full apparently, even the ones with 20 spaces…). So I checked into a hotel, and cooked a bit of pasta for dinner, being thoroughly bored of eating bread. It was without doubt a challenging day, and yet one that I wouldn’t change, if I could. Ups and downs are part of the route, and equally of the pilgrimage.
What I did notice over the day, was the change in scenery; France, as I had known it all the way from Pas-de-Calais, was ending. The terrain blended from fields to forests; from gentle slopes, to rather serious looking hills, that I looked at, and hoped I didn’t have to climb. I was forced, at this point, to start thinking three-dimensionally. In the ‘old’ France, a shortcut was a shortcut, and there was no climb not worth doing to shave a kilometer or two off the route to Rome. But from Besançon onwards, this guarantee was gone: finally the third dimension became significant, and the effort in climbing and descending was something to be considered.
As such, the days following Besançon were long and hard. Though I should perhaps first mention that the boulangerie “La Viennoise” in the old centre of Besançon provided me with what must have been the best croissant I have ever eaten. It was such a fantastically light pastry, that it deserves a mention. The chasson aux pommes was equally delightful, and effortless to eat. Unfortunately, pastry had to do that Sunday morning, as the Cathedral in Besançon was closed until well after I left the city.
The climb that day was rather instant, as was the fatigue, incidentally! But the views were simply stunning. After climbing past Vauban’s fortress citadel of Besançon, the views opened up, and finally (a day late, at the least) I could see, in a single field of view, the city in which I’d spent the night: the beautiful city centre, with its wide streets and old town comfortably accommodated by the bend in the river; the large and rather tasteless hotel building that had housed me (at a very reasonable price); and the steep green holts surrounding it all. It was a stunning view, that very quickly disappeared behind the midge infested marshes of the hills to the south.
I ran out of water halfway through the day. Not daring to drink from any of the streams that rolled past, down towards the swamp, I stopped in the village of Foucherans to try the tap in the cemetery. It was completely dry. Somehow, though, I ended up getting whisked into the centre of the local honey festival, which happened to be running that day. On learning that I’d walked a thousand kilometers, and was heading for Rome, the locals provided me with free beer, refilled my water, and talked wih me for a while. The remainder of the day’s walk, along an old railway line, circumnavigating the the Loue valley, passed very quickly.
Now, I can’t recall if I’ve mentioned it already, but even if so, it’s worth another mention: Sunday in rural France is always difficult. Nothing is open. There is no food, and no-one answers the phone when calling for accommodation, and life as a pilgrim becomes very difficult. Much preparation is required for Sundays. On this particular Sunday, the only source of food in my destination town of Ornans was a small hut outside a petrol station that sold pizza (according to Google). The hut was open, and I took a rather lovely pizza for dinner, sitting down to eat it, while hot, under the rain shelter of a car-hoovering station. I (rather reasonably?) reasoned that the car hoovering station would not be busy at 19:30 on a Sunday evening. Defying all logic, it somehow was, and shortly after settling down, I found myself out on the grass watching the locals vacuum away as night fell.
The next day was quite something. Firstly, a stunning walk along what remained of the Loue Valley, and then a truly beautiful climb to the source of the river itself. For the full day, I and my clothes were soaked in a clingy mixture of rain, condensation, and sweat. Combined with 1000 meters of ascent, and interminable rain, conditions were categorically worse than the previous day; and yet it was fantastic. The final push into Pontarlier was also equally epic, and punishing. I arrived, a complete mess, six minutes before check-in closed at the hostel, at 19:24. I had started walking at around 07:15.
Perhaps in the mountains, the effort and pain are so much greater, but so are the rewards. In the Jura Mountains, these take the form of far-reaching vistas of limestone crags, some almost karst-like, and many frowning over frothing rivers, far below. Some look like ripe real-estate for Bond-villains. None of this was diminished, by being seen through sweat-smudged, rain-covered glasses.
I left Pontarlier with no notion of where the following night would be spent. Again, I’d had no luck with the pilgrim network, and so simply set off towards the Swiss border, at as fast a pace as I dared. Yet again, it rained horrifically. At least, this time, a chap stopped his car in the middle of the road, raising my spirits by telling me I was bringing truth to the French phrase “morning rain doesn’t stop the Pilgrim”. The scenic highlight of this grey day would have to have been the Château de Joux, sat proudly on its solitary limestone pillar amid an almost alpine (I’m aware I’m jumping the gun with that word) plain.
Getting desperate by evening, and still pushing for the Swiss border, I knocked on a door to ask if I could camp in a garden. The answer was a stern ‘no’, on account of the weather, and I was told to take a room inside instead. After much protesting, I gave way, was brought inside, and given an attic room. Nicole reacted fiercly when I suggested sleeping on the floor to save washing the sheets: “I have so many beds! You cannot sleep on the floor! You will not sleep on the floor!”. So I gave way again, to a bed and steamy shower. I was truly humbled by Nicole’s kindness. She embodied the absolute best of the France I’d seen for thirty days, and would leave behind the next morning (she lives less than a kilometer from the Swiss frontier).
After a final, and by now classic, French breakfast of bread, confiture, and coffee, she refused to accept a cent for saving me that night. I did however manage to get her to give me her address, for a postcard from Rome.
Eight hundred meters later I crossed the frontier into Switzerland. Only a small stone monument marked the significant step into the third country on this pilgrimage. At last, the good weather arrived, and the highs and lows of 1000 km of France were behind me.
Switzerland has been absolutely beautiful so far. The Via Francigena descends from the heights of the Jura Mountains, through the gorgeous gorge (sorry!) of the Orbe river. It’s an easy, and enjoyable walk on soft ground, surrounded by the sweet smells of pine, and the sounds of the water, sometimes a hundred feet below. I sat down on a small sandy beach to cook some lunch, before following the river to the town of Orbe, and then climbing upwards to the little village of Romainmôtier for the night.
Incidentally, the Abbey Church of Romainmôtier was the first protestant Church I’d visited since leaving Dover. Other than that, the town was a glorious Mediterranean beige, and provided some rather stunning views as well. The Neuchatel lake could just be seen, and behind, a ghostly mirage of cloud covered Alps faded in and out with the weather.
Now for a slightly brief comment on wine. When walking down the gorge, I met a few hikers. Many were German-Swiss, and didn’t speak French – yet another language to deal with (and I’m not exactly a language person). But this did cause me to think a little more about the Swiss in general. It seemed strange that two halves of the population speak two languages, and indeed, many do not speak the language of the other half. Even in huge countries this isn’t necessarily the case. In China, though people speak completely different languages, I gather they are united by a common written language. Little Switzerland doesn’t even have that! Now to bring things back to wine. Despite the fact that Switzerland was busy being Switzerland (I.e. expensive – e.g. 28 Francs for a grass pitch for a night), I decided to drown my sorrows in a bottle of Swiss wine. I’ve been keen to try the vintages of Switzerland for a while, not least because they don’t actually export their wine, and so it is rather tricky to get hold of, outside of the country. So, I bought a bottle, and set to work drinking it, at the campsite. The grapes were two I didn’t know: gamaret, and garanoir. Google revealed that these sister grape varieties were crossbred specifically for production in French and German Switzerland, respectively. The differing grapes were combined in the wine, in what I thought was a rather lovely sentiment: something fantastic emerging from a single, internally different, but united Switzerland.
It was very drinkable, and indeed not cheap, but given Swiss prices, who knows! I hope I’m not waxing lyrical about the equivalent of a £3 bottle of Penguin Sands!!
On Thursday, I left Romainmôtier, walking the full 42 km to Lausanne. The weather was perfect, and made for some fast walking (needed, given I’d slept through my alarm). Most of the walk was spent following a river, without much else to look at. Despite that, it was rather pleasant in the somewhat overdue warmth. The real stunner though, was arriving at Lake Geneva. It was another one of these places that couldn’t be seen until right under one’s nose. But when it did appear, mirroring unblemished deep skies, and the first view of forested, and snow slathered alps, it was quite a sight indeed. The lake was too cold to swim in, but I did paddle for a while in the body of water that marked the end of my first guidebook for this walk.
Today was another rather long walk, this time around the lake, starting at my campsite in Lausanne, and ending at another campsite just past Vevy. Again the views have been stunning, particularly when walking through the vineyards (were I did stop to try a sip of the wine from the vines I was walking through – minerality is the word!). Tomorrow, I plan to make for Aigle, where I begin to push up towards the Grand St Bernard Pass, which is the route I will take over the Alps.
